On a cold morning in Ueda, Nagano Prefecture, Sandra Takayama, then 10 years old, stood at the gates of her new school, unable to speak even the most basic Japanese. She had arrived in her new home with a Japanese surname and ancestry but little sense of what life in this otherwise unfamiliar country would hold.
Born in Lima, Peru, Takayama came to Japan with her mother in 1998. As a third-generation Nikkei — the term for descendants of Japanese living abroad — she had grown up hearing about her heritage but never imagined what living in Japan would actually feel like.
Like thousands of other Peruvians, her mother hoped a Japanese name would unlock opportunity and a better future for her daughter in Japan. She left behind her office job in Lima and began working in a factory in Nagano Prefecture.
“The late 1980s and early 1990s were a golden age for the Japanese economy,” says Patricia Palma Maturana, a professor at the University of Tarapaca in Arica, Chile, who researches migration dynamics. “Many young Japanese were turning away from manual labor, seeking office jobs instead.” That shift left a growing labor shortage in blue-collar sectors. In response, Japan began recruiting abroad. “Not everyone was welcome, though,” Palma Maturana says. “Instead, Japan created a visa program specifically for the Japanese diaspora.”
Yet despite their shared ancestry, life in Japan turned out to be far more complicated for the Nikkei arrivals than many had expected.
“I cried every day after school,” recalls Takayama, now 37. As a child, she was dealing with a strange language and school system she couldn’t understand.
A new start in Peru
The Nikkei community in Peru traces its roots to 1899, when Japan, facing rural poverty and rapid population growth, promoted emigration to ease social pressures. Peru, in need of cheap labor for its coastal sugar plantations, became a destination.
“Japanese migrants were seen as a reliable workforce and accepted low wages,” Palma Maturana says.
In the first wave of migration between 1899 and 1923, about 18,000 Japanese emigrated to Peru. The first migrants were mostly young men, often from Okinawa Prefecture. They labored under harsh conditions and rarely had the means to bring their families over. Only the wealthier among them managed to maintain strict Japanese customs and sponsor relatives’ passage.
Many had planned to return to Japan, but over time they settled in Peru’s cities, opening small businesses and building a community. In 1917, they established the Peruvian-Japanese Association to represent Japanese residents throughout the country.
Resentment rose in the 1930s. The Peruvian government halted new migration, and anti-Japanese sentiment peaked during World War II. After the Dec. 7, 1941, attack on Hawaii’s Pearl Harbor, Peru banned Japanese-language education, revoked licenses for schools and institutions and deported around 1,800 Japanese people — roughly 1 in 14 members of the community — to U.S. internment camps.
The trauma of the war years profoundly marked the community, according to Palma Maturana. “They became more hermetic, strengthening their institutions and unity.”
After the war, the community slowly re-established itself. Spanish replaced Japanese as the dominant language, especially among the second generation. Intermarriage increased, most children attended Peruvian schools and Catholicism became the dominant religion. Gradually, the Nikkei integrated into Peruvian society.
Today, most families are mixed, their identities rooted in Peru but tied to Japan. Many continue to visit Japanese cemeteries and observe Buddhist customs. Cultural centers and language classes, such as those at Lima’s Peruvian-Japanese Cultural Center, play a crucial role in preserving Japanese heritage. Annual events like the Japanese Cultural Week in November and the Festival of Nikkei Culture in April celebrate the community’s contributions.
“There’s a lot of harmony,” says Jorge Igei, president of the Peruvian-Japanese Association. “We’re well accepted across the country.”
Still, the rise of Alberto Fujimori complicated things. The son of two Japanese immigrants, Fujimori was elected president of Peru in 1990 and initially hailed as a symbol of Nikkei integration and success. But his authoritarian rule, human rights abuses and eventual downfall in 2000 unsettled many.
“Fujimori created a fracture within the community,” Palma Maturana explains. “Some supported him. Others feared the backlash. Many preferred the Nikkei to keep a low profile, wary of being tied to such a controversial legacy.”
Returning to Japan
Paradoxically, just as Fujimori thrust the Nikkei into the spotlight, many were preparing to leave Peru behind. It was during his presidency that migration to Japan surged. By 2000, more than 60,000 Peruvians had settled there. The timing was no coincidence.
“In the late 1980s and early 1990s, Peru was unstable, with high inflation, frequent terrorist attacks and violence caused by fighting between the military and two guerrilla groups,” says Pedro Iacobelli, a professor at the University of the Andes in Santiago, Chile. “People were looking for a way out.”
At the same time, Japan was confronting its own crisis: labor shortages and an aging population. In 1989, the government created special temporary visas for second- and third-generation Japanese descendants living abroad.
“Japan needed workers, and reaching out to the Nikkei felt like a safer bet than opening to the world,” Iacobelli says. “Only then did they realize they had a diaspora to call on.”
