Urmas Teder, journalist.
Kimi Onoda’s recent remarks claiming that permanent residency in Japan grants “no rights” would already have been controversial on their own. But placed alongside the recent case of Manish Kumar -and even the ongoing controversy surrounding rugby international Lomano Lemeki- the comments become far more revealing. Together, these episodes expose a deeper anxiety inside contemporary Japan: the growing insistence that foreigners, no matter how integrated, should never be considered entirely part of the national community.
Kumar, an Indian national and long-term resident of Japan, became the target of public and political scrutiny after a series of controversies that rapidly escalated online and in parts of the media. Rather than remaining an isolated case tied to individual circumstances, the episode quickly evolved into something broader: a vehicle for reigniting fears about foreigners, loyalty, and social order. What followed was not simply criticism of one individual, but the familiar spectacle of an entire category of residents being implicitly placed under suspicion.
At the same time, a very different controversy has emerged inside Japanese professional rugby. Players such as Lomano Lemeki -a naturalised Japanese citizen, former Brave Blossoms international, husband of a Japanese national and father raising a family in the country- have publicly challenged league regulations that continue to classify some naturalised players differently from Japanese-born athletes. Despite obtaining citizenship and representing Japan internationally, Lemeki can still be treated institutionally as somehow “external” because he did not pass through the Japanese education system.
This is precisely why Onoda’s comments matter. Her remarks were not merely a technical clarification about immigration law. They reflected a broader political message increasingly visible in parts of Japanese conservatism: contribution does not necessarily lead to belonging. Foreigners may work in Japan, pay taxes in Japan, build families in Japan, and even represent Japan on the international stage, but there remains an invisible line they are not entirely expected to cross.
The contradiction is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Japan depends heavily on foreign labour to sustain key sectors of its economy. Construction, agriculture, elderly care, universities, tourism, logistics, and convenience-store networks increasingly rely on international workers and residents. Rural municipalities actively seek foreigners to slow depopulation. Yet significant parts of the political establishment continue to frame immigration primarily through the language of surveillance, cultural anxiety, and social control.
The danger of this rhetoric is not simply political; it is social. When public figures repeatedly imply that no level of integration, permanence, or contribution is ever fully sufficient, they reinforce the idea that foreigners can remain permanently provisional — tolerated economically, but never fully accepted socially. The issue is no longer just immigration policy. It is the emergence of invisible ceilings around the very concept of belonging.
Japan has every right to debate immigration, borders, and national cohesion. Every democracy does. But if a permanent resident like Manish Kumar can become a symbol of collective suspicion, and if a national team player like Lomano Lemeki can still be treated as institutionally different despite holding Japanese citizenship, then the country risks sending a powerful and dangerous message: no matter what foreigners contribute, they may never truly belong.
What is becoming equally striking, however, is the relative silence surrounding these developments. As political rhetoric targeting foreign residents hardens and cases involving discrimination or public stigmatisation multiply, few embassies in Tokyo appear willing to speak publicly in defence of their own citizens and long-term residents. Whether out of diplomatic caution, economic pragmatism, or reluctance to confront Japan on sensitive social issues, that silence is also beginning to raise uncomfortable questions.
