Is this a new age of warrior Japan?
IMAGINE a weekend outing for a Japanese family, and a tour of a warship may not come to mind. Yet thousands came to see the Ise, a light aircraft-carrier, when it moored off Sendai, on Japan’s north-east coast, earlier this month. Children scrambled around a helicopter on the deck. Enthusiasts snapped photos of anti-aircraft turrets. Many expressed gratitude for the Self-Defence Forces (SDF), as Japan’s armed forces are called. “The SDF protects us. It’s a wonderful thing,” gushed Yamazaki Saori, who took her daughter. “Japan is facing so many threats.”
Such events reflect how much has changed in Japan, which has had a fraught relationship with military power since its defeat in the second world war. Through much of the post-war period Japan preferred to focus on economic development and leave security to America, its main ally. In recent decades China’s rise, North Korea’s acquisition of nuclear weapons and America’s unreliability changed that calculus; Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022 dispelled any remaining illusions that peace can be taken for granted. As Ishiyama Shuichi, an SDF veteran who visited the Ise, put it, “People no longer have heiwa bokeh,” a phrase meaning “the peace blur” (or, if used derisively, “peace senility”).
That clarity has helped shape Japan’s security policy. In late 2022 Kishida Fumio, Japan’s prime minister, unveiled reforms that build on the efforts of his predecessors, Abe Shinzo and Suga Yoshihide, to strengthen Japan’s defences and build more credible deterrence. Though lacking a handy catchphrase like Germany’s Zeitenwende, the Japanese plans are no less historic. The government pledged to raise spending on national security to 2% of GDP by 2027, an increase of more than 60% from 2022; to acquire long-range missiles that allow the SDF to strike beyond its borders; and to make the SDF combat-ready.
A stronger Japan would have big implications for the balance of power in the Indo-Pacific. If it follows through on its stated plans, it could become the world’s third-largest defence spender, up from tenth in 2022. No wonder, then, that America is thrilled. When the two countries’ defence and foreign-affairs ministers meet in Tokyo for a “2+2” meeting later this month, Japan’s security surge will be front of mind.
But how ready is Japan to become a warrior nation? The defence budget grew by 27% in 2023 and will rise by another 17% in 2024, reaching ¥8trn ($51bn) in current prices, the largest in the history of the SDF; between 2013 and 2022 it grew by an average of 1% annually, after accounting for inflation (see chart). Hundreds of missiles are due to be delivered next year; the SDF’s command-and-control structures are being updated. Yet constraints remain. Japan’s defence industry is stunted; its currency is weak; its youngsters have little interest in joining the SDF; and public support for hard power still has limits.
To understand where Japan’s armed forces are heading, consider first where the SDF began. The country’s post-war constitution, drafted under American occupation, was designed to demilitarise Japan. When the Korean war broke out in 1950 the Japanese government, with America’s backing, set up an armed police that eventually became the SDF. For decades politicians kept the SDF’s growth to a minimum. An informal cap on defence spending of around 1% of GNP went into effect in 1976. As the memory of the war receded and new threats emerged, the SDF’s public image evolved. Disaster-relief efforts after big earthquakes in 1995 and 2011 helped make the SDF one of Japan’s most trusted institutions: more than 90% of Japanese have a positive impression of it.
Bulking up
Yet a more muscular Japan remained a tricky proposition until recently. In 2015, when Abe pushed to reinterpret the constitution to allow Japan to defend allies beyond its own borders, tens of thousands gathered for raucous protests. (Abe’s policies still passed.) Since the war in Ukraine, opposition has faded. The public has got used to the idea of stronger armed forces, reckons Ushida Yoshimasa, who helped lead the protests a decade ago. When Mr Kishida unveiled his defence policies, protests were muted.
Bigger budgets and a more supportive public have made it possible for the SDF to undertake long-discussed reforms. The command structure is being reorganised in order to create smoother co-ordination between different services and America. In the past the SDF chief had to act as both a military adviser to political leaders and an operational commander, and to liaise with multiple counterparts in America, explains Kawano Katsutoshi, who held the job from 2014 to 2019. A joint-operations command will be launched by early next year and will take on the operational responsibilities of war planning and conducting exercises. The move has also prompted America to revise its own outdated command-and-control architecture.
Long-range missiles were taboo under Japan’s doctrine of senshu boei, or exclusive defence, which held that the SDF should possess only the minimal force necessary to repel an invasion of Japan. These days the SDF is rushing to acquire 400 Tomahawk missiles from America, which have a range of some 1,600km. At a recent training session on an American base in Yokosuka, south of Tokyo, Japanese officers inquired about setting missile flight-paths in a contested environment, of the sort they might face in a conflict with China.
Areas that have suffered from chronic underinvestment, but which would be essential for sustaining combat, are also getting overdue attention. The maintenance budget has doubled since 2022, allowing the SDF to utilise its existing ships and planes better (only around half of its assets were estimated to be operational in 2022). Outlays on ammunition have tripled. Contracts have been signed to repair more than 20,000 facilities across the country. Living quarters are getting long-neglected upgrades: barracks will finally be equipped with Wi-Fi and old squat toilets will be replaced with the electronic bidet-toilets that are standard across most of Japan.
While such steps are welcome, they also indicate how far Japan has to go. And major obstacles remain on the road ahead. One set is financial. In 2022 planners assumed an exchange rate of ¥108 to the dollar; it is now around ¥160. Even domestically produced systems rely on imported components, meaning that the new budget will not go as far as hoped. The government has also dawdled on planned rises in income, corporate and cigarette taxes, posing questions about the sustainability of the higher defence budgets. Although most Japanese support spending more on security, they are less keen to pay for it through taxes.
Building and operating new kit poses another challenge. Japan’s defence industry has been stunted by long-standing restrictions on arms exports. The government has begun to loosen these, and is pushing for greater collaboration with allies. But ramping up production will take time. The government has made no guarantees that the spending levels will be sustained beyond 2027, leaving executives uncertain about investing in expanded production lines. In an ageing, shrinking Japan, manpower is also in short supply.
The SDF is also short of people. “There have been improvements in terms of hardware, but I’m more worried about the software, the fighting posture,” says Mr Kawano. Though many respect the SDF, relatively few people are ready to join. In global surveys Japan ranks last in terms of the share of the population willing to fight for their country, with just 9% answering in the affirmative. Last year the SDF missed its recruiting target by half.
Nor does widespread respect for the SDF or concern about aggressive neighbours translate into eagerness to completely abandon Japan’s post-war peace-loving identity. Even those who came to see the Ise have reservations. “I think the SDF is a safety net—it’s the last resort,” says Ms Yamazaki’s daughter, Kurumi. Many in Japan still remember where an excess of warrior spirit can lead. ■