From Riga’s microdistricts to Japanese danchi

27.09.2025.

Elīza Māra

I went to the residency in Japan within the framework of the European Union Pavilion at EXPO Osaka Kansai 2025, and to strengthen the ties between Latvia and Japan, in my application I proposed to view it through housing.

What is danchi? Danchi are buildings and neighborhoods in Japan built after World War II to provide housing for as many people as possible. Tatyana Knoroz calls them the largest post-war housing experiment in her book “Dissecting the danchi,” which has been the most important theoretical source in my research so far. Khrushchevky (Soviet-era apartments) and danchi are united by the time period in which they were built, modernist ideals, standardization, and their compact size – in both cases, buildings are maximum five stories high to keep construction costs low without building elevators. The main differences are both cultural and geographical – the living area of danchi apartments was calculated based on tatami mats, which traditionally in Japan served as both floor covering and bedding. One mat was on average 1769 × 880 mm, and the layouts mostly had rooms of 3, 4, 4.5, or 6 tatami mats. Also, Japan’s climate is very humid both in summer and winter, which makes living in concrete danchi very difficult – condensation forms on the walls, which affects the use of those same tatami mats and futon beds: they must be regularly ventilated to prevent mold from forming.

Well in advance, I had received a recommendation to contact Belgian architect Manuel Tardit from the architectural studio Mikan. They have published a book with ideas on how to improve and refresh danchi buildings with various ideas, both simple and quite avant-garde, and I had the opportunity to meet and talk to them. He had literally prepared a lecture for me about danchi from an architectural point of view, but when he had finished telling his story, I still asked him – what is the reason why he turned to this particular architecture? And his answer was completely simple – because once he also lived in a danchi with his wife and children. This is an important aspect of danchi specificity – the apartments were intentionally small, intended for small households. The main goal of danchi was to provide temporary housing at affordable prices while the resident saved up for their own property. Therefore, the small living area was a conscious design choice – physically, more than three people cannot comfortably live in 60 square meters, even for Japanese people who are used to narrower spaces than we are in Latvia. Unfortunately, the biggest problem of danchi is the rapidly aging population that lived there during a temporary period to get their own home, but in the nineties, when the financial crisis came, they “got stuck” in the small apartments. Manuel’s motivation to tackle danchi resonated with me very much, because I literally came to it through the same path – feeling it on my own skin.

An interesting phenomenon in Japan, which Manuel mentioned to me, was that construction is what most strengthens the Japanese economy. Combining this with earthquakes, which its climate predicts, creates a situation where building safety standards are reviewed very frequently, and this is also the most common reason why buildings are demolished. Specifically in the case of danchi, they are written off as “unsafe” (which is not always true, but no one will argue about safety) and demolished, and in their place a very similar project building is erected with a more modern finish and more pleasant landscaping. The danchi concept continues to live on – only with a fresh face and new identity.

Identity issues were revealed during the interview process I conducted at Tama New Town danchi. I had an interpreter with me, and we went to the neighborhood shopping center, where we found young mothers. Young mothers – because that is a fairly direct analogy to my lifestyle over the past two years, and yet it also marks a specific lifestyle and needs that would make it easier for me to understand the expressed opinions. Half of the approached mothers, however, lived in new projects, not danchi, but, surprisingly, the new projects here are called “mansion” in colloquial language – from the English word mansion. It turns out this is because after the war, more words from English were introduced into the Japanese language with a semantic shift. While mansion in English means a large, elegant residence, Japanese developers started using this for modern, high-quality apartments, which, contrasting with old projects, were indeed elegant. Moreover, since World War II, there has been an increasing tendency in Japan to westernize, but in the case of mansion, it is not about shared or separate housing, but about quality and image.

But as soon as one becomes modern and elegant, the other, against its will, remains outdated and irrelevant, yet there is still room for nostalgia. One of the mothers told that earlier, when the first child was two years old and the second was still expected, they lived in danchi. The downstairs neighbors complained that the two-year-old was too loud, so they exchanged apartments and moved to the adjacent stairwell on the first floor, while a family with small children moved in above them. It turns out that the pensioners living even higher more often started bringing grandchildren, and over time they developed quite close relationships because of the small children. Even though they now live in a private house for a few years, she still maintains contact with the neighbors and looks back on that time with pleasant memories.

Of course, I can’t fit all this research into one article, even though I really would like to. But these are the main conclusions, after seeing two danchi and knowing Mežciems, Jugla, and Imanta: low-rise buildings pay off – those neighborhoods are cozier, and danchi are not built at the same density as microdistricts. They will almost always have the stairwell on the north side and balconies facing south. Tama New Town danchi really appealed to me because the courtyards are well-landscaped – nothing extravagant, various trees and shrubs, leaves raked, grass mowed, and a hedge. The hedge was actually really great because it grows right by the parking lot and blocks the view from the opposite building. Such a simple solution, but the effect is significant.

And yet – about what they have in common. It is very refreshing to “zoom out” from the daily local close-up and come to the conclusion that we are not particularly unique in the problems we encounter right here in Riga. Building quality and floor plans no longer meet modern requirements, thin walls predict strained neighbor relations, and common decisions about building maintenance do not always come easily. What can I conclude – postwar housing in both Latvia and Japan is a truly interesting phenomenon to study and observe as they continue to live on. But still – architecture is not always to blame. These homes represent a time and a life that no longer exist, and that can also be obstructive; one must find how to coexist with it. This is probably the moment when I should quote Rainis: “pastāvēs, kas pārmainīsies” (only that which changes will endure), in a very pragmatic and literal sense – if you do not take care of a building, it simply approaches collapse. And I very much hope to see a microdistrict renaissance in the future, and I hope to be part of it.

The “Artisanal Intelligence” residency program is implemented by the non-governmental organization KNOTTO in collaboration with the European Union Pavilion at EXPO Osaka 2025. Participation in the residency program is financially supported by the European Union and the Latvian Investment and Development Agency (LIAA).