A rare ceremony revives debate over imperial succession

In early September a slim young man in a pale yellow robe entered a palace hall in Tokyo, trailed by a servant carrying the robe’s lengthy train. Prince Hisahito (pictured), the 19-year-old nephew of Emperor Naruhito, received a kanmuri (a silken crown), after which he changed into black clothes to signal his passage into adulthood. Then he boarded an ornate horse-drawn carriage to visit a shrine dedicated to Amaterasu, the sun goddess. What struck observers was not the ancient ritual itself, but how rare the occasion has become. The coming-of-age ceremony, reserved for male royals, was the first in Japan for 40 years.

That gap is perilous for the world’s oldest monarchy. By law, only men can inherit Japan’s throne. What is more, the job can only be passed down through the male line (Japanese princesses lose their royal status when they marry). In recent decades Japan’s royal men have fathered a number of girls, but only one boy. So Prince Hisahito is the only possible heir in his generation. And his future offspring are key to continuing the royal line.

Polls suggest that most Japanese have long favoured changing these archaic and discriminatory rules of succession. Back in 2005, when it was feared there would not be even one young male heir, a government committee recommended allowing women to be emperors. This talk fizzled out when baby Hisahito arrived. But as the prince enters adulthood, calls for reform are back. He and anyone who chooses to marry him will face immense pressure to birth a male. Many Japanese recall with some regret the intense scrutiny that was suffered in the 1990s and 2000s by the present empress, Masako (who has only one child, a daughter). She was later diagnosed with a stress-related illness.

Yet talk of change continues to face fierce opposition from conservatives, who claim that the imperial line has remained intact, more or less under the existing rules, for some 2,700 years. Although there were female emperors in ancient times, they are often dismissed as caretakers. Even discussing reform is “a very dangerous thought”, argues Takeda Tsuneyasu, a conservative commentator who co-authored a book entitled “Why Matrilineal Emperors Would Destroy Japan”.

That view is shared by some lawmakers in the ruling Liberal Democratic Party (LDP). Late last year a UN committee that seeks to end discrimination against women advised Japan to revise the succession law. The government has responded by cutting funding to the body. Takaichi Sanae, who could become Japan’s first female prime minister if she wins the race to become the LDP’s new leader in October, is among those strongly opposed to change.

Conservatives argue that, should it become necessary, Japan could find princes by restoring defunct branches of the imperial family. These clans were stripped of their royal status in the late 1940s, during America’s occupation of Japan (many of their menfolk served as senior soldiers during the second world war). Yet they have been living as commoners for several generations. This plan is “hardly realistic”, thinks Takamori Akinori, an expert on the imperial family.

Japan’s constitution bans the royals themselves from commenting on political matters. But they have often looked far more reform-minded than the hangers-on that surround them. In 2019 then-Emperor Akihito became the first monarch in modern Japanese history to abdicate. His wife, Empress Michiko, was the first commoner to marry into the royal family; she bucked courtly norms by choosing to breastfeed and raise her children herself. “Some customs passed down in the name of tradition can hinder progress,” she warned in a speech some years ago. “And some may even cause people to suffer.” ■