The Japanese colonial-era principal and his wooden house in rural Chishang, Taiwan

It seems like destiny keeps leading me to Sagittarians. Whenever I write about my friends’ horoscopes, I inevitably focus on Sagittarians, leaving the Cancers and Scorpios for another time.

This time, the Sagittarian who “cut the queue” was Horio Kazuhiko (堀尾一彥), someone I’d never even met before. But to my surprise once more, he turned out to be a Sagittarian.

Last September, I adopted an old building in Chishang. I turned it into “Chiang Hsun’s Study” (蒋勋书房), which is open to the public. The elegant and quaint historical building was the living quarters of the first principal of Chishang’s elementary common school (公学校, kogakko, a system that existed during Japanese rule) in 1936.

From the courtyard, one can see the words “Horio Kazuhiko” (堀尾一彥) on the door.

The township was not called Chishang at first; based on historical records from the Qing dynasty, it was known as Xinkaiyuan (新开园), which means “newly developed field”.

The exact location of Xinkaiyuan is near Chishang’s coastal mountain ranges, including Jinyuan Village (锦园村) and Wan’an Village (万安村).

During their governance of Taiwan, the Japanese adopted the old name “Xinkaiyuan”, and founded institutions such as the “Xinkaiyuan Fanren Elementary Common School”, which was likely attended by a majority of indigenous students. The school is located in today’s Wan’an Village.

After Japan built the Eastern Rail Line (东部铁路线), the train station was moved westwards.

The opening of a rail line had a huge impact on village life. The train station became the new centre for administration, commerce and trade. As the train station was near Dapo Pond (大坡池 dapo chi), the place had a new name — Chishang.

The existing elementary common school was also moved westwards to the southwest side of the train station, and is today’s Fu Yuan Primary School.

Horio was the first principal of this elementary school. He was appointed in 1936 and stayed at the dormitory next to the school.

1936 — that’s almost nine decades ago. The dormitory building was eventually abandoned.

After I became an artist-in-residence in Chishang in 2014, I stumbled upon several wooden dormitories as I strolled past Fu Yuan Primary School. Even then, they appeared quite dilapidated, abandoned beside a towering Bischofia javanica tree.

In 2019, a self-taught artist named Wang Chin-sheng (王金生) arrived in Chishang. He had a great love for old architecture. Without a team, single-handedly, and over the course of two years, he recovered old timbers and salvaged bricks from ruins, using entirely reclaimed materials to painstakingly restore Horio Kazuhiko’s old living quarters from the Japanese colonial era.

There were not many tourists in Chishang between 2020 and 2021 due to the Covid-19 pandemic, which made the township unusually quiet.

During my occasional walks past Fu Yuan Primary School, I would often see Wang labouring alone in the old building, meticulously measuring wooden planks and assembling roof shingles. A lone artisan, wiping sweat from his brow, he seemed to be doting on a building he had made in his past life, cherishing an architecture lost to time.

Little by little he worked away, restoring the leaning pillars, adjusting the crooked door frames and window casings, and clearing the courtyard of weeds and thorns.

Is true “architecture” a kind of predestined love?

The objects we cling to passionately in this lifetime — could it be that the bonds from previous lives are too deep to forget? They keep circling back, urging us to mend and revive them, transforming ruins into something more, so that we can display their splendour to the world.

Wang does not have a background in architecture. But he spent two years restoring an old building from 1936 all by himself.

What is architecture? Having taught at more than five architecture departments, I never expected myself to have such deep admiration for an architectural artisan in Chishang, who was not trained in the field.

In September 2023, I adopted this old building and turned it into “Chiang Hsun’s Study”. I was hoping to continue Wang’s stories and destinies (and maybe my own?) and do something for this old architecture.

Although the old building has been restored, it is still susceptible to damage. Incorrect lighting, poor management and inappropriate additions can all erode its original spirit of classical simplicity.

I planted orange jasmine and Sinobambusa tootsik (a type of bamboo) around the old house as a fence of sorts to block out traffic noise. I tidied up the courtyard and planted a water jasmine tree, along with flowers that attract butterflies.

We did a trial run in September and only accepted ten visitors at a time. The volunteers who ran the event were mostly young people who love Chishang — they know best what should be most treasured in Chishang.

Nowadays, a growing number of people are starting to visit Chishang. During the long Lunar New Year holiday, there could be as many as 8,000 visitors a day. An otherwise quiet and slow-paced village could be disturbed to the point of collapse.

