KEY TAKEAWAYS

• Prime Minister Abe was assassinated by a man that is still waiting for his final outcome.

• Japan is a society that often prefers harmony over confrontation, apology over outrage.

• Violence born from grievance doesn’t respect borders.

• A life sentence, in that sense, feels symbolic.

PRIME MINISTER SHINZO ABE: LIFE SENTENCE FOR THE ASSASSIN?

Daniel TJ International Correspondent Tokyo, Japan

I was standing in line for the train going into Ginza — when I saw the headline on my phone again. Japan’s prosecutors are seeking a life sentence for the man who assassinated former Prime Minister Shinzo Abe.

I just stood there for a second longer than usual, phone in hand, letting the words sit. Life sentence. Abe. Assassination.

Even now, years later, it still feels strange to see those words together so calmly, like they belong in the same sentence. They don’t. Or at least, they shouldn’t.

I’ve lived in Japan long enough that Abe’s face was sort of… always there.

On TV in the background at izakayas. In newspapers folded neatly on trains. In casual conversations where people would say “Abe-san” with a familiarity that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived here.

You didn’t have to like him—or agree with him—to feel the weight of what happened that day. It shook something deep and quiet in this country.

I remember exactly where I was when the news broke. Someone gasped. Someone else said:

“Uso deshou?”—no way, that can’t be true. Japan doesn’t do assassinations.

That’s something that happens elsewhere. Somewhere louder. Somewhere angrier. But not here. And yet… it did.

So now prosecutors are asking for a life sentence. And my first reaction wasn’t satisfaction or anger. It was this heavy, complicated sigh.

The kind you make when there’s no clean ending, no version of justice that feels whole.

Because let’s be honest—no sentence, life or otherwise, brings Abe back. It doesn’t undo the shock that rippled through this country or the fear that quietly followed.

It doesn’t erase the image of violence in a place that prides itself on order, safety, predictability. That damage is already done.

But at the same time, this isn’t just about punishment. It’s about a line.

A very clear, very public line that says: political violence will not be absorbed, explained away, or quietly forgotten. And that matters. A lot.

Japan is a society that often prefers harmony over confrontation, apology over outrage.

That’s not a criticism—it’s one of the things I’ve grown to respect deeply here. But moments like this demand something firmer. Not revenge. Not rage. Just clarity.

A life sentence, in that sense, feels symbolic. It says this wasn’t just a crime—it was an attack on the idea that disagreements are settled with words, votes, and debate, not homemade weapons and ideology-fueled rage.

What makes this case especially unsettling is that the assassin wasn’t some cartoon villain.

He wasn’t acting on behalf of a foreign power or some organized group. He was a deeply troubled individual, driven by personal grievances, resentment, and a warped sense of justice.

That’s harder to process. It forces us to look inward instead of pointing outward.

And I think that’s where this gets uncomfortable—not just for Japan, but for all of us.

Because political violence doesn’t start with bullets. It starts with dehumanizing language. With echo chambers. With the quiet decision to stop listening.

I’ve watched that happen in more than one country I’ve lived in. The volume goes up, the nuance disappears, and suddenly the other side isn’t just wrong—they’re evil. Or stupid. Or dangerous.

That’s a slippery slope. And once you’re on it, it’s hard to stop.

So when I hear “life sentence,” I don’t hear revenge. I hear a warning. A statement that says: we will not normalize this. We will not shrug and move on.

But here’s the part I keep circling back to, the part that makes me uneasy in that coffee line.

Justice can’t stop at punishment.

If we really want to honor what was lost that day—not just Abe the politician, but Abe the symbol of democratic stability—then we also have to talk about mental health, social isolation, and the quiet pressures people carry until they break.

Japan struggles with this. So does the U.S. So does just about everywhere right now.

It’s easier to lock someone away for life than to ask why someone reached that point in the first place. Easier, but not enough.

And maybe that’s my call to action here—if I even get to call it that.

Yes, support accountability. Yes, draw a hard line against violence. I believe a life sentence is justified in this case.

Strongly. Political assassination cannot be met with anything less than absolute seriousness.

Talk about the things that fester in silence. Push for better mental health access. Push back against political rhetoric that treats opponents like enemies.

Refuse to share outrage just because it feels good in the moment.

If you’re living in Japan, don’t dismiss this as a one-off anomaly. If you’re watching from abroad, don’t treat it like a distant tragedy that says nothing about your own country.

Violence born from grievance doesn’t respect borders.

And maybe—this is the hardest part—slow down before you dehumanize someone online, even when you’re convinced you’re right. Especially then.

I don’t know. I finished my coffee and the day went on, as days do. Trains ran on time. People bowed. Life looked normal again.

But some things don’t fully return to normal. They leave a crack. And what we do with that crack—whether we ignore it or look straight into it—matters.

So speak up. Vote. Listen more than you shout.

And don’t let this become just another headline you scroll past.

Justice isn’t only what happens in a courtroom. It’s what we build—or fail to build—afterward.

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