The following is a continuation of the previous chapter.
Pro-China, anti-Japan, anti-Abe
If taken at face value, what Abe and Nakagawa did—intervening in the NHK program—should have cost them their political careers.
But the “Women’s Tribunal” was in fact a grotesque theatrical insult to the Emperor, involving two North Korean agents and Seoul’s virulently anti-Japan mayor.
That such a performance would be broadcast by “our NHK” was itself an elaborate setup—meant to trap Abe and Nakagawa by drawing their objection.
As expected, the two reacted.
Honda turned it into an article.
They thought everything would go smoothly—but there was a glitch.
NHK had long fancied itself part of the “Red Trinity,” along with Asahi and Kyodo.
It had shared a mutual understanding with Asahi, particularly in its opposition to Abe.
They believed NHK would go along with the scheme and match their narrative.
But that very night, NHK’s news flatly denounced it as “false reporting by the Asahi Shimbun.”
“Asahi disguised its political assassination attempt under the cloak of fair journalism with fabricated content,” it said.
They could not be a part of the lie.
Because if the trap were exposed, even the almighty NHK could be dismantled.
Abe also knew from the beginning that it was a setup.
He was aware of the involvement of North Korean operatives.
He had pointed out from the start: “This report is a fabrication by Asahi.”
NHK’s betrayal revealed that Masakazu Honda’s article had been a media terror attack intended to destroy specific politicians.
If their malice were proven, those involved would be arrested, and the newspaper itself would be shut down.
Cornered, Wakamiya turned to his usual cunning—he had studied in South Korea, after all.
He proposed “submitting the matter to a third-party committee.”
Though they were constantly preaching about journalistic ethics, they couldn’t even discipline themselves.
Asahi claimed they would “seek the judgment of impartial outsiders.”
And whom did they choose?
Niwa Uichirō, a Kyōdō News veteran, and constitutional scholar Hasebe Yasuo.
All of them were familiar faces—pro-China, anti-Japan, anti-Abe—and regulars in Asahi’s pages.
Hardly outsiders or neutral experts.
Six months later, the investigation results were released.
“While there were reasonable grounds to believe the information was true, the reporting was insufficient.”
This could be read as “the article was correct, but the reporting was sloppy.”
Asahi’s president issued a comment stating they “deeply regret the laxity in reporting,” but there was no correction, no apology, no shutdown of the paper.
It was a cunning escape.
But there was no real remorse.
When the first Abe administration was inaugurated, Asahi attacked relentlessly.
Minister of Agriculture, Forestry, and Fisheries Toshikatsu Matsuoka was even criticized over utility expenses.
They also raised suspicions of corruption surrounding contracts for forest road maintenance by the Green Resources Agency, a landing spot for retired bureaucrats.
Pressed hard, Matsuoka ultimately took his own life.
Yet he was a minister worthy of recognition.
He had pushed for the implementation of a certification system for Japanese restaurants overseas.
Its goal was “to promote the proper Japanese food culture and support our food industry’s overseas expansion.”
But Asahi’s Tensei Jingo mocked him: “So what if it becomes international cuisine? What's wrong with sushi topped with chocolate?”
Koreans, who dislike vinegar, replaced it with sesame oil and served such sushi, degrading its integrity—but the Japanese government had no means to stop it.
Asahi, which lacks pride in Japan, became a destructive force.
Matsuoka was driven to death by the Asahi.
When his successor, Norihiko Akagi, appeared at a post-cabinet press conference with his face covered in massive gauze and bandages, Asahi made that a political issue and provoked Abe’s irritation.
It was a vicious campaign against Abe, who suffered from ulcerative colitis, a designated intractable disease.
Wakamiya clearly harbored murderous intent.
In 2007, the Liberal Democratic Party suffered a major defeat in the Upper House election.
Asahi declared, “This is a no-confidence vote against Abe’s politics,” and ran editorials calling for his resignation.
The attacks on his ulcerative colitis also took their toll, and Abe resigned.
Asahi delights in rubbing salt and chili into a wound.
There is no newspaper more repugnant.
Your newspaper is full of lies
Abe stepped down in despair.
Five years later, in 2012, he made a miraculous comeback in the LDP leadership election.
Asahi again sought to crush him.
Before the birth of the second Abe administration, the Japan National Press Club held its customary party leader debate.
The organizers included Asahi, Mainichi, and others, and the Asahi’s Hoshi Hiroshi stood as the lead questioner.
He asked Abe, “How do you intend to resolve the comfort women issue, which has become an international matter?”
Abe responded with the truth: “That problem exists because your Asahi Shimbun spread the claims of a fraud named Seiji Yoshida as if they were facts.”
The comfort women lie was something Asahi had perpetuated for thirty years.
They claimed they had gone to Jeju Island, rounded up women, and forced them into sexual slavery—but anyone could see the story was suspicious.
Still, people thought, “Surely a reputable newspaper wouldn’t lie.”
Even Hoshi himself had his doubts.
But the Asahi had a corporate policy: attack Abe, even with lies.
And so when the man poised to become Prime Minister told him directly, “Your paper has been spreading lies,” Hoshi was stunned—he couldn’t even respond.
The exchange was broadcast nationwide.
Wakamiya, who had risen to chief editor, turned pale upon hearing it.
He had long known Yoshida’s story was false.
But nothing served Asahi’s anti-Japan agenda better.
Wakamiya even had spin-off works written by Yayori Matsui and Takashi Uemura.
The words of a future Prime Minister carry weight.
The Asahi tried with all its might to refute him.
But the truth was just as Abe said: there was not a shred of fact in their comfort women reporting.
Two years later, in August 2014, the Asahi Shimbun finally admitted the falsehood—though using evasive language that never called it a “lie”—and announced they were retracting sixteen related articles.
They had defamed the honor of the Japanese people for thirty years.
Naturally, the paper should have been shut down.
But once again, they resorted to a third-party committee to dodge accountability.
This time it included former diplomat Yukio Okamoto and University of Tokyo professor Kaori Hayashi.
With perfect coordination, they concluded—again—“the reporting lacked sufficient corroboration.”
A string of transparent lies.
At the time Seiji Yoshida claimed women were abducted from Jeju Island, the term “teishintai” (women’s volunteer corps) didn’t even exist.
The reporters hadn’t done even the most basic research.
Asahi’s journalists write based on tips, then fill in the rest with imagination.
That they don’t do real reporting is thoroughly detailed in Thirty-Six Years as a Newsman by Kiyoshi Nagaei, one of the rare Asahi reporters who actually conducted interviews.
To be continued.
