At 82, Emperor Akihito has hinted his failing
health is behind the decision – but the move may also be aimed at thwarting the
desire of the right to change the country’s pacifist constitution
During his reign, Japanese
Emperor Akihito, now 82, has done unprecedented things. He has addressed his
subjects by means of a television twice. He has married a “commoner”, Michiko.
He has travelled abroad extensively. And he has publicly expressed “feeling a
certain kinship” with Korea, by acknowledging blood ties that go back fifteen
centuries with the former royal house of the nearby peninsula. Nobody occupying
the Chrysanthemum Throne had ever been quite so humble and relatable.
Now, Akihito, Japan’s 125th
emperor, is again making the country sit up and notice, as he pushes for
permission to abdicate and live his remaining years with fewer official
obligations. His health is frail, and he would like to step down as gracefully,
and as slightly unconventionally, as he has reigned.
“When I consider that my
fitness level is gradually declining, I am worried that it may become difficult
for me to carry out my duty as the symbol of the state with my whole being,” he
said last week during his second ever televised address (the first was five
years ago, a message of solidarity to Japan after the triple disaster that hit
it in March 2011).
But more than health, is the
move his way of pushing back against the growing clout of the right under Prime
Minister Shinzo Abe’s Liberal Democratic Party – a group that would like to
restore Japan’s pre-war constitution and return the emperor to god-like status?
“Emperor Akihito and his
family have been quietly suggesting the need for some system of abdication for
a few years now, so this is not completely unexpected. But the timing is
interesting,” says Corey Wallace, Einstein Postdoctoral Fellow at Freie
University in Berlin and a specialist in Japanese politics.
“It means conservatives have
to deal head-on with various issues around the imperial system. They cannot sit
on the sidelines and criticise others for meddling with and undermining the
prestige of the imperial system. How this will play out will be very
interesting, and could even lead to divisions within the conservative
establishment.”
In his speech, Akihito was
only capable of hinting at what his desires were. The indirectness is not some
kind of intrinsic Japanese subtlety, but a very real constraint put on the emperor
by the Japanese constitution, written by the American occupying forces in the
aftermath of Japan’s defeat in the second world war. After the catastrophic
military adventurism that brought the Japanese troops to trample on much of
Asia in the name of Akihito’s father, Hirohito, the US forces drafted the
constitution and revised the role of the emperor significantly.
The imperial institution was
allowed to stay, but the constitution explicitly forbids the imperial family to
engage in politics, or to have as prominent a religious role as before.
Throughout the conflict, and during the mythological past of the imperial line,
the emperor was considered semi-divine. But after two atomic bombs were dropped
on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Hirohito was made to tell his subjects, in a dramatic
radio message on August 15, 1945, that the war was lost and that everyone had
to surrender their arms. To which he had to add that he was no longer a
demigod, but fully human.
With this startling admission
pronounced by the “Jewel Voice”, the occupying forces considered themselves
satisfied: the presence of an imperial ruling family was considered necessary
for the country’s stability, so Hirohito was spared all criminal investigation
for his wartime role. Instead, he slipped into a ceremonial one that
contributed to the national amnesia about the atrocities committed by the
Japanese troops during the war, and his indifference to that past guaranteed
that the extreme right-wing groups, the aggressive uyokudantai could go
on worshipping him and the institution he embodied.
Hirohito died in 1989, and was
succeeded by his son Akihito who, untainted by the war experience, took up his
role as symbol of the state and, in a sense, father of the country in a manner
that has won him the affection and respect of the vast majority of the Japanese
population. Few wish to see him go, yet a recent survey established that 85 per
cent of Japanese public opinion supports his desire to retire quietly, if he
feels this is what he needs.
Many, though, have been
pointing out an unexpected irony in all this: Akihito has long been described
as Japan’s “pacifist emperor”, as opposed to his belligerent father. In the
course of his travels around Asia, Akihito has repeatedly expressed remorse and
deep sympathy for the victims of Japan’s wartime aggressions, even when the
politicians in power have been more lukewarm in expressing regret. Abe, on the
other hand, is post-war Japan’s most unabashedly militaristic prime minister,
and he has long pushed to change Article 9 of the American-drafted constitution
in order to scrap its non-aggression clause, and allow the country to rearm
itself.
