By: Ahana Sarkar
In recent months, people in Japan have become used to waking up to alerts warning of missiles flying overhead. These aren’t drills or false alarms; they’re real missile launches, mainly from North Korea, and they’ve become more frequent in 2024 and 2025. For many, the sound of the J-Alert system has gone from shocking to routine. Schools pause their classes, commuters are told to stay underground, and conversations about safety are now part of everyday life.
North Korea’s growing missile capabilities, especially the testing of solid-fuel ICBMs, have triggered serious concern across Japan. In response, the Japanese government has increased defence spending, strengthened its alliance with the United States, and taken steps that would have been unthinkable a decade ago, like acquiring counterstrike capabilities. The official explanation is simple: deterrence and national security. But the roots of this tension go much deeper than that.
North Korea’s missile tests have become a familiar and unsettling part of life for people in Japan. In March 2024, a solid-fuel ballistic missile flew directly over Hokkaido, triggering the national J-Alert system and sparking immediate panic. Just ten months later, in January 2025, another missile passed over Okinawa, once again forcing millions of residents to seek cover. These incidents aren’t isolated; they’re part of a pattern of increasingly aggressive missile launches that have escalated regional tensions and unsettled daily life in Japan.
The psychological toll is hard to ignore. Frequent emergency alerts have led to what some experts are calling “fear fatigue.” While people are still concerned, the repetition has made many numb or sceptical. A 2025 public opinion survey found that nearly 70% of Japanese respondents were worried about North Korea’s actions, yet nearly half also expressed doubt about whether the government’s response strategies were actually effective or realistic. For schoolchildren and rural communities, where shelter infrastructure is limited, the impact is especially stark. Some schools have introduced regular missile drill routines, and parents worry not just about safety, but about the emotional toll on their children. Life has started to revolve around a kind of quiet, constant anxiety.
In response, Japan has made significant policy shifts. Defence spending is at its highest level since World War II. The government has expanded cooperation with the United States and invested in counterstrike capabilities, a move that reflects a new interpretation of Japan’s pacifist constitution (Article 9). These are historic changes, but whether they actually make people feel safer remains an open question.
The hostility between North Korea and Japan isn’t only about missiles and military threats, it’s also rooted in history that has never really been resolved. Japan’s colonial rule over the Korean Peninsula from 1910 to 1945 remains a deep and painful wound, especially for North Korea, where anti-Japanese sentiment is part of national identity and political ideology. The colonial period was marked by forced labour, cultural suppression, and violence, all of which continue to shape how North Korea sees Japan today.
North Korea often portrays Japan as a fascist and imperialist threat, not just in official speeches but in school textbooks, media, and public events. This image isn’t simply about the past—it’s used to justify North Korea’s military buildup and nuclear ambitions. In Pyongyang’s eyes, a strong defence is needed because the old enemy has not changed. From the Japanese side, efforts at reconciliation have been inconsistent. While there have been official apologies, many Koreans, North and South, view them as too vague or insincere. The issue of comfort women and forced labour remains especially sensitive. At the same time, conservative Japanese politicians have been accused of downplaying or erasing wartime atrocities in school curricula and public discourse.
For North Korea, then, Japan isn’t just a strategic rival. It represents a historical humiliation that has never been addressed properly. That emotional weight makes diplomacy harder because any engagement is filtered through decades of unresolved anger and mistrust. This isn’t just politics, its memory, identity, and pride. And that’s much harder to negotiate.
For Kim Jong-un, Japan is a convenient and familiar villain. Blaming external enemies is a common tactic used to distract from internal problems, and North Korea has plenty: ongoing food shortages, harsh international sanctions, and dissatisfaction among elites. By launching missiles and warning of foreign aggression, the regime rallies public unity and deflects criticism. These shows of force are framed as acts of national pride and survival, reinforcing the image of North Korea as a strong and independent state standing up to its historical oppressors.
On the Japanese side, the political use of tension looks different but serves a similar purpose. In recent years, particularly under Prime Minister Fumio Kishida, there has been a clear shift toward a more assertive defence posture. In 2024, the government approved plans to acquire counterstrike capabilities, marking a major reinterpretation of Japan’s postwar constitution. The move was widely seen as a response to public anxiety and a way to gain support from right-leaning voters who want a tougher stance on national security.
