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KATOKU, Japan – Standing on its mountain-fringed coast, the Japanese village of Katoku has no clue that it exists. A handful of houses hide behind a dune lined with morning glories and pandanus trees, the chirping of cicadas interrupted only by the rhythm of the waves and the call of a deep blue-winged jay.

In July, the beach became part of a new territory. UNESCO World Heritage Site, a lush green hills and mangrove forest sanctuary in far southwest Japan, home to nearly a dozen endangered species.

Two months later, the calm air was broken by a new sound: the roar of trucks and excavators preparing to strip a large section of the Katoku dune and embed a two-story concrete wall inside to prevent erosion.

The seawall project demonstrates how even the most valuable ecological treasures cannot escape Japan’s obsession with construction, which has long been a response to the threat of natural disasters and a vital source of economic stimulus and political capital, especially in rural areas.

But the plan to erect a concrete embankment on the pristine beach, an increasingly rare commodity in Japan, isn’t just about money or votes. Climate change, an aging population, and the evacuation of small towns have shattered the village as its inhabitants battle deeper forces reshaping rural Japan.

Supporters of the project – the majority of its 20 residents – say the survival of the village, which has been shattered by more severe storms in recent years, is at stake. Opponents, mostly from off-island surfers, organic farmers, musicians and environmentalists, argue that a seawall would destroy the beach and its fragile ecosystem.

At the head of the opposition is Jean-Marc Takaki, 48, a half-Japanese Parisian who moved to a bungalow behind the beach last year. Takaki, a nature guide and former computer programmer, began campaigning against the wall in 2015 after moving to a nearby town to be closer to nature.

The fighting represents an ongoing conflict in rural Japan. Old-timers think their traditional livelihoods are in industries like logging and construction, which are threatened by newcomers who dream of an idyllic existence. Villages may need new residents to support their eroded populations and economies, but are sometimes disturbed by their presence.

When Mr. Takaki first visited Katoku in 2010, it seemed like the paradise he was looking for. “I’ve never seen a place like this,” he said.

All changed. “If they finish building this thing, I don’t know what we’re going to do here.”

Facing Nature with Concrete

The countryside of Japan is full of construction projects like the one planned for Katoku.

He dammed most of the country’s rivers and covered them with concrete. Tetrapods, giant concrete jacks built to resist erosion, are stacked on every habitable inch of shoreline. After the 2011 earthquake and tsunami that devastated the northeastern part of the country and triggered the Fukushima nuclear meltdown, planners surrounded the area with seawalls.

Jeremy Bricker, an associate professor of coastal engineering at the University of Michigan, said the projects often make sense for a country plagued by earthquakes, volcanoes, tsunamis, landslides and typhoons.

The question is, “How tangible and to what extent is it part of Japanese culture there because of the things that need to be preserved?” said.

Mr Bricker said that in some cases the concrete can be replaced with natural buffers such as complementary sand or dense vegetation. While some Japanese civil engineers are using such alternatives, he added, “Japan has been so focused on promoting work for traditional contractors that that means pouring concrete that there hasn’t been as much emphasis on soft solutions.”

Hiroaki Sono, an 83-year-old activist who has successfully opposed major projects on the island, said the reliance on concrete on Katoku’s main island, Amami Oshima, is greater than elsewhere in the country.

Public works here are heavily subsidized by a 1950s law aimed at improving local infrastructure. Mr. Sono added that politicians enthusiastic for the district’s votes renew the law every five years, and that Amami Oshima’s economy is largely dependent on the law, adding that many of the Katoku residents have industry ties.

“Build for the sake of construction,” he said.

Typhoons Strike

Environmental engineers describe beaches as dynamic environments – growing, shrinking and changing with the seasons and tides. New elements such as the seawall can have unpredictable and destabilizing effects.

Rural communities are no different.

In Katoku, change came first slowly, then suddenly.

For decades, residents rejected government offers to concrete the coast.

But in 2014, two powerful typhoons flooded the coast and uprooted the pandanus trees that protected the village. Built on a high dune separating the village from the sea, the cemetery perched above the now dangerously weathered shoreline.

The storms shook the villagers’ confidence in the bay’s ability to protect them.

“The waves came all the way to the cemetery,” said Sayoko Hajime, 73, who moved to Katoku with her husband, who is a native 40 years ago. “Then everyone was horrified; they panicked.”

After the typhoons, the village turned to the prefectural government for help. Planners proposed a 1,700-foot-tall concrete wall to prevent the ocean from engulfing the beach.

Later, Mr. Takaki, who lived nearby, and several others objected. They hired analysts who concluded that the government did not demonstrate the need for concrete fortification. These experts argued that a tough defense could accelerate the loss of sand, a phenomenon observed in nearby villages where the ocean crashes into weathered concrete walls.

Further complicating matters, a river that is home to endangered freshwater fish moves up and down the coast in a seasonal rhythm, carving a channel into the ocean.

The governor’s office agreed to shrink the proposed wall by more than half. They said they will be covered with sand to preserve the aesthetics of the beach and that if this sand is washed away it can be replaced.

Meanwhile, Mr. Takaki’s group fortified the dunes with new pandanus. The beach has naturally regained its pre-typhoon size.

Yet officials continue to insist that a banquet is necessary. Naruhito Kamada, mayor of Katoku county Setouchi, said in other villages “there is a strong feeling that they are protected by seawalls when a typhoon comes in.” “And the typhoons are growing.”

Tomohiko Wada, one of the few lawyers to sue to stop construction, said other options were worth exploring: “The villagers wanted to do something, and the prefecture said ‘concrete,’ because Japan is doing it,” he said.

Local officials declined to comment on the case. But Japanese law does not provide for a stoppage order in such cases, and the prefecture appears determined to get the job done before the court order.

Competitor Visions of the Future

The new UNESCO designation could attract tourists and boost Katoku’s economy.

However, the villagers are wary of foreigners.

The island culture is conservative. In baseball-crazy Japan, locals favor sumo, an ancient sport with religious significance. They also have an unusual affinity for the military: a small museum near Katoku, Japan’s World War II Museum. Kamikaze boat pilots stand out.

Chiyoko Yoshikawa moved to Katoku with her husband forty years ago because the river water was perfect for the local indigo painting. Her husband died, her daughter moved, and Katoku’s sole job, the studio, has mostly become a hobby.

Ms. Yoshikawa opposes the construction but is hesitant to get involved. Even now it remains “foreign”.

It may be wise to stay away. Mr. Takaki’s efforts inflamed fierce passions.

Last month, two New York Times reporters and Norimi Hajime, a villager working for a contractor who built Katoku’s embankment, encountered Mr. Takaki on the village’s main road.

Waving a small sickle, which is often used for gardening in Japan, Mr. Hajime accused Mr. Takaki of plotting to destroy the village.

Mr. Hajime said no one wanted the construction, but without it, a typhoon will sweep Katoku.

Mr Takaki said the storms were not the biggest threat to the settlement. Primary school closed years ago. The youngest resident, other than Mr. Takaki and his partner, is a woman in her 50s. Bus service is now available by appointment only.

Mr. Takaki argued that the beach is Katoku’s most valuable asset and what distinguishes it from the dozens of more or less dying hamlets on Amami Oshima beach. In his efforts to save the settlement, he said villagers could kill him.

Standing on the main road of Katoku, had no clue that the beach existed. Mr. Hajime could only see the village.

“If he dies,” he said, “he is dead.”