‘Feminism Isn’t Feminism Unless It’s Intersectional and Representational’: How Japanese Literature Reignited my Feminist Flame

By Florenne Earle Ledger

During my English Literature degree, I was surprised (and bored) by the number of texts in the curriculum written by rich white men about unrequited love from hundreds of years ago. Endless poems, plays, short stories and novels all focused on men wallowing in the fact that women had enough brain cells to turn them down.

More university courses have a variety of modules that offer insight into contemporary literature not written by the male, pale and stale, yet the fact that you have to opt to take a specific module to be led away from these texts focused on the male experience says it all.

Reading books by a variety of authors from all over the world has led me to a new realm of literature far more interesting than Shakespeare. You may have guessed that I call myself a feminist, but the extent to which modern society has not progressed past basic equal rights was partly brought to my attention by Japanese literature.

Some people think that because we had a female prime minister and it’s generally frowned upon to catcall, we live in a post-feminist era. Depending on your echo chamber, your beliefs may differ. But a worrying number of people seem to agree women are more equal than they were before (yes, in some parts of the world) and so feminism is no longer a pressing issue. Immersing myself in the world of contemporary Japanese women helped me realise just how far we have to go to achieve genuine equality for women everywhere.

*Disclaimer: My insight is limited to what I have read and researched. I do not know how people/women in Japan are truly feeling and what they are experiencing.

BREASTS AND EGGS Mieko Kawakami

Allow me to let you out of the rock you’ve been living under if you’ve not heard of this novel! First published in Japan in 2008, the UK caught on in 2021 when the translation became one of TIME’s best books, plastered all over Instagram (it does have a very nice cover). This two-part narrative follows the lives of the protagonist Natsuko, with additional insight from her sister Makiko and her daughter Midoriko. The first half of the text looks at Makiko and Midoriko’s mother-daughter relationship, in which Midoriko won’t speak to anyone and Makiko is desperate for breast implants. The second half of the book unpacks Natsuko’s pressing urge to have a child of her own and the emptiness in her life that makes her want it more.

Whilst Breasts and Eggs explores how gender impacts many different aspects of contemporary Japanese women’s lives, it mainly focuses on the journey of a single mother (Natsuko) wishing to have a baby without a father figure. What my friends and I would view as a ‘power move’ (a reductive term for such an incredibly brave decision but still fueled with respect and admiration), was met with severe judgment from those around her. I was unaware of the judgment and struggles Japanese women conceiving with IVF face on a daily basis.

Class is a huge factor in the argument against women having children without a father figure. Breast and Eggs depicts the brutal realities of being a working-class woman in Japan, a country with an extremely prevalent class divide. One quote that I found particularly interesting was: ‘They’re convinced everything will work out fine. But that’s just people believing what they want to believe. For their own benefit. The really horrible part is that bet isn’t yours to make. You’re betting with another person’s life. Not yours.’

This is spoken by a woman called Yuriko, who also finds herself oppressed by the class system. Deeply depressed, Yuriko urges Natsuko to consider the reality that her child may be one of the unlucky ones and resent their birth as she does. Kawakami highlights how difficult being a working-class woman in Japan really is by suggesting one should feel guilty for being the reason someone has to experience life in this ‘section’ of society. Working-class people have little class mobility, and women in particular find themselves stuck in low paid jobs, largely dependent on men as breadwinners. To liberate women, class systems must be broken down.

The lack of social mobility is echoed by Natsuko’s sister Makiko, who works nights in a bar and sees her beauty rapidly fading as a result. Midoriko, who will not speak to Makiko in the first half of the book, resents her mother for making her feel like a burden in her life. She wonders how much better her mother’s life would be without her. The link between the way Midoriko feels as a child reinforcing Yuriko’s views (representing a large proportion of Japan) is never directly alluded to; it only becomes clear to readers at the end of the book.

The first part of the narrative frames the second half, as we subconsciously understand conservative Japanese opinions more than we realise after Midoriko’s experience. Cleverly, Kawakami shows both sides of the story, yet I still found myself shocked at the negative reactions and accusations thrust at Natsuko for wanting to raise a baby alone.

Makiko becomes fixated on the idea of getting a boob job which confuses Midoriko and drives them further apart. The book never explains how the two work things out or explicitly states whether Makiko gets a boob job or not. But one thing is clear: beauty standards are one of the many ways women are tested in their day-to-day lives. Makiko’s feeling of isolation due to her fading youth forces her to develop an obsession with breast enhancement surgery - causing a rift between her and her daughter. I was in awe of Kawakami’s ability to interlink multiple strands of feminist struggle so seamlessly.

Kawakami’s unapologetic frustration with men in marital relationships stood out to me. Her uncensored anger towards men and their inability to be emotional and supportive beings, coupled with her commentary on the unwavering expectations placed on women in Japanese culture to have children, make this text an incredible read and an interesting insight into anti-feminist opinions in Japan.

One quote of many that highlights the restrictive patriarchal structure of family was the following: ‘Here’s this guy, walking all over you, slapping you around, and you can’t go anywhere or do anything without his explicit permission. [...] That’s slavery. Why should you have to put up with some random dude’s bull shit? Just because you’re married?’ The novel is brimming with anger pointed towards men who simply expect their wives to act as their servants.

The anger projected at oppressive class systems and men throughout the novel is intrinsically linked. It is mainly men who are in positions of power enforcing these societal regimes to continue, which Kawakami makes impossible for readers to forget – though she never directly states it.

Feminism isn’t feminism unless intersectional and representational of women of all ethnicities and communities, including trans women. That’s why we must continue making an effort to read texts that shed light on issues that are not proposed by our curriculums. Kawakami should be commended for her insightful novel, providing a kaleidoscope into feminism and how it impacts women through all stages of their lives, not only in Japan but all over the world.