The Princess Wars
A newborn royal heir stirs the debate over the modern Japanese
woman
When Japan's Princess Kiko gave birth to a 5-lb. 10-oz. baby boy on
the morning of Sept. 6, ensuring the survival of the Japanese
imperial line for at least another generation, the entire country
appeared to twinkle with joy. Newspapers printed millions of
special supplements, titans of industry issued congratulations,
imperial enthusiasts gathered in front of the palace bearing flags
and shouting "Banzai!" But Fumiko Wada, a housewife from Chiba,
just outside Tokyo, wasn't celebrating. Wada is a dedicated fan of
Crown Princess Masako, 42, and feels Kiko's miraculous pregnancy
was just a way to steal the
spotlight from her older sister-in-law, who has long been under
intense pressure to bear a prince of her own, as only males can
inherit the Chrysanthemum Throne. "Princess Kiko should have stayed
in Masako's shadow and supported her," Wada opines. "But she is
like a chameleon. Whatever is required, she'll do." Wada pauses.
"That's why I dislike her."
Japan is divided into opposing camps of royal watchers: Team Kiko
and Team Masako. It is an unusual development. The imperial family,
the oldest royal line in the world, is also the most tightly
controlled. Its members aren't allowed to have last names, personal
wealth, opinions or, for the most part, lives. But the
behind-the-scenes tug-of-war over the future of the dynasty has
made the royals unexpectedly human--and made Masako and Kiko living
symbols of the intense pressure on Japanese women to be both modern
and traditional.
In the modern sense, you couldn't ask for a more qualified crown
princess than Masako. Daughter of a Japanese diplomat, educated at
Harvard, Oxford and the University of Tokyo, Masako was so
dedicated to her budding career in Japan's Foreign Ministry that
she rebuffed Crown Prince Naruhito's engagement proposal for five
years before finally marrying him in 1993. "I thought she was so
striking and cool," says Harumi Kobayashi, a fan who has published
three books on Masako.
But as year after year passed without a royal pregnancy, hopes that
Masako would become the modern face of the imperial family
gradually died. It was clear that she had failed in her one
traditional duty: to produce a male heir. All her education and
accomplishments meant nothing by comparison. Japanese tabloids cast
aspersions on her patriotism and her toughness, and not long after
she gave birth to a daughter, Aiko, in December 2001, Masako sank
into a depression. Now she has gone from an icon of style to an
object of pity. "She's been crushed," says housewife Hiroko
Nishiyama, a Kiko backer. "I feel sorry for her."
Meanwhile, Masako's demure and traditional sister-in-law, the wife
of the Emperor's second son Akishino, seems born to be a Japanese
princess. Earlier this year, as conservatives searched for a way to
defeat legislation that would allow women to ascend to the
throne--a move that had the support of some 80% of the Japanese
public--it was Kiko, then 39, who conceived her miracle boy out of
pure imperial duty, according to some of her fans. "The Emperor had
been worried and depressed that the crown princess had no more
children," says Nishiyama. So Kiko and Akishino "decided to have
another child to lift the burden from the Emperor's shoulders."
Whether or not that's true,
Kiko has become the darling of the Japanese media and Establishment
for being everything Masako is not. "Princess Kiko was courageous
to give birth to a third child in a society of low birthrate," said
House of Councilors president Chikage Ogi. "This is what women
should learn from her."
But even if the traditional Kiko is lionized, the country's
plummeting birthrate shows that Japanese women--regardless of their
princess preference--are increasingly choosing modern lives. So the
big loser in all this could be the baby. As Japan continues to
change while the dynasty stands still, the prince may find it
surprisingly difficult to find a Japanese woman willing to become
his princess.