The Assassination Plot That Wasn't

The Kotoku Incident, which unfolded in early 20th-century Japan, is more than a historical episode; it is a case study of the mechanisms of political repression. Officially labeled as a response to a conspiracy to assassinate Emperor Meiji, the incident was, in reality, a well-executed purge of Japan's socialist and anarchist movements. The case, named after Kotoku Shusui, a central figure in Japan’s radical left, provides a chilling glimpse into how power defends itself—not just through overt violence but through calculated distortions of justice.

The Catalyst: The Akashina Incident

On May 25, 1910, the Akashina Incident—a small, localized plot—came to light when authorities arrested Miyashita Taikichi, a socialist machinist from Nagano Prefecture. Miyashita was apprehended for violating the Explosives Control Act after testing a homemade bomb in the mountainous woods of Nagano the previous year. Along with Miyashita, three others—Suga Kanno, Tadao Niimura, and Riksaku Furukawa—were arrested for their roles in what the government claimed was a plot to kill Emperor Meiji.

Though serious, the Akashina incident was not the threat it was portrayed as. It involved a handful of disillusioned individuals operating on the fringes of Japan’s socialist movement. The state machinery, however, saw an opportunity to capitalize on this limited conspiracy, transforming it into the pretext for a massive crackdown. The target? Every voice of dissent, every whisper of defiance that might disrupt the narrative of imperial infallibility.

The Arrests Begin: Casting a Wide Net

The government's strategy was simple: conflate dissent with treason. Within days of Miyashita’s arrest, the scope of the investigation expanded. Socialist intellectuals, anarchists, and anti-establishment thinkers across the country found themselves under suspicion. Chief among them was Kotoku Shusui, an outspoken journalist and leading voice of Japan’s socialist movement.

Kotoku’s alleged role in the conspiracy remains one of the most controversial aspects of the case. There was no direct evidence tying him to the Akashina plot. Miyashita had visited Kotoku months earlier, but the connection was tenuous at best—mere association, not collaboration. Still, the government was intent on painting Kotoku as the architect of a grand scheme to overthrow the imperial order.

The arrests culminated in the apprehension of 26 individuals by mid-1910. Some, like Kotoku and his partner, Suga Kanno, were intellectual leaders of the left. Others, like Miyashita, were foot soldiers whose actions had provided the government with its pretext. Together, they formed the cast of a legal drama that would grip Japan—and horrify the world.

The Trial: A Charade of Justice

The trial of Kotoku and his co-defendants began in December 1910. It was conducted secretly, which should have raised immediate questions about its legitimacy. The state was in full control, and the defendants had no real opportunity to mount a defense. Witnesses were not called, and evidence was largely circumstantial. Many believe the outcome had been decided before the trial even began.

The charge was high treason under Article 73 of the Penal Code—a crime so severe that even the attempt or preparation warranted the death penalty. The prosecution argued that Kotoku and his associates had orchestrated a plan to assassinate Emperor Meiji and overthrow the Japanese government. For their part, the defendants denied the accusations, with Kotoku famously calling the proceedings "a dark trial."

On January 18, 1911, the verdict was announced. Twenty-four of the defendants were sentenced to death. Two others received fixed-term prison sentences. The harshness of the sentences underscored the state’s desire not merely to punish but to annihilate any trace of political dissent.

Executions: A Terrible Silence

If the trial had been swift, the executions were swifter. On January 24, 1911, eleven of the condemned, including Kotoku, were hanged. Among them were Miyashita, Niimura, and Furukawa, the original conspirators, intellectuals, and activists without a clear connection to the plot. Suga Kanno, the lone female defendant, met the same fate the following day. Her execution was carried out separately as if to emphasize her isolation and the state's disdain for her defiance.

The executions were conducted behind prison walls, with no public oversight. The state had spoken, and there was no appeal. The only record left was the silence of those it had silenced.

International Reaction: A World Watches in Horror

The Kotoku Incident did not go unnoticed outside Japan. Within weeks, protests erupted in major Western cities. In New York, American anarchist Emma Goldman organized rallies denouncing the executions. In Paris and London, demonstrations outside Japanese embassies brought attention to the plight of the accused.

These protests were fueled by sympathy for the defendants and a broader understanding of the stakes. The Kotoku Incident was not just about Japan; it was about the global struggle between authority and dissent, between power and the powerless. The world saw Japan’s actions as a reflection of its fears—the lengths to which governments would suppress opposition.

Aftermath: A Legacy of Repression

In the years following the Kotoku Incident, Japan’s socialist and anarchist movements were decimated. Activists went underground or abandoned their cause altogether. The Heiminsha, a socialist group central to the movement, disbanded in 1910, signaling the collapse of organized resistance.

The state, meanwhile, tightened its grip on political discourse. The incident became a cautionary tale, a reminder of what could happen to those who dared to question the imperial system. For decades, the official narrative upheld the government’s actions as necessary to maintain order. Only after World War II, when Japan underwent a dramatic transformation, the truth began to emerge.

Revelations and Reassessment

In the postwar era, declassified documents revealed the extent to which the Kotoku Incident was fabricated. The government had used the Akashina Incident as a springboard, weaving together a conspiracy out of thin air to justify its crackdown. Of the 26 defendants, only four—Miyashita, Niimura, Furukawa, and Kanno—had any substantive link to the Akashina plot. The rest were victims of circumstance and political expediency.

Efforts to clear the names of the accused gained traction in the 1960s. The "Society for Revealing the Truth about the High Treason Incident" sought a retrial, arguing that the convictions were based on fabricated evidence and coerced confessions. But in 1967, the Supreme Court dismissed the petition, citing legal technicalities and the passage of time. Justice, it seemed, would remain elusive.

A Case That Refuses to Die

The Kotoku Incident was more than a miscarriage of justice; it was a deliberate act of statecraft designed to eliminate dissent and consolidate power. It exposed the fragility of individual rights in the face of state authority and left a scar on Japan’s political landscape that would take decades to heal.

Today, the incident reminds us of the dangers of unchecked power. The tools of repression—fabricated evidence, secret trials, and the conflation of dissent with treason—are not relics of the past. They remain as relevant today as they were in 1911. The Kotoku Incident is a story of what happened and what can happen anywhere when fear and power converge.

Ultimately, the voices of those silenced—Kotoku Shusui, Suga Kanno, and their comrades—resonate most. They remind us that dissent is a form of truth-telling even in the face of overwhelming force. And truth, as history shows, has a way of enduring.