So, Taku Eto, the Agriculture Minister of "I never buy rice, supporters send too much" infamy, has been shown the door. Word is Shinjiro Koizumi, son of a former PM, is stepping in. The headlines dutifully report this as the "first cabinet member change since the administration's formation." But does anyone truly believe this addresses the real issue? The problem wasn't born yesterday. The uncomfortable truth is that Prime Minister Ishiba has never managed to stabilize the ship. Swapping out one minister is like fumbling to change a cassette in a rusty, ancient player, hoping to eliminate the static. The entire machine is corroded; it’s still going to churn out the same distorted, out-of-tune "Showa-era hits."
Eto's statement was, undeniably, moronic. Bragging about never buying rice because supporters drown him in it might sound like the boast of a seasoned political operator, but it peeled back the curtain on a deeply systemic rot: a political class that sees itself as mere managers of vested interests. Receiving "gifted rice" is apparently so commonplace it’s not even news; flaunting it is the innovation here. The issue isn't just that Eto received enough supporters' rice to "sell it off," but that his words casually exposed an unspoken rule of Japan's political system: the normalization of quid pro quo, corruption as a daily special.
Eto probably thought he was just cracking a joke on stage. But what slipped out was a confession of the agricultural sector's long-entrenched, tangled "gift culture" with local factions (the jittoru): supporters don't just send rice; they send votes, loyalties, and pressure. Eto was merely too blunt, too artlessly honest, throwing the unvarnished reality of a politician's existence—built on favors and resources—into the public arena.
The bitterest irony? This performance occurred against a backdrop of "soaring rice prices," "farmers at their wits' end," and a palpable "Japanese anxiety over food self-sufficiency." When farmers are breaking their backs to grow and sell a decent bag of rice, and a Diet member is laughing about having "so much rice he could sell it," this transcends a mere gaffe. It's a severe case of cognitive dissonance.
Let's be blunt: it's not that he doesn't understand public suffering; it's that he forgot he was a public official.
Some might say he just misspoke. But just as Abe Sada became a Showa-era icon not simply for castrating her lover, but because that single act sliced through the era's profound taboos on sex and love, Eto's "I don't buy rice" remark tore away the hypocritical mask of Japan's agricultural subsidy system.
Ishiba reportedly considered keeping Eto on. That hesitation and dithering weren't born of kindness, but of fear. He fears a no-confidence motion in the Diet, fears a united opposition backlash that his minority government cannot suppress. This wasn't a leader's decisive action; it was a forced, stage-managed exit.
Eto's dismissal is merely the first hairline crack appearing as the volcano begins to smoke. The real earthquake is the fracturing of the economic bedrock.
Nissan's CEO announced 20,000 layoffs. Parts of Honda's factories "temporarily ceased operations." This isn't just the language of labor disputes; it's capital casting a vote of no confidence in national policy. The Nissan CEO even made a rare public statement about an "early retirement" plan, 18 years ahead of schedule. The subtext? The very idea of "working until retirement" is no longer a conceivable future for many Japanese. The once-vaunted "lifetime employment" system is now just "please take early retirement." The famed "artisan spirit" (takumi spirit) on the production line has devolved into a shift-based survival game. Nissan’s old slogan, "Innovation that excites"? Today, only layoffs are "exciting" enough to cause widespread insomnia.
Since Ishiba took office, we've witnessed a string of almost unimaginable political blunders. Justice Minister Keisuke Suzuki faced questions of violating public office election law for gifting mooncakes to department staff. Ishiba himself was exposed in March for giving newly elected Diet members gift vouchers worth 100,000 yen (around $650 USD). An administration that can't even manage these "small favors" without tripping – how can it possibly navigate the retaliatory tariffs on agricultural products in the US-China trade war? Or, more to the point, has Ishiba even proposed any countermeasures?
No. He's just a politician who frequently mentions "trust between the people and the state" in his speeches. But when gift vouchers are handed out, rice hoards are flaunted, and auto factory workers are terrified and looking for an exit, that "trust" has become a relic of history. It’s like those "Diligent Service to the Nation" slogans plastered on corrugated iron sheds: faded by the sun, the letters still visible, but long bereft of belief.
The problem isn't what Ishiba has done wrong; it's what he hasn't done at all. He's like a gatekeeper in an ancient castle, muttering "I will protect the country" while allowing aristocrats, businessmen, and traditional interests to glide through the walls like ghosts.
And all this is unfolding just two months before the summer Upper House elections. The Eto affair is merely an acute flare-up of the Japanese administration's chronic illness. Not removing him could have been fatal; removing him still leaves a critically ill government.
Thus, public sentiment, like the tides of Tokyo Bay, appears calm on the surface but churns with relentless undercurrents. The pain of Nissan's laid-off workers, farmers' anxieties over rice prices, young people's despair about the future – these won't vanish with a ministerial change. What Japan awaits is an administration capable of genuine responsibility, of proposing real solutions, of facing global challenges head-on. Yet, in the foreseeable future, one can only anticipate more individuals sacrificed by the system, more Japanese sighing helplessly at their televisions, wondering when they'll next be able to afford rice without worry. A TV news crew, covering the Eto incident, interviewed a Japanese woman on the street. She explained she has a family of seven, with five children. Now, when they eat, they have to use a scale: the eldest son gets 350g, the second 300g… portioning out rice by the gram. Can you imagine this is Japan in 2025?
What many more Japanese see clearly is that Ishiba's name will merely be a footnote in this unfolding saga of Japan's new-generation political collapse. Ishiba isn't the protagonist; he's just the one currently caught in the spotlight. The shadows behind him are more substantial, more palpable, than the man himself. That is the truly terrifying thing. And even more terrifying? Knowing the way of the world, the truth of the situation, and still having to worry if your children will have rice to eat tomorrow.
