When asked to write this article, I accepted enthusiastically and without hesitation. Admittedly, I love to write and leapt at the chance to work on something other than an instagram caption. (I was of course more eager for an opportunity to reflect on our work). Reflection is something we do everyday as a small team of volunteers. As we get feedback from community members, make adjustments to our workflow, and build more efficient systems of organizing, we are constantly asking ourselves “what works?” and “what sucks?” Still, these are assessments made on the go and rarely are we allowed time enough to think carefully about the ideological facets of our work. I’ll be honest, I find leftist self-critique at this point cliched, approaching hackneyed. Because we are hyperfocused on “what sucks,” you’ll have to forgive me for jumping at the chance to highlight things that don’t. If this article has an overly saccharin tone, I hope it is tempered at least in comparison to a preponderance of the opposite.
I have two aims for this article: First, I hope to reflect on what I feel is the (almost) accidental anarchism of our space, and how it shows up in our organizing. Second, I hope to provide an overview of oppositional social movements currently active in Tokyo and with whom we regularly partner. To do so, I must first introduce NAMNAM Space. Founded in the summer of 2023, NAMNAM is a queer community art-space run on anarchist principles. Initially a team of three, NAMNAM has grown substantially and rapidly since its nascency. I myself joined in the fall of 2023, and the team now consists of eight organizers and a host of supporting volunteers. We operate a small gallery space on the west side of Tokyo in a neighborhood called Koenji where we host just about everything from exhibitions to karaoke nights.
Yes, “runs on anarchist principles” is in our signature, but when asked to touch on the role of anarchism in our work, my first instinct was to downplay aspects shaped by strict ideology, focusing instead on the anarchist “vibes” we bring to the space. Whenever something breaks, or we have to Macgyver a workaround, or we have to bend some rules, or we have to improvise on the fly, we throw up our hands and say “we’re anarchists!” To this extent, our approach at NAMNAM is characterized by an anarchic attitude more so than traditional anarchist doctrine. However, my first instinct was stupid. Thinking about the prompt for more than two seconds, it occurred to me that, though anarchism is not explicitly at the forefront of every decision at NAMNAM, core tenets of anarchism thread their way through pretty much everything we do. Here’s how:
First, we make decisions based on consensus. Decisions are made collectively and disagreement is met with discussion rather than majority rule. Consensus is a classic anarchist pitfall, often viewed as the most quixotic of our approaches. At NAMNAM, though, consensus seems to work (a fact that I am constantly baffled by). I’m sure my co-organizers would have different perspectives on why this works, and I’m sure that some of them would point out that not every decision lives up to this standard. Limitations of time, availability, and energy mean that not every decision is made with all parties present and not every decision is universally popular. I would like to formally apologize to Calum for getting rid of the microwave. When it comes to major decisions, however, like what events to host and what projects to prioritize, we move forward together.
Second, we aim to balance the precepts of restorative justice with our responsibility for community safety. In the fall of last year we codified our “second chance policy.” The policy states that individuals who violate our ground rules are given a chance to demonstrate growth and change. One mistake is met with a clear explanation of wrongdoing, but not with immediate ostracization. However, if an individual makes a second infraction, they are no longer welcomed back to space. So far, we have been lucky. We have not yet had a need to enforce this policy as there has yet to be an incident that warranted intervention. This is by no means a perfect system. We have discussed at length the pros and cons of implementing lengthier and more targeted policies, or even making specific exceptions to the rule for special cases. Through these discussions, we’ve realized that, as each case is unique and requires specific sensitivity to meet specific needs, a more rigid policy would ultimately hinder our ability to make thoughtful judgement calls in the moment. Instead, we trust each other to approach situations in the space with respect and appropriate gravity.
Third, we hate the cops.
Finally, anarchism underpins the decisions we make regarding programming. We are extremely blessed to be approached consistently by a diverse range of individuals and organizations who bring to our space creative, thoughtful, and informative projects. Because we run a physical space, we play host to workshops, screenings, fundraisers, and meetings. Consequently, our space has become a nexus of different movements, some of whom have aims beyond our own, but whom we are happy to serve. To paraphrase Errico Malatesta, as anarchists, we recognize that power comes not from above in the imposition of ideology, but from below in the encouragement of popular movements, and it is this imperative that we most enthusiastically embrace. The monthly events at our space include: A film-screening of queer and alternative Indian films, a cafe fundraiser for families in Gaza, a bake-sale pop-up to help a community member save for their own store, and a black writers poetry open-mic night. We also support an ongoing campaign for the freedom of Chris Payne who has been wrongfully imprisoned in Tokyo. Additionally, each month local activists and visiting artists hold their own events at NAMNAM space. With each of these events, more and more people are connected to one another, exposed to new ideas, and increasingly committed to community. We see the fruits of this effort in the growing number of individuals volunteering their own time and resources to support local campaigns and larger movements.