The American occupying forces
had made sure that any future militaristic tendencies would be quashed by a
provision in which Japan permanently renounced war as a means to settle
international disputes. Amending the pacifist articles in the constitution is a
highly controversial project, and Abe’s determination to do so has caused a timid
return of interest in political protests in Japan. Yet, the opposition to this
project, while vocal, has not been strong enough to prevent a re-election of
Abe himself. Returned to power just this April, Abe has promised to tackle
head-on the pesky Article 9, after already proceeding to emasculate it by
allowing Japanese troops (normally dedicated to self-defence and civic
protection) to take part in peace-keeping operations abroad.
But constitutional reforms
take time in Japan maybe more so than elsewhere. And the urgency with which
Akihito has been pleading for early dismissal from the heavy honour of being
the official symbol of the state means that revising the constitution to allow
him to step down would have to take precedence on the army’ role.
“In terms of the constitution
issue, certainly it could be a distraction from Abe’s legislative programme and
committee debate on changing the constitution. Whether the emperor intended it
that way is another question. Ultimately, it is impossible for Abe to railroad
through parliament a proposal to greatly change or eliminate Article 9
completely. Even if Abe prioritises Article 9 revision, it will take a lot of
consensus building with the ruling parties, the opposition parties, and
consideration of what the public will accept. This could take quite some time
and the process might even outlast Abe’s administration,” observes Wallace.
In this fashion, the pacifist
emperor would have found a last minute recourse to prevent, or at least
severely delay, Abe’s determination to change the constitution and unshackle
the military. Some think this might be the real reason behind Akihito’s push
for retirement. Others see it as a welcome side-effect of a genuine desire to
step aside.
There are no provisions in the
Japanese constitution for a serving emperor to stop ruling and abdicate.
Because of the constitutional prohibition on getting involved in politics even
by discussing it, Akihito is not allowed to ask for the law to be reformed to
allow for his abdication, as that, too, would be seen as political
interference. So all Akihito can do is hint, and count on the moral support of
his subjects.
But if Akihito has been the
quiet emperor of a fast changing Japan, his request to retire early might usher
in significant changes or at least lay the ground for them by opening up for
discussion some taboo topics. First among these, the one concerning the
possibility of a woman ascending to the throne.
On this point, conservative
Japan is adamant, and the constitution is on its side: the throne belongs to
men, and men alone. If an emperor has no male offspring, then a successor is to
be found among his brothers and their children, or, should that also fail, the
children and grandchildren of the brothers of the previous emperor. Emperor
Akihito has a son, Crown Prince Naruhito, 56, who famously married Masako, 52,
a Harvard-educated career diplomat who has struggled severely to adapt to court
life. And the two have an only child, a daughter, Princess Aiko. Which means
that after Naruhito, the throne would go to Princess Aiko’s cousin, Hisahito,
9, the sole heir of Naruhito’s brother, Akishino.
Not everybody thinks this is
entirely fair, and while most Japanese support the imperial family and its
current role, it is not clear how many would really oppose the crowning of an
empress. After all, the founding myth of the Japanese empire itself involves a
woman, Empress Amaterasu, the Sun
Goddess, the legendary
ancestral mother of all Japanese who is supposed to have reigned around the
13th century BC, which would create as big a precedent as any.
“The public is generally
accepting of a female emperor – even historically this is not unprecedented,”
says Wallace. “There are even some in the political establishment who would not
rule out this change. A previous prime minister, Koizumi, went all the way to
proposing legislative change to allow this. I wouldn’t say it’s impossible –
and in many ways the survival of the imperial family might depend on it if
current male heir, Hisahito, does not have any male children.
“It might be tricky however,
as the strongest conservatives are already a little upset with Abe who they
think has compromised too much regarding historical issues such as Yasukuni
visits, the comfort women issue with Korea, and statements on the war such as
last year’s 70th anniversary statement. It will require considerable boldness
on Abe’s part despite public acceptance for wholesale change to the imperial
family system.”
Ilaria Maria Sala is a writer
based in Hong Kong specialising in East Asia
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