Agencies emerged in Peru to handle visas, logistics and job placements. “It became an industry,” Iacobelli says. “Some Peruvians without Japanese roots even managed to ‘prove’ descent. It was a pathway out of poverty.”
Factory work was the primary option, especially in the automotive and home appliance industries. “Many took on employment in assembly lines, often working night shifts. These roles had the advantage that no fluency in Japanese was required,” Iacobelli says. As a result, the community concentrated in industrial centers such as Nagoya, Yokohama and Hamamatsu, Shizuoka Prefecture.
“At first, Fujimori’s presidency helped raise the profile of Peruvian Nikkei in Japan,” Iacobelli says. “But once the scandals hit, Japan distanced itself.”
Many migrants thought they would stay only a few years. But costs were higher than expected, and savings were harder to build. The influx of Latin American Nikkei — mainly from Peru and Brazil — also brought cultural shifts. The Catholic Church gained new followers, while schools developed programs for students with limited Japanese.
In Peru, meanwhile, the departures left institutions struggling with declining membership. “We had to adapt to a new reality,” Igei says.
A bicultural compromise
For many, the move to Japan was less a dream than an escape. They arrived hopeful but soon discovered that sharing ancestry did not mean instant acceptance.
“They felt Japanese in Peru, but when they arrived, they were received as foreigners,” Igei says. “For many, this was an eye-opening moment when they realized they were Peruvians.”
The government offered limited language support but little else. “The Nikkei were treated as foreigners, a reality that left many disillusioned,” Igei says.
Lalo Matsusaka grew up in the Peruvian Nikkei community and had a Japanese great-grandfather. He was born in Peru and came to Japan in 1992 as a fifth-grader, two years after his parents had moved there.
“In Peru, I studied at a Peruvian-Japanese school, where the majority of the Nikkei kids in our city studied,” he recalls. “Many of my friends were Nikkei, and Japanese culture was always present.”
Life in Japan proved difficult, especially because of the language barrier. His parents worried he was falling behind academically. When the family visited Peru in 1995, he stayed behind and finished high school there before returning to Japan as an adult. He moved to Hamamatsu, working in factories before becoming an independent musician.
Though his parents eventually moved back to Peru because they missed the country, he decided to remain in Japan. Over time, he identified more strongly with his Nikkei roots and Japanese values.
“Nowadays, I feel much more like a resident than a foreigner,” he says. “I’m not Japanese and will never be seen as such, but I feel Nikkei, identifying with Japanese and Peruvian cultures at the same time.”
Sandra Takayama, who once cried every day after school, also found peace when a group of fellow students began walking home with her. They brought small gifts, tried to communicate and offered her comfort. “That changed my view of Japan,” Takayama says.
Her teachers also made an effort. One even used a dictionary to write notes in Spanish. Gradually, she picked up Japanese and eventually became fluent.
Takayama’s identity crisis came later. After graduating and applying for jobs, she hit a wall.
“It wasn’t until I was 23 that I started asking myself who I really was,” she says. “I’m not Peruvian, but I’m not Japanese either.”
Professors advised her not to use her full name on job applications and employers asked for extra documents. Bureaucrats even suggested changing the spelling of her name. She was repeatedly told: “Since you are a foreigner ...”
These microaggressions piled up. “Why do they treat me like I’m Japanese in daily life but suddenly tell me I’m a foreigner?” she wondered.
Exclusion followed her outside the workplace. Landlords sometimes demanded extra contracts promising not to make noise. “It made me sad,” she says. “Not resentful, just a little excluded.”
The biggest misconception among Peru-raised Nikkei, she says, is the expectation of automatic acceptance.
“Many think when they arrive in Japan, people will say, ‘You’re one of us, you are a Nikkei, our blood.’ But that’s not how it works,” she says. “You’ll always be a foreigner here, even if you speak better Japanese than most people here do.”
Nearly 50,000 Peruvians currently live in Japan, making them the 14th-largest foreign community in the country. That figure does not include those who have received Japanese citizenship or returned to Peru.
Takayama eventually came to terms with her identity, seeing the early shock as a turning point. Similar to Matsusaka, she credits the experience for allowing her to “see my two cultures as a privilege.”
Today, she teaches salsa and bachata dance to Japanese students, moving fluidly between cultural worlds. “With Japanese, I sometimes feel very Latin, like when I want to give hugs. With Latinos, I feel very Japanese.”
Her social circles reflect that balance: Most dance students and friends are Japanese, while her colleagues are largely Peruvian. She believes Japan is now more open to foreigners than it was when she first arrived, and “Peruvians treat me like one of their own.”
Her identity is layered, complex — but no longer a burden. “I’m part of both cultures, and I’m lucky for that.”
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