In 1961, as the Soviet Union sent the first humans into space, women in Japan were celebrating a breakthrough of their own.
That year, a Tokyo-based company called Anne — pronounced “an-neh” and named after Anne Frank, the German-born Holocaust victim — introduced the country’s first mass-produced disposable menstrual pads.
A newspaper advertisement announced the product’s arrival with a strikingly simple message: “Thank you for waiting 40 years!”
The ad signaled a long-overdue shift. While disposable pads had been available in the United States since the 1920s, Japan lagged behind. For many women, Anne pads represented a quiet revolution — the ultimate “femtech” before that term even existed. They offered relief from the discomfort and inconvenience of menstruation and, to some extent, from the deeply ingrained taboos and sense of shame that surrounded women’s monthly cycles.
“The arrival of Anne napkins was an epoch-making event for many women (in Japan), more so than rocket launches to the moon,” sociologist Masako Amano wrote in 1989.
Since then, sanitary products have evolved alongside women’s changing roles in society, mirroring shifts in politics, economics and cultural attitudes. But what comes next? And how will the future of women’s lives manifest in the most intimate products they rely on?
The pre-napkin era
Before the advent of disposable pads, women in Japan devised some creative ways to manage their monthly cycles.
The earliest records date back to the Heian Period (794-1185), when high-ranking court women were said to use silk pouches filled with cotton, according to sociologist Hikaru Tanaka, who has studied the history of menstrual products in Japan.
In her seminal 2013 book, “Seiri Yohin no Shakai-shi” (“A Social History of Sanitary Goods”), Tanaka chronicles the evolving ways women coped with monthly bleeding.
During the Edo Period (1603-1868), as paper became more widely available, women fashioned makeshift pads by stuffing scrap paper and cotton rags into their vaginas or securing them externally. Many also wore cloth belts called o-uma (meaning “horse”) — so named because they resembled horse girths — or tazuna (reins), which took their name from men’s loincloths.
By the late Meiji Period (1868-1912), as Japan opened its doors to the West, sanitary belts known as gekkei obi (menstrual belts) entered the market. Among them was a U.S. import called Victoria, a belt designed to keep disposable absorbent sheets inside and promised “absolutely perfect” protection against leaks.
But these products remained out of reach for most women. A single belt often cost more than a day laborer’s monthly salary, and its rubber components, meant to ensure a snug fit, tore easily. As a result, many women continued to rely on homemade solutions, such as cotton balls or small fabric pieces inserted internally — early versions of tampons, according to Tanaka.
By the time the second Sino-Japanese War broke out in 1937, menstruation became even more difficult to manage. With cotton supplies diverted to the military, imports from China — a major cotton exporter — ceased, forcing women to find alternatives.
Women’s magazines published guides on repurposing household materials, suggesting methods like wrapping straw ash or rice bran in cloth to use as pads. Some had no choice but to insert rags. Others, suffering from malnutrition and wartime stress, stopped menstruating altogether — a development that, as Tanaka notes, many welcomed as a relief from the struggle of managing their periods with few resources.
Fading but persistent taboos
Across cultures, menstruation has long been shrouded in stigma. In Japan, the notion that periods are impure took hold during the medieval and early modern eras, Tanaka explains, noting its deep ties to the Shinto concept of kegare — a state of defilement.
Like death, childbirth and disease, menstruation was believed to “pollute” not only individuals but entire communities.
In 1872, the Meiji government officially outlawed customs linked to kegare, reportedly after a Western visitor to the Finance Ministry protested upon learning that a bureaucrat had missed work due to kegare from his wife who had given birth.
Yet in some rural areas, the practice of shunning menstruating women persisted into the 1970s, Tanaka says. Women were often isolated in so-called menstruation huts to avoid contact with others.
Additionally, medical literature reinforced outdated beliefs. Fujin Eisei Zasshi (Women’s Sanitary Journal), a medical publication circulated from 1890 to 1926, targeted upper-class women and the growing ranks of female medical professionals. It aimed to educate “elite” women, encouraging them to care for their bodies to produce strong, intelligent children who would bolster Japan’s economy and military, Tanaka writes.
The journal discouraged menstruating women from riding bicycles, practicing gymnastics, using sewing machines or even taking trains for a prolonged period, warning that such activities could disrupt reproductive health. One article claimed that dancing could “congest the reproductive organs with blood, increase sexual desire and lead to venereal diseases.”
Women were also advised to avoid social gatherings, theaters and even reading novels, as menstruation was thought to cause emotional instability and increase the risk of mental illness.
After World War II, the end of cotton rationing brought sanitary belts back to the market. But they were far from ideal — stuffy in summer, prone to skin irritation and, most frustratingly, unreliable against leaks.
The woman who changed it all
At just 27 years old, Yoshiko Sakai revolutionized menstrual care in Japan.
Born into a wealthy Tokyo family and later becoming the wife of a trading house employee, Sakai founded a small business that connected inventors with manufacturers. One day, she came across an unusual idea by one of the inventors: a net designed to prevent used cotton — often thrown into newly installed flush toilets — from clogging pipes.
At the time, most Japanese women still relied on cotton for menstrual care. With the spread of flushing toilets, blockages had become a common issue. But Sakai saw a larger opportunity. Rather than focus on solving plumbing problems, she envisioned creating affordable, disposable menstrual pads for all women in Japan.
Her drive was personal. She had once witnessed a woman on a train with bloodstains on her skirt. On another occasion, she saw a used, bloodied cotton ball roll across the floor of a bus as it jostled along a sloping road. Both incidents left her deeply unsettled.
With her husband’s support, Sakai launched Anne, naming both the company and its first product after Anne Frank. She was inspired by a passage in Frank’s diary in which the young girl described menstruation as a “sweet secret.”
