TOKYO Japan: Anti-immigrant sentiment, once considered marginal in Japan, is steadily moving into the political mainstream.

Populist leaders, seizing on public frustrations with shrinking salaries, soaring living costs, and a grim outlook for the future, have found in immigration an easy target. For many Japanese, the presence of foreigners—though still a small share of the overall population—has become a lightning rod for more profound anxieties about identity, security, and economic survival.

The backlash comes at a paradoxical moment. Japan, long regarded as insular and resistant to outside influence, is experiencing an unprecedented rise in foreign residents. Immigration has become indispensable to offset a shrinking workforce, as the country struggles with one of the world's fastest-aging populations and a rapidly declining birth rate. Yet, the more foreigners arrive, the louder the calls grow to restrict their numbers.

In September, tensions boiled over when misinformation spread on social media about a supposed influx of African migrants. Fueled by anger, protests erupted, and a government exchange program linking four Japanese municipalities with African nations was abruptly scrapped. The incident underscored how fragile public opinion on immigration has become, and how easily it can be inflamed.

Even the ruling Liberal Democratic Party (LDP), which has promoted foreign labor programs and tourism for decades, is now talking of tightening controls. Critics note that the government has not explained how Japan could survive economically without foreign workers, given its deep demographic crisis.

The Sanseito party, a rising nationalist force, has capitalized on this climate. At a rally outside a Tokyo train station, hundreds of supporters cheered as party leader Sohei Kamiya railed against the "ballooning" foreign presence. Confronted by opponents accusing him of racism, Kamiya insisted he was speaking "common sense." His message—that struggling Japanese citizens should not be asked to sacrifice for outsiders—has resonated. Sanseito made striking gains in the July parliamentary elections, and Kamiya's "Japanese First" platform of anti-globalism, anti-immigration, and anti-liberalism now exerts influence on mainstream politics.

All five contenders in the LDP leadership vote on October 4, which will determine the successor to outgoing Prime Minister Shigeru Ishiba, have promised stricter immigration measures. Among them, former Economic Security Minister Sanae Takaichi—an ultra-conservative favorite—faced criticism for repeating unverified claims that foreign tourists had mistreated deer in her hometown of Nara. Though she later admitted the evidence was shaky, she defended her remarks as a reflection of the "growing anxiety" among ordinary Japanese about unruly foreigners.

Anti-immigrant rhetoric has already spilled into abuse. During the election campaign, far-right figures hurled insults at Japan's small Kurdish community of about 2,000 people. One Kurdish man, who came as a child after his father was persecuted in Turkey, said social media users routinely brand Kurds as criminals. Similar hostility has also targeted Chinese investors and immigrants, despite police data showing little correlation between rising foreign numbers and crime.

Last year, Japan's foreign population reached a record 3.7 million, roughly 3 percent of the total population. The foreign workforce has tripled in a decade to 2.3 million, with many employed in essential but low-paying jobs in agriculture, fishing, retail, and manufacturing. Yet National Police Agency statistics reveal only about 12,000 foreign arrests last year—a far cry from the crime wave alarmists predict.

Experts argue the problem is structural. Japan's so-called "stealth immigration system" admits foreigners as trainees or temporary workers but fails to integrate them or educate the public about their importance. This gap breeds suspicion. Unless addressed, warns Toshihiro Menju of Kansai University, prejudice will deepen, and social cohesion will erode further.

The stakes are high. A 2022 study by the Japan International Cooperation Agency estimated that the country will need nearly 6.7 million foreign workers by 2040—triple the current number—to sustain even modest economic growth. Without them, whole sectors, from farming to services, could grind to a halt. Yet Japan's declining wages and limited diversity make it a less attractive destination compared with other advanced economies.

Caught between demographic reality and nationalist pressure, Japan faces an unavoidable question: Can it reconcile its need for foreign workers with its instinct to exclude them?