Can Chishang withstand the tumultuous surge of crowds and the fleeting impact of tourism culture?

This old building was originally a principal’s house. The principal of a primary school could be reading documents by the window as he ground ink for writing. When teaching staff visited, it would not have been more than ten people at a time.

Guests who made reservations could grow impatient waiting while foreign tourists may complain that they had come from North America but were unable to enter.

How apologetic must this old house be when saying: “I’m sorry.”

This is the house of the principal Horio Kazuhiko. The unpainted wooden door-plate by the door bears his name. I always feel that he’s still here; although separated by 90 years, we are sitting in the same space, gazing at the same tree.

In summer, the pink crape myrtle blooms in full splendour, its shadows dancing against the windows. During winter, the northeast monsoon blows from the north to the south. On nights of the full moon, the moonlight’s shadow drifts silently.

In 1936, there was no air conditioner and no electric power to waste. This wooden structure was built with the ideal roof angle to withstand strong winds, complemented by a strategically placed windbreak at the corner of the house, perfectly oriented at right angles to prevailing winds.

In the restoration of the house, Wang intentionally retained the original structure of the bamboo-woven mud walls (土埆厝, mud dwellings). Perhaps we can think about this again — over a period of nine decades, this plain old wooden house has stayed structurally resilient and resisted earthquakes again and again; it understood wind directions and speeds and withstood typhoons over and over.

Humanity is speaking less and less with nature — the old house reminds us what a real “green building” is. I deeply pondered this during the pandemic: is the destruction and disrespect of nature the greatest disaster of our time?

Can we stop adding to the burden of our planet? Instead of rushing to build new art museums, theatres and stadiums, and wilfully bragging about our existence, can we first reflect on how old buildings can be used and how they can inspire us to think about architecture in a different way?

Because of my reflections during the pandemic and Wang’s intense focus, I want to get to know the Chishang of 1936.

I long to sit with Horio in his dormitory, experiencing tranquillity as we watch flowers bloom in the courtyard, listening to birdsong carried on the breeze, gazing at shifting shadows through the windows, and savouring the essence of a summer morning or an autumn evening.

Time stopped in 1936. I decided to get to know Horio, whom I have never met.

The first document I found on Horio was his resume, left behind by the Japanese governor-general’s office. It is now kept in the Taiwan Cultural Memory Bank, captioned: “Horio Kazuhiko, a civilian from Kumamoto prefecture, born Meiji 28, December 11.”

Tamana village, Tamana district, Kumamoto prefecture…

A cold document and an individual I do not know, may seem as distant as two stars in the vast expanse of the universe. Yet their light is perceivable to one another, at times flickering in intensity, perhaps even carrying a sense of warmth — reminiscent of the varying duration of sunlight. Does the light exchanged between stars mirror the transition of seasons, with the warmth of autumn and the coolness of spring?

I stepped into the world of Horio Kazuhiko.

In Meiji 28, which dates back to 1895, the year Horio was born, Japan acquired Taiwan as its new colony.

I chuckled at his birth date: 11 December. I really do have an affinity with Sagittarians!

He graduated from primary school in Meiji 43, and in Taisho 2 graduated from a primary teacher training centre in his hometown.

One year after Taisho 2 (1913), Horio, who had yet to turn 19 at the time, left his hometown for the first time and travelled across the sea to Taiwan.

Suddenly, I felt that there was a story behind an otherwise meaningless name. It enthralled me.

Is there a story behind every old building? Are stories an important part of an old building? For example, the moon-shaped stone pillars at Beinan Archaeological Site, erected and shaped by human hands, resonate with the timeless rhythm of the sun and moon rising and setting over Mount Dulan and the Pacific Ocean for thousands of years. They stand as a precious testament to history.

What’s a building without a story? What’s missing in an architecture without the stories of humanity?

I tried to imagine what was on the mind of a 19-year-old Sagittarian who left his hometown and came to Taiwan. Could there have been letters he wrote home? Could he be telling his family about the sights and scenes of the new world?

Horio was a teacher in the northern regions: Wanhua district, western Taipei (1917); Ankeng (1914); Jinshan (1921); and Gengziliao (焿子寮) (Ruifang, 1920).

By the time he was teaching in Gengziliao and Jinshan, 25-year-old Horio had already become a principal.

After that, Horio taught in Keelung (1922) and Nuannuan (1923), where he also served as principal.