This brings us to the broader subject of oppositional politics in Tokyo. There are undoubtedly scholars better equipped than I to elucidate the dynamics of leftist political activity in contemporary Japan, but I will do my best to provide an overview. Anarchism has deep roots in Japanese political history, but along with adjacent leftist movements experienced a sharp decline in the latter half of the 20th century. Radical oppositional social movements have begun reemerging slowly in the wake of the 3/11 earthquake and nuclear disaster, but nothing has yet reached heights comparable to the 1960s and early 70s. Reasons for this decline are myriad (and a site of ongoing study) but among them are factional violence and the successful stigmatization of public demonstration by the government. As a result, contemporary social movements are quite siloed. NAMNAM space is thus uniquely positioned to link at least a handful of these oft isolated movements.
One of the most active and dynamic movements is the Palestine solidarity movement. Though activity increased dramatically in the wake of October 7th, 2023, the Palestine movement in Japan dates back to the 1960s. Today, the movement is diverse, multifaceted, and uniquely diffuse. There is no single organization at the center or the head of the movement, instead operating as an informal network of groups and individuals. Despite the lack of a formal division of labor, different groups have organically adopted a range of tactics including cultural events, fundraising, and direct action. Though protests in Tokyo have not reached the same numbers as cities in other countries – the largest turnout to date is approximately 2,000 people – I would argue it is comparably if not more consistent. Because censorship and police crackdown have been significantly less aggressive in comparison to other localities, the community in Tokyo has had relative freedom to host exhibitions, talk events, performances, workshops, and flea markets without pushback. That is not to say that there is no pushback. There have been arrests and students especially have faced the brunt of bureaucratic reprimand. Still, in Japan, the most menacing antagonists are ignorance and apathy.
The movement for LGBT rights, on the other hand, has been making slow but increasingly steady progress. Same-sex marriage remains illegal in Japan, though the ban has been ruled unconstitutional in a growing number of regional courts. Unfortunately, there have been some setbacks. Notably, our comrade and founding member of WAIFU (a queer, trans-inclusive rave) recently lost her court case for marriage equality. Elin, a trans woman married to another woman, was fighting for her marriage to be recognized by the courts as both gay and legitimate. Elin was barred from changing her legal gender on official documentation so long as her wife Midori was listed as “spouse.” The government suggested changing Midori’s status to “family member,” so the couple went to court. Sadly, Elin and Midori lost their case earlier this year. Paths towards institutional change in Japan are slow, arduous, and at times impossible to traverse, especially for those without adequate resources. However, institutional change, as we know, is not the only measure of progress. Queer solidarity with Palestine has boosted the energy of both movements, and an increasing number of queer people have found a political home in pro-Palestine organizing. NAMNAM Space serves to foster this intersection.
More and more, our work has brought us into unhappy contact with the Japanese criminal justice system. Contrary to what one might imagine of the Kawaii Capital, Japanese carceral policies are inhumane and grossly underscrutinized. Average Japanese citizens are unlikely to have even minimal knowledge of incarceration practices, and what rights they don’t have. When detained, an individual may be held without charge for up to 23 days with the possibility of extension. Protracted detention is the norm, including for immigrants seeking asylum. Organizations in Tokyo, including Migrante Japan, Kosaten, and No Detention Yes Life have been advocating tirelessly on behalf of detainees. As I mentioned above, our members are also involved in a campaign for the release of Chris Payne, a black man being held in solitary confinement for a crime he didn’t commit. The conditions of detention are appalling and courts, cops, and guards are given generous latitude by the opaque system in which they operate.
Now what did all of that have to do with anarchism? As is the case around much of the world, Japan is experiencing a concerning rise in right-wing fascism. In the most recent election, a previously fringe far-right party Sanseito won a whopping fifteen seats in the Diet. The increasing presence, visibility, and sway of fascist ideology comes predictably on a wave of increasing immigration and economic downturn. The Japanese public, long considered apolitical or politically apathetic, are mobilizing around anti-immigrant rhetoric and promises to put “Japanese people first.” Meanwhile, Israeli genocide in Palestine persists with impunity, children in Congo work in mines for Apple, communities in Sudan face annihilation, and the rich get richer while the planet suffers. In times like these – though how different “these times” are from “past times” is hard for me to say – I find myself thinking about the anarchists of old. The more militarized elements of the movement, the guerilla fighters who opposed Franco, the rice farmers who fought Mussolini, and countless others who picked up rocks or guns against repression. What we do every day feels paltry in comparison. We send DMs on instagram. We squabble over the text placement in a flyer. We screen campy movies to raise money for one cause or another. The micro-tasks of the day-to-day are painfully inane, especially for a community whose ethos, language, and purported mission are steeped in a history of blood. How can we be anarchists?
I believe that, fundamentally, anarchism is just a name for the things we already do. We already care about each other’s opinions, so we rule by consensus. We believe in redemptive power of community, so we adopt restorative justice practices in our space. We know we can’t make a difference on our own, so we join up with other groups, organizations, movements, forming one drop in a slowly, far too slowly, filling bucket. We hate the cops. We see the injustices in the world and our hearts break, so we take a bite out of it. A small bite. In the ditch that’s left we build a space for ourselves and invite others in. We commit. We don’t back down from the covenant of community. Apparently, that makes us anarchists. NAMNAM space is what you get when you put people before ideology, and for that reason I know that the community we have built around the space is robust enough to withstand whatever comes
Hana B
Organiser with NamNam Space, a queer space in Koenji, Tokyo, that runs on anarchist principles.
Learn more about the group in our previous interview with them.
