The Enigma of Japanese Power (43 page)
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Authors: Karel van Wolferen
Tags: #Japan - Economic Policy - 1945-1989, #Japan - Politics and Government - 1945, #Japan, #Political Culture - Japan, #Political Culture, #Business & Economics, #International, #General, #Political Science, #International Relations, #Public Policy, #Economic Policy, #Social Science, #Anthropology, #Cultural, #Political culture—Japan, #Japan—Politics and government—1945–, #Japan—Economic policy—1945–
Japanese are brought up with a socio-political imagery that portrays the authorities as united in an understanding of what the people want and need, an understanding deriving from Japan’s essential ‘homogeneity’. This notion of a unique sameness that makes compassionate bureaucratic rule possible is also very important to the bureaucratic self-image. It is made explicit in the instructions used for training bureaucrats:
The organisational climate that makes possible this kind of groupism peculiar to our country stems from our national traditions, from the fact that our country consists of a homogeneous race, which is rare in the world, and from the fact that we go about our lives while mutually grasping one another’s feelings, fearing confrontation, regarding ‘harmony as noble’, mutually restraining ourselves, and aligning ourselves to the thoughts and actions of people in the group.
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Another fundamental element in this paramount imagery, referred to in the above quote and inextricably intertwined with the beliefs in homogeneity and benevolence, is the concept of
wa
, which is generally translated as ‘harmony’, but is rich in connotations.
Wa
is one of the concepts that is widely believed to be difficult or impossible for foreigners to understand. But the ‘harmony’ of Japanese
wa
is associated with a variety of universal human virtues or qualities such as conciliation, gentleness, accord, accommodation, mellowness, moderation, mollification, peace, pliancy, amiability, appeasement, conformity, softness, order, unison, compromise, and so on.
Wa
is in fact the first political concept that Japanese children are taught in their history lessons – when they learn that Japan’s first law-giver, Shotoku Taishi, began his famous ‘constitution’ with the admonition ‘regard
wa
as noble, and non-contrariness as honourable’. Prince Shotoku understood the need for
wa
as well as any subsequent power-holders, for he lived in a time of assassinations and battles for the throne, a time when nativist forces were protesting at the encroachments of a foreign religion – Buddhism – whose rituals were being promoted for political purposes.
A value system governed, ultimately, by social exigencies means the absence of an urge to fight over ideas. This means in turn that revolutions in the accepted meaning of the term are ruled out. In Japanese history, there were uprisings, peasant rebellions provoked by dire economic conditions and intolerable abuses, but they were not sustained and never amounted to a major revolution.
Until a little over a century ago, the leaders of peasant protest movements were often killed even when their complaints were admitted. They tended to be honoured afterwards; shrines were erected in their memory, at which the lords would worship along with the common people.
2
But even great heroes may not disturb the
wa
of society. In 1937 the Ministry of Education distributed two million copies of
Kokutai no Hongi
, a booklet setting forth the ideology of the ‘national essence’ and claiming that the spirit of harmony had, throughout history, been the source of Japan’s national growth. Suzuki Zenko used every opportunity when he was prime minister (1980–2) to explain that
wa
was the central thought in his political philosophy. Since the late 1970s
wa
has appeared frequently in Japanese writing seeking to explain Japanese culture to the rest of the world. Some Japanese will say that
wa
is for Japan what universal values are for the West, the central ‘principle’ on which their society operates. It is, not surprisingly, frequently mentioned in the same breath as ‘loyalty’.
Striving for
wa
is advocated at many company meetings, and
wa
is often mentioned in public speeches. Certain things, such as not resorting to legal action in order to right wrongs, are considered essential for the preservation of
wa
.
3
In other words, one has to work at
wa
– it does not come automatically. All the emphasis placed on
wa
is a give-away that this is where the shoe pinches. Japanese are obsessed with the idea of harmony precisely because of a subliminal awareness that it is always a very difficult thing to achieve.