That was the Taisho era…

I have always liked the Taisho era. I have found many Taisho-era literati in Japanese literature to be warm and melancholic. One example is the dreamy girl under a tree in the paintings of Yumeji Takehisa, which exude oriental elegance but yet show some traces of early European influence. Stuck between hegemonist Meiji and brutal Showa, Taisho has a delicate gentleness that I miss.

That seemed to be like an imperial age suffering from depression; it possessed beauty on the edge of pain, like Ryūnosuke Akutagawa’s Hell Screen, and also Junichiro Tanizaki’s The Makioka Sisters and Shunkinsho.

The term “Taisho Roman” (short for romanticism) was only applied to a 14-year period (1912-1926), which happened to coincide with the first 14 years that Horio spent in Taiwan.

But something happened to Horio in Showa 2!

I found a typed document from the office of the Government-General of Taiwan titled “Reasons for Horio Kazuhiko’s Administrative Leave”. It contained a mixture of Japanese and Chinese characters, and could be easily misinterpreted. Did “administrative leave” refer to “suspension” or “removal”? Did the character qi (泣, weep, sob) mean he really cried?

It looked like a simple administrative leave notice but I was not able to understand it due to the writing style of Japanese official documents and easily misinterpretated Chinese characters and katakana.

To understand what really happened, this document passed through the hands of about four Taiwan-based Japanese academics. A special thanks to Professor Chen Hung-wen, who is in Kyoto studying the history of Taiwan education under Japanese rule, who gave a detailed explanation in the end.

The reason for his administrative leave was roughly as follows:

In Showa 2, Principal Horio ordered some school supplies but the manufacturer could not deliver them on time. Horio empathised with the latter and paid for the goods first. Although the goods arrived in the end, Horio still felt that he had failed in his task, so he took the blame and told his superiors that he had violated the law.

This incident reflects the character of the Sagittarian Horio: passionate, righteous and empathetic towards people in distress. At the same time, he shouldered the responsibility, reported his own mistakes and asked for punishment.

This incident may not have been that serious — it was just a late delivery on the part of the manufacturer — but Horio still believed that he had violated the law by making an advance payment, and applied for administrative leave.

His superior’s “punishment” for him was a “transfer”, and so Horio was placed on a two-month administrative leave and transferred from the northern region to Taitung.

I am unsure if such transfers at that time would be considered as a “punishment” — in the ancient times, “demotion and exile” (贬谪) mostly landed officials in remote and undeveloped places. For example, Song dynasty poet Su Shi endured numerous exiles all his life, which landed him in places like Huangzhou, Huizhou and Hainan.

While it was a “punishment” to be demoted and exiled to remote areas, Su found joy amid difficult circumstances and wrote poems whenever he arrived in a new place. When he was in Huizhou, he savoured delicious lychees — if not for being “exiled”, he would not have tasted such delicious ones.

If Horio’s transfer to Taitung could be counted as a “punishment”, he would really have the punishment to thank for bringing him immeasurable happiness.

Horio was placed on administrative leave in February 1927. By April of the same year, he had resumed his duties at Malan Elementary Common School in Taitung, before becoming its principal two years later. Today, this school is known as Xinsheng Elementary School, and I believe Horio’s information can still be found in the school’s history.

Horio took up a position in Taitung in April 1932. I found a publication titled “New Taiwan” (《新台湾》) in the National Taiwan University Library that contains a collection of Horio’s 11 kouta (小唄, lit. “little songs”) on Taitung, published on 5 April 1932.

I deduced that Horio should have embarked on his journey to Taitung from the northern region after he was put on administrative leave in February. These 11 “little songs” heaped praises on Taitung’s scenery in the style of folk songs from the Edo period.

He mentioned “Chulu” (初鹿), “Luye” (鹿野), “Guanshan” (关山), “Dayuan” (大原) and “highland” (高台), and wrote about the winter monsoons in the valley; his experience crossing the Beinan River by boat; the Green Island in the Pacific Ocean; the Zhiben hot spring; and even his 50 li (Chinese mile) hike south to Dawu. The last kouta talked about him looking at Orchid Island in the distance.

These 11 “little songs” showcase Horio’s excitement upon arriving in Taitung. As a man just about to enter his 40s, Horio seemed overwhelmed by the new mountains and rivers before him, as he sang praises of the beautiful sceneries he saw.

