I belong to a sensory minority, and within Japan, I also live as a social and political minority.
During my time in Germany, a friend once said to me, “In a way, we are also political refugees,” a phrase that stayed with me.
Due to an unexpected overlap between the current political climate in Japan and the title of an exhibition, I felt compelled to write the following text.
It reflects on democracy as a system and Japan’s constitutional monarchy, rephrased from the perspective of civic attitude rather than ideology.
I write this here in English as a way of increasing my own chances of survival.
On Sino-Japanese Relations and a Non-Warring Bushidō
19.12.2025
In late November, I held an exhibition titled “Pengyou”—the Chinese word for “friend”—together with a former classmate from junior high school. Shortly before the exhibition opened, however, remarks made by Japan’s prime minister led to a deterioration in Sino-Japanese relations. I began to feel that, under such circumstances, we might no longer be able to call our friends “friends.” Starting from this deeply personal concern, I have continued to think persistently about the structural vulnerabilities of Japanese politics. Although this may not be the proper task of a painter, in the sense that it seeks to depict an ideal image, I consider this text to be an artistic work.
In thinking through these issues, I have drawn inspiration from works such as Tatsuru Uchida’s Theory of Japanese Syncretism.
I believe that the recent deterioration of Sino-Japanese relations has, at its root, the “self-dissolving power” of the Japanese imperial system. For this reason, I have come to consider whether a hybrid stance—one that combines democracy with traditional culture, which I tentatively call a posture of “democratic reverence for the Emperor”—might be of some use. This may sound unclear, as I have not heard anyone else articulate it in these terms, but I would be grateful if you would continue reading.
The immediate trigger was a statement by Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi to the effect that “a Taiwan contingency would constitute a crisis threatening Japan’s survival.” At the time of the normalization of diplomatic relations between Japan and China in 1972, Japan stated that it “respects the position that Taiwan is part of China.” Regardless of what China may be doing behind the scenes, on the level of international society this effectively hands over moral legitimacy without defense. Unless the prime minister formally retracts the statement, China can continue to impose visible sanctions while claiming that Japan is “moving backward in history.”
Moreover, this statement was an ad-lib remark by the prime minister and not something made in response to a request from Taiwan, which is in fact geographically adjacent to China. I consider it an extremely discourteous act—one that exploits Taiwan’s ambiguous autonomy for the sake of domestic politics.
No matter how much one loves Japan or takes pride in its virtues, the state—politics—must remain subject to criticism. Corrupt politicians often attempt to divert criticism away from themselves by directing public anger toward an external enemy. This does not lead to fundamental solutions; eventually the economy falters, frustrations explode, and the country moves toward war. History offers many examples of this pattern in societies unable to acknowledge their own decline.
In Japan, even if politics becomes corrupt or runs out of control and democratic mechanisms are damaged, the nation itself appears to continue stably. In many democratic countries, when politicians fail to promptly clear themselves of suspicion, citizens feel a sense of crisis directly connected to their daily lives. Curiously, this is not always the case in Japan. When asking why, it seems unnatural to ignore the power of the Emperor’s presence. As long as the monarchy—an emotional point of reference—remains intact, people feel that the nation itself will continue uninterrupted. I believe we must pay attention not only to the positive aspects of this power, but also to its negative ones.
From the perspective of other countries, contemporary Japan could plausibly be seen as reverting toward prewar militarism. Even a cabinet approval rating of 100 percent does not make a nation strong, and in the end, responsibility is determined not by domestic law but by the victorious powers of war. If Japan were ever to go to war again, it would need a justification that ensured the Emperor would not once more be placed in danger. Without such a justification, could people truly continue to say, even after defeat, that they supported the war of their own free will? A posture that condemns even legitimate criticism as “anti-Japanese” rests upon a structure in which the Emperor is made a substitute bearer of responsibility. A “patriot” willing to shame their children and grandchildren by using the Emperor as a shield embodies a contradiction in terms. Such behavior should, in fact, be considered the greatest form of disrespect.
Stereotypical conservatives tend to revere the Emperor, while those on the left often regard the Emperor as powerless, and the general public rarely engages actively in discussion. This creates an air pocket of debate in which the Emperor is left exposed, while no one assumes responsibility. As long as citizens remain unaware, the “self-dissolving power” of the imperial system continues to operate. I suspect this to be one of the sources of accelerating anti-intellectualism.