Wa
is not an existing, consummate harmony, but the uninterrupted display of a readiness to sacrifice one’s personal interests for the sake of a communal tranquillity.
The possibility that parts of the Japanese System might be lacking in
wa
is a profound embarrassment; it suggests the one dreaded imperfection of the idealised socio-political system that would expose its true nature. To keep it out of view entails a major effort, for Japanese society has no less conflict than other societies. The System is anything but static; it is moved by a tremendous internal dynamism, enhanced by strong competition. This competition, based on the principles of meritocracy that began to replace the hereditary allocation of power in the early part of the nineteenth century, starts with the examination system in schools, continues with the acquisition of as high a position as possible in the salaryman world or bureaucracy and is then sublimated into group competition for market share or factional power. Where possible, competition involving large groups is controlled, but that still leaves much room for shifts of balance and anguish about whether one’s interests are properly looked after. The effort to keep up a surface decorum is supported by numerous subtle methods of avoiding and suppressing open conflict.
Japanese conflict and its suppression, and what happens when it finally can no longer be suppressed, are wonderfully portrayed, in an extreme and stylised form, in gangster movies. When tension mounts in these films it is normal for the mobsters to be ‘hissing and puffing like pressure cookers’.
4
The protagonist who finally takes it upon himself to avenge the insult to his boss (or whatever else evil rivals have perpetrated) knows he will die at the end of it, just like the leaders of peasant rebellions in the Tokugawa period. In these romanticised movie stories, death is the price for upsetting the social order, even if it is for the most honourable cause.
In everyday life, one may not actually hear the hissing and puffing. But a closer look at a Japanese who is upset often gives the impression that, behind a face struggling for control, this is exactly what is going on. If the tension is relieved in public, which happens only rarely, the effect can be explosive: a sudden, very emotional outburst reducing other Japanese present to deep silence. It is usually gone as quickly as the proverbial thunderclap from a sunny sky, the frustrated party regaining his composure and smiling as if nothing had passed.
One of the most common ways of releasing tension is communal drunkenness. Drinking parties constitute one of several escape-valves attached to the pressure cooker of Japanese society. The noisy but ritualistic demonstrations by the tiny radical labour union splinters that have survived in some companies are another.
It is not likely that one will ever run into hissing and puffing bureaucrats. But over dinner with some sake, and with some prodding, their language tends to take on a distinctly military-strategic quality when they describe the relations of their ministries with other ministries, or intra-agency rivalries. Task forces, formed to deal with a particular administrative problem, are forever carrying out advances, tactical retreats and decoy manoeuvres. When Hatano Akira, a former top police official, was made justice minister in the first Nakasone cabinet, he was described as having parachuted into enemy territory. Ministries are always trying to ‘colonise’ other government agencies, and powerful LDP politicians do the same with ministries. Bureaucratic wars are a major topic of conversation in informed political circles. Ministry officials seconded to some foreign posting or organisation will speak of their war potential in comparison with that of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
‘Political analysis’ in the Japanese press consists essentially of running commentary and speculation in connection with the unceasing power struggle among the
habatsu
of the LDP. Japan’s political crises are momentary intensifications of this power struggle; they can aptly be compared to instalments of the Japanese television serials on samurai history whose themes of loyalty and betrayal they markedly resemble.
Like bureaucrats everywhere, Japanese bureaucrats have natural enemies, but they find their adversaries in rival ministries, rather than among the politicians or the businessmen. A major task for the officials, especially in the middle reaches of a bureau, is to negotiate deals with other bureaucrats. Regarding control of an oil pipeline, for example, the Ministry of Transport will claim that this falls within the area of transportation, while the Ministry of International Trade and Industry (MITI) will insist that it should be in charge since petroleum is a commercial product.
5
Such squabbling can be found almost anywhere, but among Japanese bureaucrats it often grows into major conflicts that totally paralyse official decision-making. Conflict among ministries is criticised by Japanese commentators as ‘sectionalism’. It is taken almost for granted that the interests of the ministry come before those of the country. Highly placed bureaucrats will themselves agree that the malfunctioning caused by
nawabari arasoi
(‘territorial conflict’) exceeds all reasonable limits.
