Sushi spells solidarity in the face of China’s outrage
A man posting a picture of his lunch on social media would not normally make international headlines, but this was no ordinary snapshot.
Last week Lai Ching-te, the president of Taiwan, was pictured holding a plate of yellowtail sushi and scallops. The caption was innocent enough — “Now is perhaps a good time to eat Japanese food” — but the message was clear. China is becoming the playground bully of east Asia; Japan and Taiwan must stick together.
Lai’s lunch was an important moment in an escalating row between China and Japan over remarks made this month by Sanae Takaichi, the new Japanese prime minister. She was asked what would constitute a “survival-threatening situation” for Japan when it comes to the tensions over China’s desire to take Taiwan — or, as the Chinese government sees it, bring a renegade province to heel.
The rule in these situations is that you do not say anything. You do not speculate. Japan’s stance mirrors that of the United States: it acknowledges China’s position on Taiwan without explicitly recognising it, and maintains a policy of strategic ambiguity about what Japan might do in the event of a Chinese attempt to take Taiwan by force. In a move that Takaichi appears now to regret, she went ahead and speculated.
“If there are battleships and the use of force,” she said, “no matter how you think about it, it could constitute a survival-threatening situation.”
Cue outrage from China, expressed in familiar ways. First, economic pressure: a blanket ban has been placed on Japanese seafood and the millions of Chinese tourists who visit Japan each year have been urged to think again. The second way has been “wolf warrior” diplomacy. China’s consul general in Osaka shared a news article about Takaichi’s remarks on X, adding that “the dirty head that sticks itself in must be cut off”.
To understand why China’s reaction has been so strong, it is worth paying attention to the form of words used in that now-infamous parliamentary exchange — “survival-threatening situation”. It is not bureaucratic jargon.
It refers to important and controversial legislation passed ten years ago by Takaichi’s mentor and former prime minister, Shinzo Abe, broadening the interpretation of Japan’s pacifist constitution.
Previously, it was understood that the country’s Self-Defence Forces could only be deployed in the event of an attack on Japan. In 2015, those terms were expanded to include an armed attack on a country with which Japan has close relations, in the course of which Japan’s own survival is threatened.
Takaichi’s comments in that parliamentary meeting appeared to imply that Japan might consider a Chinese naval blockade of Taiwan — a possible first step in an attempt to take the island — to warrant the deployment of Japanese forces.
In 2021, after leaving his post as prime minister, Abe declared that “a Taiwan emergency is a Japanese emergency”. Takaichi has echoed those words in the past, and in April she led a delegation to Taiwan to meet President Lai. On their itinerary was a visit to a bronze statue of Abe, paid for by Taiwanese donations after his assassination in 2022.
Students of colonialism might find this a little strange. Taiwan was part of the Japanese empire from 1895 until 1945. When countries gain their independence, they tend to tear down statues of the oppressor — not have a whip-round to put up new ones.
And yet there Abe stands, in his own garden of remembrance, waving a benevolent hand at the people who come to lay flowers. Why? One reason is that while great bitterness remains in Korea and China at memories of Japanese aggression in the first half of the 20th century, the five decades Japan spent ruling Taiwan generally receives more positive reviews. Back in 1895, an up-and-coming Japan was keen to be seen as a civilising influence in east Asia.
Heavy investment was duly made in Taiwanese roads, railways, schools and hospitals.
Rabies was eliminated, along with various tropical diseases.
After Japan’s surrender in 1945, Taiwan became part of the Republic of China under Chiang Kai-shek and his Nationalist government. It was ruled in a way that people found repressive, corrupt and sometimes chaotic. Things got worse in 1949, when Chiang lost his struggle against Mao Zedong’s Communists. Chiang and what remained of his forces were among some 1.5 million people who crossed the Straits to escape. Chiang and then his son ruled Taiwan under martial law for the best part of 40 years, growing the economy but suppressing political dissent and marginalising Taiwanese culture.
When Taiwan became a democracy in the late 1980s and early 1990s, many considered Japan to be the model of a successful Asian democracy: wealthy, peaceful and stable. Japan now regularly tops lists of Taiwanese people’s favourite countries. Its food, fashion, film, manga and music are all huge there.
Japanese people, meanwhile, have an overwhelmingly positive view of Taiwan.
When China instituted an import ban on pineapples from Taiwan in 2021, widely regarded as politically motivated, Japanese consumers put in huge orders for what came to be called “freedom pineapples”. The Taiwanese are now returning the favour, countering China’s economic measures by buying Japanese seafood and booking holidays there.
This is precisely the kind of mutual support that China’s leaders do not want to see. They regard Taiwan as a domestic issue, and close Japan-Taiwan relations as an infringement on their sovereignty.
What next, then? Taiwan-watchers tend to agree that the best outcome for the region is for nothing to change.
President Trump was reported last week to have asked Takaichi to try to calm things down. And with luck a way will be found to bring this latest spat to a close. China and Japan conduct nearly $300 billion worth of trade with one another every year, so basic economic self-interest leans towards resolution.
That said, the Taiwan question is not going away. The impasse appears to be moving into a war for public opinion, which is why so-called “sushi diplomacy” matters. It is about symbolism and solidarity. Sometimes, one person’s lunch really does deserve to make the news.
Christopher Harding is a senior lecturer in Asian history at the University of Edinburgh and the author of A Short History of Japan
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