A special thanks to my good friend Jhang Cang-song for the complete translation of these 11 “little songs”. Cang-song has always been a headstrong person (I guess he’s a Cancer). I’d once participated in one of his reports on the patients at Losheng Sanatorium; he had learnt and practised photography in Japan, and his writings and photographs have always focused on the underprivileged living on the margins of society. In his work on the Losheng Sanatorium report, he was determined and relentless, advocating tirelessly for the patients’ cause, even taking their appeal to Tokyo in pursuit of justice for the lepers who had been unjustly treated.

If I were to publish a small booklet for Horio in future, I will definitely include Cang-song’s translation of these 11 songs.

In 1932, Horio was transferred to Xinkaiyuan elementary common school and served as the school’s discipline master and principal. Four years later, the East Longitudinal Line opened and Xinkaiyuan was renamed Chishang. The elementary common school was relocated near the station and Horio became the first principal of the new campus and moved into this wooden principal’s residence across from the school.

I want to thank Chien Po-hsiang (简博襄) of the Chishang Bookshop for printing a copy of Horio’s old household registration in Chishang from Guanshan District Household Registration Office. Based on this document, we know that he was twice married. By the time he stayed in this dormitory, he already had five daughters and three sons. With this many children, this dormitory must have been very cramped back then…

Thanks to the efforts of friends, an unfamiliar name and an old building without a story suddenly exudes warmth. When friends visiting Chishang spot this old house and see the door-plate with the name “Horio Kazuhiko”, they might remain unaware of its significance or they might take the time to delve into its history, coming to realise that Chishang is teeming with invaluable stories worth exploring and cherishing.

In fact, Horio did not stay in this old building for long. He could have continued to make many outstanding achievements in his prime, but he again left after his short stint as principal of the elementary common school in Chishang and transferred to a counselling unit in Taitung, similar to today’s department of corrections.

Professor Chen had also been very puzzled by this until she found Horio’s “resignation letter”, which finally unravelled the mystery. It turned out that 42-year-old Horio had resigned from the school due to “malaria” and “athlete’s foot”.

Thereafter, it seems that he went to do counselling work at social services units like “support and guidance centres” such as homeless shelters. He had worked as a “trustee” of sorts; perhaps it was a more leisurely “consultant” job where he could nurse himself back to health. He stayed in this position until the end of the Second World War.

After the war, Horio was repatriated along with many other Japanese residents at the time.

Based on household registration data from Tamana district, Kumamoto prefecture, we can confirm that he returned to his hometown, but his occupation was not recorded. Tamana district was hit by a flood in 1957 and many villages were forced to relocate. This concludes the tracking of Horio’s life story.

Cang-song was determined to continue tracking Horio’s information, and left a message on the Facebook page of Takahiro Kurahara, the mayor of Tamana city, hoping to visit Horio’s old residence in Tamana. Coincidentally, Kurahara came to Taoyuan for a visit and Cang-song wrote a detailed and sincere letter in Japanese and gave it to Taoyuan mayor Chang San-cheng to pass to Kurahara, hoping to track down Horio’s descendants.

Sometimes, I would go to Chishang, and when there is no one touring the old house, I like to sit alone inside without turning on the air conditioner and lights. It’s as if I can experience again being the unfamiliar Sagittarian, newly appointed to the position of principal.

Amid the clamour of children and a battle with malaria, he leans against the window and reads school documents under the soft, filtered sunlight. Occasionally, he pauses to inhale the sweet fragrance of longan blossoms lingering in the air, sensing the transition from Lixia (立夏, the beginning of summer) to Mangzhong (芒种, mid-summer when harvest-time is near). After the summer solstice, the symphony of cicadas fills the air, and the courtyard’s magnificent crape myrtle tree blooms in a profusion of vibrant red flowers.

I do not know if I will continue to track the life of Horio Kazuhiko. In fact, he was just the first person to live in the principal’s dormitory in Chishang. Several other principals had also lived in this old house from the Japanese colonial period to the subsequent Nationalist government era. Perhaps some friends from Chishang or various alumni batches of Fu Yuan Primary School would be interested to continue to explore…

History is actually all around us…

As constant as the rising and setting of the sun and moon, and the flow of the stars, the story of an old house never ends.

The story of Horio Kazuhiko would not be possible without the help of many people. Thank you, Professor Chen Hung-wen, photographer Jhang Cang-song, Chien Po-hsiang of Chishang Bookshop, and Masato Soda, who helped with the Japanese translation.

This article was first published in Chinese on United Daily News as “尋訪堀尾一彥——一位不曾謀面的射手座（上）、（下）”.

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