6
There is very little
wa
to be found in the relationship between the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and MITI; they consider each other natural enemies. Their conflict over territory goes back to the 1930s when the Foreign Ministry staff resigned
en masse
to protest at a plan to establish a ministry of trade which would have taken away these responsibilities from their ministry,
7
which before the war was considerably more powerful than it is now. Recent international conflict over Japanese commercial practices and the conflict over control of Japan’s diplomacy have found the two ministries constantly at loggerheads, resulting in contradictory statements to Japan’s trading partners.
One spectacular bureaucratic battle was the so-called VAN war in 1984 between MITI and the Ministry of Post and Telecommunications (MPT), which formed part of a wider conflict concerning control over the new telecommunications industries. The VAN (Value Added Network, i.e. advanced data communication services) war was one in which foreigners, mainly Americans, were prodded to participate. In MITI’s eyes the new subsector belonged to the realm of the so-called ‘information society’, an area of industrial development about which it had for years been writing reports and ‘visions of the future’. But MPT saw it as part of the communication services under its jurisdiction. MITI demanded complete and unlimited opportunities for foreigners to compete in this area in the Japanese market, whereas MPT insisted on a licensing system that would virtually exclude foreign participation. The battle was partly fought out in the Policy Affairs Research Council of the LDP, giving politicians an important mediating role.
8
The MPT is exceptionally strong because the postal
zoku
(the ‘tribe’ of LDP Diet members associated with its area of interest) is a more fanatical supporter of its corresponding ministry than any of the other
zoku
.
9
There is no administrative method to adjudicate conflict between ministries.
10
Hence the importance of
éminences grises
, shadowy power-brokers. Once an inter-ministry conflict is ‘settled’ through the offices of an outside agent, such as the LDP, this does not mean that the conflict is solved; there is no peace among rival ministries, only armistice.
A less well known but significant conflict is that between the police and the prosecutors. Despite their mutual support on the surface and their joint role as the enemy of ideologically inspired leftists, their mutual disdain is deep-seated. It goes back to the rivalry between the Naimusho and the Ministry of Justice before the war, when the pre-war police sometimes withheld vital information from prosecutors on the track of people harbouring ‘dangerous thoughts’.
11
Under the post-war constitution, the police were freed from their traditional hierarchic inferiority to the public prosecutors, but the Criminal Prosecution Law still stipulates that police comply with the prosecutors’ instructions. The prosecutors have scored in their rivalry with the police by taking on more political corruption investigations ever since a number of former police bureaucrats joined the LDP and their former colleagues became more hesitant to touch money scandals.
12
It is a commonplace that the cohesion of a group is promoted by hostility towards other groups close to it; the strong rivalry among Christian churches is a good example. Factional conflict can take on extreme, highly irrational forms in Japan, where the emphasis on solidarity and the demands on the individual for identification with the group are so strong that groups are apt to go on a war footing against each other when there are no other mobilising issues to hold them together. In view of this tendency, the jurisdictions of government agencies are made to overlap as little as possible, which heightens their discretionary powers but makes conflict, when it does occur, all the more bitter.
This pattern in which the semi-autonomy of the parts undermines the coherence of the whole is repeated at various levels of the System. The various departments of a newspaper, for example, generally seem to operate as if they constituted separate publications. Such sectionalism is also endemic to most ministries; conflict between ministry bureaux is sometimes even greater than that between government agencies, and when one section views an impending decision of its bureau as threatening its interests, it may sabotage the plans of the larger group.
The police, too, are riven by several types of severe factional friction. One is a rivalry between criminal and security police extending from police academy to police boxes,
13
another the friction between the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Agency and the National Police Agency.
14
Despite the identification of individual bureaucrats with their bureau, private conversations that I have had with high officials suggest that the ultimate unit in conflict with other units is, as everywhere else, the single ambitious bureaucrat in rivalry with his immediate colleagues. The Finance Ministry official does not necessarily care much for the bureau that he defends at the expense of the unity of the whole; it is just that his quality as a loyal official will be judged by the success of his bureau. His further career will depend on it, as will, finally, the place he will land as an
amakudari
.
That the endemic conflict in Japan can be seriously detrimental to the public good was underlined by the aftermath of an air crash in August 1985, in which a record 520 people died. Instead of uniting different authorities in an attempt to minimise the tragedy for all concerned, the disaster served only to heighten mutual hostility.
To begin with, confusion about bureaucratic jurisdiction greatly delayed rescue efforts, and most probably cost a number of lives. It took fourteen hours before the first military rescue team made its way to the wreckage on a mountain-side. Four survivors of the crash report that there were more passengers who survived the initial impact and that children’s voices could be heard gradually dying away as time passed.
The Japanese Air Force had witnessed the accident on its own instruments, and two Phantom fighters sent out to investigate found the crash site within four minutes, after which they returned to their base without taking further action. It was two and a half hours later that the agency with first responsibility, the civil aviation bureau of the Ministry of Transport, issued its request to the Ground Forces to begin the search. An emergency air-crash rescue team equipped with helicopters does exist in Japan, but it was never called into action. The Gumma prefectural police, in whose territory the plane had come down, did not have helicopters. No Japanese agency reacted to the offer from two US air bases to help with equipment and personnel experienced in difficult mountain searches at night, and these experts stood by fruitlessly for some thirteen hours. Even though the location was known, the first ground troops sent out went to the wrong mountain. Ten hours after the disaster, the helicopter of a Japanese military rescue team found the wreckage, but it took no action because orders for action had gone to another military unit. Hours before soldiers sent out on instructions from the Transport Ministry finally arrived at the site, local villagers had already reached it.
Questions about the disastrous tardiness and manifest lack of effective inter-agency communication were submerged in the subsequent welter of accusations directed at Japan Airlines (JAL). These were to a large extent the result of an older conflict between the Ministry of Transport and the semi-governmental airline company. The transport minister, Yamashita Tokuo, declared in a newspaper interview that, even though he did not know about technical matters, he was sure that JAL was to blame. As a result the Japanese media developed an elaborate campaign in which JAL was portrayed as the great villain. Not a day passed without the newspapers finding some fault with the national airline.
15
The International Federation of Airline Pilot Associations found reason to issue a declaration reminding all concerned that investigations into air crashes were not primarily meant to apportion blame, but to find the cause so as to prevent similar accidents. It asked the authorities to stop leaking confusing and contradictory information to the press, and pleaded that experts of the manufacturer as well as the US National Transport Safety Board should be included in their investigations. The latter specialists had at that point waited for two weeks in Tokyo to be called upon, and had only once, as a courtesy gesture, been taken to the crash site.
This seemingly odd behaviour of Japan’s military units and Transport Ministry becomes clearer when seen in the context of the absence of central leadership. The soldiers adhere painstakingly to the principle of ‘civil responsibility’ so as to forestall comparisons to their pre-1945 predecessors. A functioning central military authority does not exist. Neither, however, does a civilian organ that can give and co-ordinate commands in times of emergency. The bureaucrats of the agency of first responsibility were not equipped to deal efficiently with the JAL crash. Even more to the point, these bureaucrats and their minister do not see themselves as representatives of a responsible government answerable to a general public that includes civil aviation personnel. They see themselves as partisan members of their own group with interests to defend against other System elements under all circumstances, including those surrounding an air crash. Prime Minister Nakasone, who was on holiday some twenty minutes’ distance by helicopter from the crash site and who was known for his advocacy of decisive leadership, conspicuously refrained from visiting the area to help console next of kin and encourage rescue workers. To do so would have created the unwanted impression that the government had taken symbolic responsibility for the event.