What Sanae Takaichi’s popularity among women says about gender equality in Japan

Politicians don’t often find themselves on packages of cookies. Nor do their bags tend to go viral, sparking a fashion craze.

But few politicians are quite like Japan’s first female

prime minister, Sanae Takaichi.

Since she took office in October, Takaichi has developed somewhat of a cult following, particularly among some younger voters and women. They’ve sparked a phenomenon known as Sanakatsu (Sana-mania), consuming all things related to Takaichi.

Make no mistake: Takaichi is no progressive. In fact, she has pushed conservative positions on issues many feminists have fought to change, such as allowing married couples to keep separate surnames and permitting women to inherit the imperial throne.

Takaichi has also built her political identity around relentless work. In a recent social media post, she described surviving on very little sleep while reading cabinet papers, ironing handkerchiefs and sewing loose buttons.

Though her popularity has declined recently, many analysts have tried to explain her popularity and what it says about women and politics in Japan.

Some have observed young people and women support Takaichi not because she is a woman, but because they prioritise policies aimed at improving their financial lives over abstract questions of gender equality.

Others argue her gender is precisely the point: after decades of male leadership, many voters simply wanted to see a woman at the top.

As an anthropologist who has spent more than a decade researching Japanese women, however, I think these explanations tell only part of the story.

Japan’s gender inequality

When I began my research into gender equality in Japan, I expected the women I met to readily share their views when asked. Yet more often than not, I was met with shrugs. It took me a long time to realise I brought my own assumptions into the field as an Australian-trained feminist researcher.

I had been looking for “gender” in what the women said. But all the while, they were showing me their beliefs through their everyday actions.

In one recent project on household waste in Japan, for example, I found many women continued to shoulder much of the responsibility for cooking, cleaning and sorting rubbish around the house, despite working their own demanding jobs.

This aligns with a government survey last year that found men spend an average of 3.5 hours doing household tasks every day, compared to more than seven hours for women.

Most of the women told me their partners did contribute to household tasks. But when they put the recycling in the wrong bins, for instance, the women would quietly re-sort it themselves instead of correcting them. Rather than confront gender inequality head on, they simply wanted to make everyday life manageable.

As one of them said to me:

I believe in gender equality. I want to work full-time and I do not want to repeat what my mother did and spend all day at home cooking. But I also want to provide nutritious meals to my family. So I rely on ready-made side dishes. They fill the gap between persistent gendered expectation and the reality of being a full-time worker.

These women were neither politically disinterested nor content with the status quo. But publicly challenging beliefs on gender equality can be risky in a country that has long endorsed the strict gendered division of labour.

After the Fukushima nuclear disaster, for instance, mothers who questioned government reassurances about food safety were dismissed as spreading harmful rumours and labelled “radiation brain moms”.

In my previous research with women who evacuated their homes after Fukushima, several had conflict with their husbands – including in some cases domestic violence – after challenging their views on radiation risks.

What this says about Japan’s first female leader

Seen in this light, Sana-mania is less paradoxical.

One reason Takaichi may be appealing is that her “work, work, work” performance feels relatable. Her widely shared social media post was not about policy, but about an exhausting day juggling public and domestic life.

For women navigating similar demands, Takaichi’s life may resonate and even make their own lives feel recognised, regardless of political beliefs.

There is a danger to this relatability, however. Takaichi’s idealisation of work risks normalising the long hours women put in every day, instead of questioning why they continue to shoulder the double burden of work and domestic duties.

It also sets back the efforts of advocates who have argued for a better work-life balance in Japan due to rising cases of karōshi (death from overwork).

Perhaps, then, the question isn’t why many Japanese women support a conservative female leader whose politics may set back gender equality.

Rather, we should be focusing on Takaichi’s embrace of “work, work, work” and the reasons it resonates in the first place. Her popularity points to the persistence of a problematic gendered ideal in which women are expected not simply to work hard, but to quietly make inequality manageable.

Shiori Shakuto does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.