Fujitsu’s February 12 announcement that it will begin domestic production of “sovereign AI” servers marks a significant milestone in Japan’s quest for digital autonomy. Coming on the heels of Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi’s resounding election victory this month, the move fits snugly into the new administration’s hard-nosed realism narrative.
In a world defined by intensifying great-power competition and vulnerable global supply chains, the logic is impeccable. If data is the new oil, then the hardware that processes it must be forged at home for economic security. Japan is thus building a digital fortress to match its expanding military one.
Yet on the same day Fujitsu’s technological triumph was announced, the National Police Agency released a different kind of data that gave cause for pause. In 2025, fraud losses in Japan soared to a record 324.11 billion yen (US$2 billion).
These were not sophisticated cyberattacks on power grids or state secrets. They were special frauds — romance scams, fake investment schemes and impersonation calls — targeting individual citizens through their smartphones and computers.
The contrast was striking. While the Japanese state is fortifying its hard infrastructure with sovereign AI and increased defense spending targeting 2% of GDP, the soft infrastructure of its society is being hollowed out.
There is a profound disconnect between the state’s high-tech security and the citizen’s low-tech vulnerability. Japan is building a tech fortress, but it is building it on sand. To understand why this matters, one must look at the broader shift in Japanese politics.
Takaichi campaigned on a platform of strength, constitutional revision and economic security. It is a vision that resonates in an era when the liberal international order feels increasingly besieged, not least by its former standard-bearer, the United States.
The consensus in Tokyo has moved decisively toward the idea that Japan can no longer be a silent partner in its own defense. This realism is necessary, but it is incomplete. It treats security as a matter of hardware and budgets rather than social cohesion.
The record fraud figures are a symptom of a deeper social malaise: a loneliness epidemic that makes the elderly, in particular, easy prey for predators.
In a society where traditional safety nets of family and community are fraying, the smartphone has become both a lifeline and a weapon. When a retiree loses life savings to a voice on a screen, it is not just a financial crime; it is a failure of social security in the most literal sense.
This is where the concept of omoiyari — the Japanese virtue of deep, anticipatory empathy — must enter the strategic conversation. In a political climate dominated by talk of deterrence and digital sovereignty, this can sound like sentimentalism.
In fact, it is the highest form of realism. A nation that cannot protect its citizens from being exploited in their own living rooms is a nation with a compromised core. No amount of sovereign AI can compensate for a lack of domestic trust.
The Takaichi government’s focus on economic security correctly identifies dependency on foreign technology as a risk. But it must also recognize that dependency on digital platforms that profit from engagement over safety is an equal risk.
If Japan wants to be a technology-driven nation, it must pioneer not just the hardware of AI but its ethics. Digital sovereignty should mean more than Made-in-Japan servers; it should mean a digital environment where the most vulnerable are not left to fend for themselves against globalized crime syndicates.
Moreover, the current focus on hard security risks crowding out necessary soft social investments. As defense spending edges toward 2% of GDP and the yen remains stubbornly weak, the trade-offs will become increasingly sharp.
If the cost of a new missile battery is the closure of a community center or reduced support for the isolated elderly, the net gain for national security is questionable. A fortress, of course, is only as strong as the people inside it. If those people are alienated, impoverished or living in fear of the next extortionist phone call, the fortress is hollow.
The challenge for Japan in 2026 is to reconcile its new geopolitical assertiveness with its traditional social values. Takaichi often speaks of cultivating a mindset of love for the nation. But love of nation cannot be mandated from the top down; it is built from the bottom up through the experience of being protected and valued by one’s community.
When 324.11 billion yen is drained from citizens’ pockets into the hands of criminal groups, it represents a massive transfer of wealth from the law-abiding to the lawless — and a profound erosion of the social contract.
Japan’s new realism must expand its definition of what constitutes a threat. A sovereign nation is not just one that owns its servers, but one that ensures its technology serves its humanity.
The government should treat the fraud epidemic with the same urgency it treats Chinese maritime incursions or North Korean missile threats. This means investing in human-centric technology — AI that detects scams before they reach the victim — and digital literacy programs as robust as civil defense drills.
As Japan enters the Takaichi era, the temptation will be to focus on the grand theater of international relations — the summits in Washington, the standoffs in the Taiwan Strait and the race for technological supremacy.
These are important, but they are the surface of the water. Beneath that surface, the health of the Japanese body politic depends on the strength of its internal bonds. If Tokyo can bridge the gap between its high-tech ambitions and its human needs, it will provide a model for the rest of the world to emulate.