I believe that not repeating reckless wars driven by atmosphere and momentum is itself a form of mourning for the victims of past wars. “Turning one’s heart toward the victims” and “protecting democratic debate” should be inseparable. From this perspective, corrupt politics that perform patriotism through the desecration of memory amount to a kind of grave-robbing, bordering on an insult to the dead.
When a structure that obscures responsibility combines with a populace that offers support based on mood, and when this is further joined by belligerent, ad-lib political decision-making, there is no effective brake. As the generation with direct experience of war retires, these same patterns are likely to recur in even larger waves. By analyzing structural vulnerabilities and breaking through atmosphere, politics would have no choice but to correct itself.
Yukio Mishima once said to student activists, “If you would just say the word ‘Emperor,’ I would gladly join hands with you and die.” Even now, this remark seems to remain frozen in time. For the past eighty years, I believe Japanese democracy has existed in a state of indigestion with regard to the imperial system. If Mishima’s words were thawed and reinterpreted, perhaps we could say instead: “In order to protect the Emperor, we must protect democracy.” The Emperor is powerless in legal terms, yet respected in popular sentiment. This is what I meant when I first used the phrase “democratic reverence for the Emperor.”
This idealism, grounded in contemporary democracy, can connect with many elements of Japanese traditional culture. One example is the spirit of bushidō articulated by Inazo Nitobe during the Meiji period. What I wish to propose is not the blind wielding of weapons, but a “non-warring bushidō.” This resonates with the tea ceremony, where one lays down the sword and enters a space of equality through the small entrance. The flourishing of the tea ceremony during the Warring States period reflects the wisdom that firmly setting aside the sword is itself a stance toward conflict.
If an enemy nation were to exist, it would be preferable to weaken it quietly beneath the surface. Even if force were unavoidable, acting under the justification of self-defense and concluding matters with a single, precise strike—like a refined iaijutsu—would be more effective. Better still would be to create a situation, as in aikidō, in which victory is already assured before fighting begins, making conflict unnecessary. Allowing an opponent to claim moral legitimacy while fully prepared only reveals the unstable footing of corrupt politics.
Seen in this light, the Yamato spirit severed after the war could be revived along a path of non-violence. Even as wars continue around the world, Japan should possess the potential to serve as a lighthouse indicating a different path. To leave its overwhelming historical and cultural advantages dormant while attempting to defend the nation solely through force is inefficient. Mobilizing the intelligence and creativity of the populace is far preferable to relying on weapons and political improvisation.
As a painter, I believe my role is to point toward the future when others are lost and say, “That way.” This idealistic text is written not to propose concrete policies, but to share an image—one intended for the next eighty years. At the same time, I hope it may have the immediate effect of draining the shame-laden forms of patriotism that reside within people’s hearts. I think of it as a kata—a formal pattern, in the language of traditional performing arts—for keeping Japanese democracy free: a way of cultivating fertile ground that connects past, present, and future while resisting corruption.
At present, life, politics, and the Emperor seem disconnected: lives made to feel powerless, corrupt politics feeding on vested interests, and an Emperor perceived as distant. I imagine a situation in which these elements become slightly more connected, increasing the points of contact between daily life, politics, and emotional foundations. Just as France speaks of “liberty, equality, and fraternity,” Japan might speak of “not conforming, being autonomous, and showing respect.” In conversations where one can say, “I like you, but I disagree with your opinion,” there is affection and courtesy.
Even if one loves one’s country in a special way, the question remains whether that love is a form of nationalism that believes the nation has a unique role in the world, or a form of fascism that regards other countries as inferior and to be excluded. Japan, having once failed to draw this subtle distinction, must not repeat the same mistake. After exposing the Emperor to danger and enduring the blood-rain of atomic bombs, it seems as though we are once again approaching the same path. Precisely for this reason, I felt it necessary to articulate a way of thinking that salvages the constructive aspects of nationalism in an international and historical context.
This may be mere armchair theory, but since no one else seems to say it, I have written it. I am not a specialist, and if there are logical flaws, I apologize. This is an idealistic text written in a state of intense concentration by an autistic painter who felt that a sacred exhibition had been tainted by politics.
May the world be at peace.
Related working notes: