Who Needs Equality?

By KUMIKO MAKIHARA TOKYO

For a few months last year, it appeared as if a new wave of feminism was sweeping Japan, raising a clamorous challenge to age-old male authority. It began when housewives, enraged by a new tax, swarmed to political rallies, urging that a "voice from the kitchen" reach the male-dominated government. Socialist Takako Doi, the first woman in Japanese history to lead a major political party, inspired an unprecedented number of women to run for the Diet's upper house, and they grabbed a record number of seats. Prime Minister Sousuke Uno resigned in disgrace after a former geisha he had patronized broke her profession's code of silence to denounce him as too small-minded a man to lead the country. His successor rushed to appoint two women to his Cabinet. The press seized upon the opportunity to rave about the dawning of Onna no Jidai (the Era of Women).

But one year later, the dawn seems to have darkened. The women Cabinet members have been replaced by men. The rallies have evaporated. Enthusiasts of Onna no Jidai, it seems, spoke too soon.

Though Japanese women are among the best-educated women in the world, they are, by Western standards, second-class citizens in their own country. Traditional values discourage women from appearing outspoken or independent- minded and demoralize those who try to climb the political or business hierarchies. Only one-fourth of major Japanese corporations have any women at all in the middle-management or higher ranks. In government, women constitute less than 1% of management-level bureaucrats and about 6% of the 764 Diet members. The average woman's annual income amounts to only half that of a man's. Why, then, aren't Japanese women angry? Why aren't they marching en masse for equality? Why didn't they stoke the spark of Onna no Jidai?

The fact of the matter is that equality with men is not a particularly appealing prospect to most Japanese women right now. Educated young women, those most likely to lead a revolution, tend to see their male peers as dull corporate drones. Women, meanwhile, with comparatively freer schedules, have more time to cultivate their interests. As a result, there is a growing perception gap between the sexes. A much discussed phenomenon known as Narita divorce illustrates the problem: upon arriving back home at Tokyo's Narita Airport, fresh from their honeymoons, many worldly young women, shocked to have discovered the narrow-mindedness and dependency of their new bridegrooms, promptly dump them.

Yutsuko Chusonji is the author of a best-selling comic-book series called Sweet Spot, which pokes fun at workaholic men and salutes the leisurely attitudes of young female workers. Rushing out of their offices in the evening to practice golf and go shopping, "these women savor only the tastiest portion of life," explains Chusonji, 28. "Men don't realize that it isn't worth it to work more than necessary. Women see that, so they don't want to become career women."

Indeed, while a 1985 law bans sex discrimination and requires Japanese companies to offer females the same opportunities available to males, few women choose to apply for career-track jobs. Most opt to work as assistants to men. "I could work in the career track if I wanted to, but I'm not that interested in banking, and I certainly don't want to do it all my life," says a 26-year-old bank employee from Tokyo. Typically, a woman will leave her job after the birth of her first child and later resume a part-time career or pursue hobbies or community work.

Being a housewife is nothing to be ashamed of in Japan. Because most husbands leave their salaries and children entirely in the hands of their wives, women have wide-ranging responsibilities. It was not always thus. Traditionally, wives and children blindly obeyed the father as ruler of the roost. But postwar economic growth toppled fathers from that lofty post by imposing longer work hours that kept them from home. At the same time, modern appliances freed women from household drudgery. "Housewives can pursue their interests in a carefree manner, while men have to worry about supporting their wives and children," says Makiko Katagiri, 32, a college-educated housewife who plays volleyball once a week and runs the PTA at her children's nursery school.

The father's status has so declined that mental-health experts speak of a new male affliction: kitaku kyofu sho, or a "fear of returning home syndrome." A popular television commercial for an insecticide spray shows a father waking up one day to find he has turned into a cockroach. The ad warns housewives, "If you see a large cockroach, it might be your husband. Please check before you exterminate." Even men will sometimes admit that their privileged status in society isn't all roses. "Women know how to enjoy themselves more than men do," says a mid-level executive of a major Japanese auto company. "Men are too tired. We're all about to collapse."

Those women who do try to join the professional ranks must not only match the men hour for hour but also be prepared to do continuous battle with skeptical views of their aspirations to be more than lovely but low-level "office flowers." Some companies endorse traditional expectations that women will resign when they get married. Toyota Motor Corp., for instance, gives women who do so a special "farewell money gift" of up to three months' salary. And Japanese companies are just awakening to the concept of sexual harassment. Many women complain that their managers attribute successful business deals by women to their feminine wiles rather than their work skills.

Would-be career women face equally great obstacles at home, where men feel no obligation to pitch in. A 1986 government survey of dual-career couples found that men devote only eight minutes of a workday to household chores and child rearing, compared with 3 1/2 hours for their wives. Younger men increasingly take out the garbage and play with their children on weekends but still leave most household affairs to their wives. A 33-year-old banker typically relies on his wife to lay out his clothes each morning. But, he adds, "I select the necktie."

Raising children is another major hurdle, since day-care centers usually run for only eight hours and baby-sitters are expensive. No wonder many women with careers are not married. A 1989 Labor Ministry survey found that 60% of management-level women are single, and 36% are childless.

But things are bound to change. Japan faces a huge labor shortage, and companies cannot ignore the female labor pool. Eager to ease the tight market, the Labor Ministry recently developed a training program specifically for women who want to return to work. At the same time, the government is urging men to shorten their work hours and cultivate outside interests in order to improve the quality of their lives.

But none of this can be realized unless men ease the load on women by learning how to take care of themselves. "In Japan the women's issue is really a men's issue," says Sachiko Nakajima, a deputy director at the National Personnel Authority, which oversees public employees. Kanagawa prefecture, southwest of Tokyo, shares her view. A 1988 prefectural-office newsletter published a test to gauge male self-reliance, asking, Do you know where your suits, neckties, socks and underwear are kept? Have you ever used a washing machine? Can you name more than three friends of your children? Only when more men answer yes to these questions can Onna no Jidai become a reality.