Among all the sources of tension between Japan and North Korea, the abductions issue stands out as one of the most emotionally charged. During the late 1970s and early 1980s, North Korean agents kidnapped at least 17 Japanese citizens, most of them young, and brought them to North Korea to train spies or serve in other covert roles. The Japanese public was largely unaware of this until the early 2000s, when Pyongyang admitted to a few of the abductions during a rare diplomatic thaw in 2002.
Since then, the issue has remained deeply personal and politically sensitive. North Korea maintains that the matter is closed, claiming that some abductees have died and others were returned. Japan, however, insists the full truth has not come out. Without a full accounting and return of all remains or survivors, Tokyo refuses to consider any move toward diplomatic normalisation.
The Japan–North Korea standoff doesn’t exist in a vacuum; it’s shaped and intensified by the roles of two major global players: China and the United States. Both powers have their own stakes in Northeast Asia, and their actions often complicate any chance of de-escalation between Tokyo and Pyongyang.
China, while not openly defending North Korea’s missile tests, remains its closest ally and economic lifeline. Beijing sees North Korea as a strategic buffer against U.S. influence in the region and is wary of anything that would destabilise the status quo. At the same time, China is increasingly uncomfortable with Japan’s growing defence posture. Japanese military modernisation and closer ties with the U.S. are viewed in Beijing as a threat, not just to regional balance, but to China’s own ambitions in places like the East China Sea, where territorial disputes with Japan are ongoing. In this way, China’s rivalry with Japan indirectly fuels Pyongyang’s narrative and defiance.
The United States, meanwhile, plays the role of Japan’s primary security partner. U.S. military bases on Japanese soil make Japan a key part of Washington’s strategic footprint in the region, but also a target in North Korea’s eyes. Under the Biden administration’s 2024 Northeast Asia Strategy, the U.S. upgraded its missile defence systems in both Japan and South Korea. Then, in 2025, large-scale trilateral military drills involving all three countries further antagonised North Korea, which saw them as preparation for regime change.
Despite the hostile rhetoric and rising military posturing, there have been small but meaningful efforts to open channels of communication between Japan and North Korea. In 2024, a quiet round of backchannel talks was held in Mongolia, a neutral ground where Japanese and North Korean diplomats met for informal discussions. While no major breakthroughs came out of it, the meeting itself signalled that both sides, at least behind the scenes, may still see value in dialogue.
In parallel, South Korea has been pushing for what it calls “audience diplomacy”, creating public support for peace by engaging with citizens across the region. Japan has expressed interest in similar outreach efforts, with the possibility of joint engagement programs that include all three nations. Civil society groups, including NGOs focused on peace education and youth exchanges, are also quietly doing the work that governments often won’t.
Still, these efforts are fragile. They’re often overshadowed by missile tests, military drills, and political speeches aimed at scoring points at home. But they remind us that diplomacy isn’t always loud or headline-making. Sometimes, the groundwork for peace is laid in small, easily overlooked moments, ones that may one day matter more than we expect.
The tension between North Korea and Japan is often framed in terms of missile ranges, sanctions, and military alliances, but the reality is far more complex. As it has previously been argued, the standoff is deeply shaped by historical trauma, emotional memory, and political performance. It’s not just about what’s happening in the sky or on radar screens; it’s about what’s left unresolved in the past, and how both governments continue to use that tension to serve internal agendas.
There’s also a growing sense of fatigue on both sides. Ordinary people, whether in Tokyo or Pyongyang, are less interested in grand narratives and more concerned with safety, stability, and dignity. Many Japanese citizens don’t want to live in constant fear of missile alerts, just as many North Koreans likely want a life free from isolation and insecurity. But policies focused only on military deterrence or political symbolism are unlikely to meet those needs.
Peace in this region isn’t going to come all at once, and it probably won’t come soon. But peace doesn’t always mean treaties and summits. Sometimes, it starts with smaller acts: quiet diplomacy, cultural exchanges, or simply choosing dialogue over escalation. Those small steps matter.
A student in Hokkaido, when interviewed after a missile drill in early 2025, said, “I don’t want to learn how to hide. I want to learn how to live.” That one sentence captures what’s at stake. Moving forward, leaders on both sides, and their allies, need to listen to voices like that and focus less on power, more on people.
