Japan has taken a decisive political turn. Sanae Takaichi, the nation’s first female prime minister, has entered office with a promise to “protect Japan’s identity.” Behind the careful phrasing lies a clear agenda: tighter borders, stricter immigration control, and a revived sense of national pride.
Takaichi, long known for her hawkish views, has wasted no time defining her government’s priorities. Within days of taking power, she announced plans to review visa programs, tighten residency regulations, and “reassess multicultural coexistence” — bureaucratic language for reducing foreign inflows. For decades, Japan has resisted mass immigration, even as it faces an aging population and labor shortages. Under Takaichi, that resistance is becoming official doctrine.
Her rise isn’t an isolated moment; it’s part of a global political shift. From Giorgia Meloni in Italy to Javier Milei in Argentina and Viktor Orbán in Hungary, a new generation of right-wing populists is redrawing the world’s political map. Their formula is consistent: reject open borders, champion national culture, and promise stability in uncertain times. Takaichi may be the latest to adopt that script — but she’s translating it into distinctly Japanese terms.
Days after assuming office, she spoke by phone with U.S. President Donald Trump, reaffirming Japan’s alliance with Washington as her “paramount priority.” The optics were unmistakable — a smiling handshake photo, warm praise for Trump’s “dynamic diplomacy,” and even a quip that he deserved a Nobel Peace Prize. For analysts, the message was clear: Trumpism has gone Pacific.
At home, Takaichi’s conservative momentum is driven by a mix of economic stagnation, demographic anxiety, and cultural unease. With inflation rising and real wages lagging, resentment toward immigration — however limited — has found fertile ground. Despite the fact that only 2.5% of Japan’s population is foreign-born, concerns over social cohesion have grown louder, amplified by politicians promising to defend “traditional values” and “Japanese identity.”
Critics accuse Takaichi of pandering to fear and xenophobia, warning that isolationism could deepen Japan’s labor and innovation challenges. Yet her supporters see her as a corrective force, restoring clarity to a nation that’s grown weary of indecision. “Protecting who we are,” they argue, isn’t regression — it’s realism.
This sentiment mirrors what’s happening across the democratic world. The right’s resurgence is not fueled by chaos, but by a widespread perception that liberal governance has failed to deliver order or confidence. The rhetoric of “sovereignty” and “cultural preservation” has replaced the globalist optimism of previous decades.
For Japan, a country that has long prized homogeneity and social harmony, Takaichi’s leadership is both a return to tradition and a calculated response to modern pressures. Her message resonates deeply: a nation that forgets itself cannot lead.
The geopolitical implications are equally significant. A more assertive Japan under Takaichi means closer ties with Washington, a harder stance on China, and greater investment in national defense — aligning Tokyo with a growing bloc of nationalist democracies seeking to redefine post-globalization politics.
Whether she succeeds or stumbles, Takaichi’s ascent marks a turning point. The world’s third-largest economy has joined the conservative realignment sweeping from Washington to Warsaw. Her Japan is not one of open borders and endless apologies — it’s a Japan determined to stay Japanese.
