（千葉惣左エ門の最期──天明の飢饉における慈悲と正義）
In the late eighteenth century, Japan was shaken by famine, volcanic eruptions, and desperate protests. Amid this turmoil, one farmer—Chiba Sozaemon—emerged as a symbol of justice and compassion. His final stand during the Tenmei Famine was not only a cry for relief, but also a timeless reminder that true justice must be tempered by human feeling. This is his story, carried across centuries by a humble roadside statue known as the “Neck-Cutting Jizō.”
A rustic wooden roadside shrine with a tiled roof, set on a hillside among pine trees—an enduring symbol of local faith and memory in rural Japan.
1. Introduction – A Farmer’s Legacy Remembered
In the countryside of northern Japan, a humble stone statue stands by the roadside. Known as the “Neck-Cutting Jizō,” it commemorates a man who gave his life more than two centuries ago. His name was Chiba Sozaemon, a farmer who became a symbol of justice and compassion during one of the darkest chapters in Japan’s history—the Tenmei Famine of the late eighteenth century.
This is not simply a tale of famine and protest. It is a story of responsibility, of mercy, and of what it means to act for the sake of others.
2. Eruptions and Famine: The Tenmei Catastrophe
The disaster began in 1782. On March 12, Mount Iwaki in Aomori erupted, covering fields with ash. Then, on July 6, Mount Asama in Karuizawa exploded in one of the most violent eruptions of the century. Ash fell across northern and eastern Japan, blocking sunlight and triggering devastating cold summers. Crops failed. Hunger spread.
This was the beginning of the Tenmei Famine, one of the four great famines of the Edo period, and by far the most catastrophic.
3. Wealth and Poverty in the Age of Tanuma
At the time, the shogunate was led by Tanuma Okitsugu, a senior councilor famous for promoting commerce and fiscal expansion. His policies accelerated Japan’s transformation into a money economy and brought prosperity to merchants and cities. Yet prosperity in one place bred poverty in another.
For farmers, the new economy was unforgiving. Merchants bought crops in advance, paying farmers before planting at prices that seemed fair but were quickly eroded by inflation. By harvest time, food cost more, yet the farmers’ income remained fixed. They grew poorer while merchants grew rich.
When famine struck, this imbalance proved fatal. Farmers had little stored rice, and when scarcity drove prices sky-high, they had no means to keep their families alive.
4. Ikki: The Language of Protest
As conditions worsened, farmers turned to an old form of collective action: the Ikki.
The word Ikki (一揆) does not mean “riot.” Its literal sense is “to act in unison.” In practice, it was a kind of mass petition or protest, closer to what we might call a demonstration today.
In the Edo era, an Ikki was not about violence or looting. Most often, it was a disciplined, organized appeal: farmers marching together, presenting their grievances, and demanding that their rulers take responsibility. Yet because an Ikki signaled dissatisfaction with governance, it carried serious consequences. For rulers, its very existence implied failure.
5. The Farmers’ Uprising: The Senboku Ikki
In the spring of 1797, after years of famine and despair, more than 1,300 farmers from thirteen villages in the Date clan’s Tamura district gathered to demand relief. They carried with them a petition known as the “Tōgemura Sō Ohyakushō-domo Kōjōsho” (“Collective Petition of the Farmers of Tōgemura”), eighteen articles that carefully set out their grievances. Twice, in April and May, they marched toward the castle town of Ichinoseki, not with weapons raised in rebellion, but with voices united in appeal.
As explained earlier, the Senboku Ikki was not a riot but a disciplined collective protest. The farmers did not storm granaries or loot merchant houses. Rather, they carried their petition with them, appealing to the responsibility of their rulers and demanding accountability. The very act of submitting a petition together was a profound statement: that the people, the Tenno’s “great treasure”—Tenno being the Japanese sovereign, not a ruling monarch in the Western sense, but the sacred presence symbolizing the unity of the people—were suffering, and that those entrusted with governance bore responsibility.
The Date authorities faced a dilemma. By accepting the petition, they acknowledged the farmers’ suffering and implicitly promised to act. Yet if it appeared that the domain had “yielded to an Ikki,” it could undermine order, creating a dangerous precedent that encouraged others to protest.
The response was swift but calculated. The magistrate received the petition, then arrested two leaders: Chiba Sozaemon of Tōgemura, age 35, and Fujijūrō of Hirusawa, age 42. The protest was dissolved, but the words of the petition had already been carried into the halls of power. For the farmers, this was both a risk and a victory: their voices had been heard, even if their leaders would pay a terrible price.
6. Justice and Responsibility in the Edo Era
In Edo Japan, the concept of responsibility carried a meaning different from what the English word usually implies. In the West, responsibility is most often understood as accountability—an individual is answerable for his or her own actions, and liability is personal. But in Japan, responsibility was viewed through the lens of relationships. When something went wrong, it was not only the direct perpetrator who was held accountable, but also the officials, supervisors, and even family members connected to the incident. Responsibility was shared across the web of human ties.
This principle shaped how authorities dealt with Ikki. A peasant uprising was never treated as a problem of “disorderly farmers” alone. Rather, it was seen as evidence that the local magistrate or steward had failed in their duty to govern justly and ensure the well-being of the people—the Tenno’s “great treasure.” Here, Tenno refers not to a ruling monarch in the Western sense, but to the sacred presence symbolizing the unity and continuity of the people. The logic was clear: if the people suffered enough to protest, their overseers bore responsibility, because good governance should have prevented such suffering from arising in the first place.
This is why Ikki were formally prohibited across the country. They were not just social disturbances; they were official embarrassments, signs that those entrusted with governance had faltered. For a samurai administrator, avoiding an Ikki was not only a matter of maintaining order, but also of protecting his own honor and position. The appearance of unrest meant that he had failed in his relational responsibility—a failure far more serious than simply answering for one’s personal conduct.
In this way, justice in the Edo era was not about isolating an individual offender and punishing him alone. It was about preserving a moral and social order in which every participant in a chain of duty shared the burden of responsibility. To modern readers accustomed to the Western model of accountability, this may seem harsh or excessive. Yet it reflects a society built not on the autonomy of individuals, but on the conviction that life is lived in relation, and therefore responsibility is also relational.
7. Chiba Sozaemon’s Last Stand
After the Senboku Ikki was dissolved, the fate of its leaders was sealed. In the winter of 1798, the Date authorities delivered their judgment. Fujijūrō of Hirusawa was sentenced to exile on a remote island, spared from death. Chiba Sozaemon, however, as the primary leader, was condemned to execution by beheading.
Sozaemon was thirty-five years old, head of a household where three generations lived under one roof. He accepted that as the leader, he would bear the heaviest punishment. Yet his heart was not for himself, but for his family. Would his parents, wife, and children be dragged down into ruin because of his actions?
When the final verdict was announced, it carried an unexpected mercy: only Sozaemon himself would be punished; his relatives would remain unharmed. Overwhelmed with relief, he wept. To die was his burden, but to know his family would live was a blessing beyond measure.
On the day of judgment, the magistrate spoke directly to him:
“Sozaemon, your life will not be wasted. Your petition will be honored, and measures will be taken. Go now without regret.”
With tears, Sozaemon bowed and answered:
“For such a merciful judgment, I am grateful. I can depart this world with no regrets.”
Two days later, word reached him in his cell: the domain had approved the distribution of seed rice. The peasants would be able to plant again, and famine might be averted. Hearing this, Sozaemon is said to have smiled:
“Good. Then the people will be saved.”
On May 10, 1798, Chiba Sozaemon was led to the execution ground and beheaded. He met his death not with bitterness, but with the knowledge that his sacrifice had secured relief for his people.
The villagers later enshrined him as a gimin, a righteous commoner who gave his life for justice. A Jizō statue was erected in his memory, at first without a head—hence known as the “Neck-Cutting Jizō.” More than two centuries have passed, yet the people still care for this stone figure, offering prayers to the man who carried the weight of responsibility and departed with mercy on his lips.
