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Japan’s snap election, called and fought as a personal plebiscite, has turned into a full political investiture for Sanae Takaichi. The governing coalition led by the Liberal Democratic Party secured a commanding result in the lower house: the LDP alone won 316 seats out of 465, a tally that—together with its ally Ishin—delivers a supermajority able to lock in the agenda and guarantee stability at a time of economic strain and mounting international tensions.
Within this strengthened mandate, Rome is among the European capitals that have most quickly grasped the political meaning of the moment. In recent months, Meloni and Takaichi had already opened a direct channel: an official call in November and then a face-to-face meeting in January in Tokyo, with a shared commitment to deepen cooperation on the economy and security and to act as “like-minded” partners in defense of an international order grounded in rules and stability. Once the ballots were counted, Meloni sent her congratulations, framing the outcome as further consolidation of the bilateral partnership.
But the core question—why Takaichi truly won—has less to do with diplomacy than with the political synthesis she offered to an electorate tired of half-measures. Japan went to the polls under the pressure of food inflation and wages widely felt to be lagging behind the cost of living. Takaichi chose a message that was simple, legible, and immediate, building the campaign around the promise of tangible relief: among the most popular pledges was a temporary suspension of the consumption tax applied to food, presented as a direct response to one of the most widespread everyday anxieties. The proposal has also raised concerns in markets about Japan’s debt trajectory, but politically it spoke the language of concreteness and urgency.
On the second axis—security—Takaichi did what many leaders in mature democracies hesitate to do: she openly reclaimed the need for a country that is more prepared and more resolute. With China increasingly assertive and Taiwan an exposed nerve, the prime minister turned defense from taboo into priority, promising a stronger military posture and a tougher line toward Beijing. It is a shift that has aggravated regional frictions, but domestically it worked as a credibility signal: voters rewarded the leader who named the risk and explained how she intended to confront it.
The third factor is methodological, and in politics it often matters as much as substance. Calling a snap election was a calculated gamble: instead of drifting into managerial routine and gradual erosion, Takaichi demanded a clear mandate “now,” turning the vote into a yes-or-no decision on leadership. In a landscape where opposition forces remain fragmented and unable to present themselves as a credible governing alternative, the move amplified the bandwagon effect: voters seeking stability typically back the only project that promises it without caveats.
Finally, there is a cultural element that is too often dismissed as mere style, when it is politics in its purest form. Takaichi modernized the language without modernizing—progressively—the underlying doctrine. She used contemporary communication codes better than her rivals and made leadership visible, present, even attractive to younger segments, while retaining a conservative stance on identity, immigration, and public order. In other words, she showed that one can speak to the present without surrendering an idea of the state, of borders, and of the national interest.
That is the deeper reason behind her victory: not simply a change of face, but a conservative answer to an age of insecurity—less ambiguity, more targeted economic protection, more deterrence, and more decisiveness. Japan did not merely choose a prime minister; it chose a direction.