Latest / The Rise of Colonialism: How Europe Divided the World — Fexingo History / The Dutch in Nagasaki: How Dejima Kept Japan Open
Transcript
- Lucas: So we've talked a lot about the Dutch East India Company — the VOC — and their brutal tactics in the Banda Islands, their takeover of Malacca, their adventures in Brazil and Ceylon. But there's one VOC outpost that's almost the opposite of those stories: a place where the Dutch had almost no power, where they were basically caged up on a tiny artificial island, and yet that post ended up being one of the most intellectually important trading stations in history. Luna: You're talking about Dejima, right? The Dutch trading post in Nagasaki? Lucas: Exactly. Dejima — a small fan-shaped island built in Nagasaki Bay, about the size of a football field. And for over two hundred years, from 1641 to 1853, it was the only place in Japan where Westerners were allowed to live and trade. Japan under the Tokugawa shogunate had closed the country — the policy known as Sakoku, meaning 'closed country.' No foreigners in, no Japanese out, except through this one tiny window. Luna: How did the Dutch end up with that privilege? I mean, the Portuguese were there first, weren't they? Lucas: Right. The Portuguese had been trading in Japan since the 1540s, and they brought Jesuit missionaries with them. By the early 1600s, the shogun Tokugawa Ieyasu grew suspicious that Christianity was a political threat — that missionaries were a fifth column for European empires. So he started persecuting Christians, and eventually expelled the Portuguese entirely in 1639. The Dutch, on the other hand, had made a point of not mixing trade with religion. They even helped the shogun put down the Shimabara Rebellion in 1637-38 — a massive uprising of mostly Christian peasants — by providing a ship to bombard the rebel stronghold. That cemented their position as the 'good' foreigners. Luna: So they got to stay, but under strict conditions. Lucas: Very strict. In 1641, they were moved from their previous post in Hirado to Dejima — this man-made island that had originally been built to house the Portuguese. And they were essentially prisoners there. No Dutch woman could set foot on Japanese soil. They couldn't leave the island except for a very specific reason: the annual journey to Edo, the capital, to pay homage to the shogun. That trip was part spectacle, part diplomatic mission, and part intelligence-gathering — for both sides. Luna: Wait, they had to go all the way from Nagasaki to Edo — that's like a thousand kilometers — just to bow to the shogun? Lucas: Every single year. The head of the Dutch post — called the Opperhoofd, or 'chief' — would lead a procession to Edo, the modern-day Tokyo. It was called the Hofreis, or 'court journey.' They'd travel with a retinue of Japanese officials, interpreters, and guards. And when they got to Edo, they'd be received by the shogun, perform the ritual of obeisance — presenting gifts, answering questions about world events. And then they'd be allowed to return. The whole thing took about three months. Luna: So the shogun was basically using the Dutch as a news source. What did they talk about? Lucas: Exactly. The shogun and his advisors were intensely curious about the outside world. They'd ask about recent wars, European politics, scientific discoveries. The Dutch factors would bring gifts — telescopes, clocks, globes, medical instruments, even exotic animals. One time they brought a camel, another time an elephant. And these encounters became a key channel for what's known as Rangaku — 'Dutch learning' — the systematic study of Western science and medicine through Dutch texts. Luna: Rangaku. That's fascinating. So Japan's isolation wasn't total — they were selectively absorbing Western knowledge through this one tiny crack. Lucas: Precisely. Japanese scholars would come to Dejima to study Dutch, and then translate books on anatomy, astronomy, botany, chemistry. There's a famous story: in 1771, a Japanese doctor named Sugita Genpaku and his colleagues witnessed an autopsy — and they compared what they saw with a Dutch anatomy book. They found the Dutch illustrations were accurate, while Chinese medical texts they'd been using were wrong. That moment is often seen as the birth of modern medicine in Japan. And it all started because of Dejima. Luna: So in a way, the VOC's willingness to accept humiliation — being locked on a tiny island — actually gave them a unique position of influence. They became the gateway to Western knowledge for Japan. Lucas: And for the VOC, it was profitable too. The Dutch traded silk, spices, sugar, and later — critically — copper and camphor. But the trade volume was limited, and the costs of the annual Edo trip were huge. For the company, Dejima was never a huge moneymaker. But it was prestigious, and it kept them in the game. Meanwhile, the Japanese controlled every aspect of the trade — they set prices, inspected goods, and kept the Dutch on a short leash. Luna: It's such a different dynamic from the usual colonial story. Usually the Europeans are the ones calling the shots. Lucas: Right. And that's what makes Dejima so interesting. It's a case where a non-European power dictated terms to a European company — and the company had to accept because the alternative was being shut out entirely. The Dutch factors lived under constant surveillance. They had Japanese interpreters, cooks, servants — all of whom reported back to the authorities. The island had a small garrison of Japanese soldiers. And there were strict rules: no religious symbols, no proselytizing, no smuggling. Luna: What happened to the Portuguese who were expelled? Did they try to come back? Lucas: Some did. There were a few clandestine Jesuit missions that tried to sneak in, but they were captured and executed. The Japanese had a system of 'fumi-e' — forcing suspected Christians to trample on an image of Christ or the Virgin Mary to prove they weren't believers. Those who refused were killed. So the Dutch, by keeping their heads down and renouncing any missionary activity, survived where the Portuguese perished. Luna: It's incredible to think that this tiny island — not much bigger than a house — was the only link between Japan and the West for over two centuries. Lucas: And that ended only when Commodore Perry's black ships arrived in 1853, forcing Japan to open up. After that, Dejima's role diminished. The island was eventually incorporated into the Nagasaki shoreline through land reclamation. But today it's been restored as a historical site. You can go there and see the restored buildings — the factor's residence, the warehouses, the cookhouse — and imagine what life was like for those Dutch merchants, isolated but influential, living in a gilded cage. Luna: I'd love to visit that someday. But for now, this episode is a great window into that world. Lucas: And speaking of windows — if you've been stepping into history with us episode by episode, you know that this is a history show that we pour a lot of research into. We deliberately don't run ads on these episodes. No sponsor breaks, no product pitches. If you want to support that choice and help keep the show ad-free, you can find us at buy me a coffee dot com slash fexingo. It's a simple way to say you value what we're doing. Luna: Yeah, it really makes a difference. Every little bit helps us keep going, and we're grateful for the listeners who choose to chip in. Lucas: All right — back to Dejima. One more detail I find amazing: the Dutch were required to change the date of their calendar to match the Japanese lunar calendar while they were there. So they had to keep two sets of books — one for the VOC and one for the shogun. And they had to pretend they didn't celebrate Christmas or Easter. They'd even cover up any Christian symbols when Japanese officials visited. It was a performance of submission, but it worked. Luna: So they were essentially playing a role. The pragmatic merchants behind the mask. Lucas: Exactly. And it's a reminder that colonialism wasn't always about guns and conquest. Sometimes it was about patience, adaptation, and knowing when to bow. The Dutch in Dejima understood that better than most.