8. A Merciful Judgment and the Bond of Humanity
The story of Chiba Sozaemon is not merely about punishment; it is about how justice was understood in Edo Japan. The magistrate could have punished harshly, extending guilt to Sozaemon’s family, stripping them of land and livelihood. Instead, he chose a path that balanced order with compassion. By sparing the relatives and punishing only the leader, the domain preserved authority while also affirming the value of humanity.
This judgment reflected a distinct Japanese view of justice—that law was never to be applied without regard for human feeling (ninjō, 人情). In the West, law often stands above sentiment, demanding impartiality. In Edo Japan, law and compassion were not opposites but partners. The magistrate’s words to Sozaemon—“your life will not be wasted…go now without regret”—expressed not only authority, but empathy. It was justice with tears.
For the farmers, this mattered deeply. They saw that their voices had reached the rulers, that their suffering had been acknowledged. Even as Sozaemon went to his death, the promise of seed rice gave the people hope. His sacrifice was not meaningless; it bore fruit in the form of relief and reform.
This bond between ruler and ruled, warrior and farmer, was fragile but profound. It rested not only on power, but on shared responsibility and mutual recognition of humanity. That is why Sozaemon was remembered as a gimin—a righteous commoner whose death was not a mere execution, but a testimony to the possibility of justice tempered by compassion.
More than two centuries later, his Jizō statue still stands, a silent witness to the belief that true justice is never only about punishment. It is also about remembering that those we govern, or those we are bound to, are human beings whose dignity must never be forgotten.
9. The Legacy of the “Neck-Cutting Jizō”
After Chiba Sozaemon’s death, the people of his village refused to let his sacrifice be forgotten. They enshrined him as a gimin—a righteous commoner who gave his life for justice—and erected a Jizō statue in his memory. At first the statue had no head, a silent echo of his beheading. Locals began to call it the “Neck-Cutting Jizō.”
In 1929, a head was added to the statue, giving it the form it bears today. Yet its meaning had already long been established. For more than two centuries, villagers have continued to tend to this humble stone figure, offering incense, flowers, and prayers. In doing so, they honored not only Sozaemon himself, but also the values he embodied: courage, compassion, and the willingness to bear responsibility for others.
The “Neck-Cutting Jizō” stands by the roadside near Sozaemon’s birthplace in Warigami, overlooking the land where his people once struggled to survive. Travelers and locals alike pause before it, some out of curiosity, others in reverence. To this day, it remains a reminder that history is not just written in chronicles and official records, but also in the memory of ordinary people who refuse to forget.
In remembering Sozaemon, the villagers were also affirming something larger: that justice is not only a matter of authority, but of human feeling—the compassion that binds rulers and people, families and communities, across generations.
10. Remembering History, Remembering Ourselves
The story of Chiba Sozaemon is more than a local tale of famine and protest. It is a reminder that history is not a distant past, but a mirror held up to our own lives. The people of the Tenmei era faced hunger, despair, and injustice. Yet within that darkness, they also revealed courage, compassion, and the bonds of responsibility that tied rulers and farmers, samurai and peasants, families and communities together.
Sozaemon’s final words, spoken with gratitude even as he faced death, were not simply about himself. They were a testament to the idea that justice must carry with it human feeling—that laws and punishments mean little if they do not acknowledge the dignity of the people they touch.
Today, more than two centuries later, the Neck-Cutting Jizō still stands on a hillside in Warigami. Villagers continue to offer prayers, not because they are bound by obligation, but because they choose to remember. In their remembrance, Sozaemon’s legacy lives on.
To remember history is to remember ourselves. It is to recognize that the values of responsibility, compassion, and shared humanity are not relics of the past, but guides for the present and the future. In the figure of a humble farmer who gave his life for justice, we are reminded that the true measure of a society lies not only in its laws, but in its heart.