Anne napkins debuted on Nov. 11, 1961 — and sold over 1 million boxes (with a dozen napkins each) in a single month. Orders poured in. Women unable to find the product in their local stores mailed money directly to the company’s headquarters, desperate to secure a box.
Sakai became a media sensation — young, ambitious and unafraid to break with tradition. Anne napkins spread from cities to rural areas, from working women and teenagers to their mothers. Before long, some women even referred to their own periods simply as “Anne.”
Looking back, Tanaka says that Sakai — despite remaining a relatively obscure figure in Japanese history — played a pivotal role in advancing women’s rights.
“Yes, the product was convenient and physically liberating, but more than that, she marketed the idea that menstruation is not something to hide or feel ashamed of,” Tanaka says. “Anne truly captured the hearts of women across Japan.”
The man who shaped the industry
Despite its early success, Anne’s dominance in the market was short-lived. Hundreds of competitors soon flooded the sanitary pad industry, and the company struggled to keep up. In the 1970s, financial troubles at an electronic parts manufacturer that had backed Anne led to the sale of its majority stake. Sakai was ousted from management, relegated to the role of nonrepresentative chairwoman. She eventually left the company in 1988 and disappeared from the public eye, Tanaka notes.
Among the competitors that overtook Anne was Unicharm, a company that had initially been a construction materials firm based in Ehime Prefecture. Its founder, Keiichiro Takahara, stumbled upon the business opportunity in 1962 during a monthlong U.S. study tour organized by a business promotion group. While visiting an American supermarket, he was astonished to see Kotex sanitary napkins openly displayed on store shelves — at a time when Japanese women had to discreetly request theirs at pharmacies.
“Keiichiro was blown away when he saw Kotex piled up so openly,” says Hitoshi Watanabe, a deputy manager in Unicharm’s PR department. “He bought an entire bag full of pads and brought them back to Japan.”
Determined to develop a product suited for Japanese consumers, Takahara launched Unicharm’s first sanitary napkin in 1963. He was deeply involved in product testing, even recalling in a 2010 Nikkei essay that he once slept wearing a prototype soaked in water to evaluate its comfort and effectiveness.
Resistance within the company was strong. Male employees, who had expected to work in the construction industry, balked at the idea of manufacturing feminine hygiene products. But Takahara insisted they were in this together — to make menstrual products less embarrassing and more accessible to Japanese women.
Though sanitary pad manufacturers were undoubtedly driven by profit, their innovations continued to evolve in response to women’s needs. These technological advancements would later prove invaluable when companies expanded into diapers for babies, seniors and even pets.
One breakthrough came in the late 1970s with the introduction of high-molecular polymers, which significantly improved absorbency without adding bulk. By the 1980s, top-sheet designs had been refined to prevent absorbed fluid from resurfacing. New features — such as pads with wings for better security and curved designs for overnight comfort — soon followed.
Today, Japan’s menstrual products market is vast and diverse. Unicharm alone offers more than 100 types of pads, shorts and other products, varying in size, absorbency and materials. The company has expanded to 80 countries and territories, with nearly two-thirds of its revenue now coming from overseas. It has also adapted its products to local needs, introducing cooling pads in Thailand, olive oil-coated napkins in Saudi Arabia and antibacterial, long-lasting pads in India, where poor hygiene conditions discourage women from changing products when outside the home.
“Napkins have evolved alongside women’s advancements in society,” Watanabe says.
In Japan, sanitary napkins remain the overwhelming choice for menstrual care. Studies indicate that around 90% of women prefer them over tampons or menstrual cups — a stark contrast to countries like the United States, where a 2022 government survey found that 53% of women aged 18-24 used tampons, compared to 50% who used pads (with some using both).
Tanaka attributes this preference partly to the superior quality of Japan’s pads, but also to lingering influences from prewar sex education, which warned women that inserting tampons could compromise their moral purity.
Period poverty and destigmatization
The story of sanitary products reflects the economic realities faced by women, and the COVID-19 pandemic exposed just how precarious access to them can be even in modern times. As financial hardships mounted, the issue of “period poverty” — the inability to afford menstrual products — gained national attention.
A 2022 Cabinet Office survey of 3,000 women aged 18-49 across the country found that 8.2% replied that they “often” or “sometimes” had difficulty buying sanitary goods due in large part to insufficient income. The percentages were higher among 18- and 19-year-olds and those in their 20s, at 12.9% and 12.7%, respectively. To cope, up to half of the affected women resorted to using pads for longer than recommended or substituting them with toilet paper, towels or cloth.
In response to these numbers, municipalities across Japan have begun distributing free sanitary napkins to residents, and many schools and public facilities now stock them in restrooms.
This shift signals progress in breaking menstrual taboos, according to Tanaka.
“There must have always been people who couldn’t afford napkins,” she notes. “But such people began to be noticed during the pandemic, and society is trying to find solutions for them.”
Looking ahead, Tanaka predicts that more women will opt to have fewer or even no periods, choosing to avoid menstrual discomfort and PMS altogether. Some are already using hormonal intrauterine devices (IUDs) that can reduce or eliminate menstruation. In Japan, hormonal IUDs are covered by insurance for women with heavy or painful periods — though not as a general contraceptive.
Meanwhile, efforts to challenge menstrual stigma continue. In 2019, Unicharm launched the #NoBagForMe campaign, questioning the widespread practice of Japanese retailers wrapping sanitary pads in black plastic or paper bags at checkout without being asked to do so.
Led by Chikako Nagai, head of Unicharm’s Japan brand management, the campaign wasn’t necessarily about eliminating discreet packaging altogether but rather about fostering open conversations about menstruation and women’s health.
The company has also organized educational workshops for businesses, universities and public entities to promote a better understanding of menstrual health. So far, 450 organizations have participated, with attendees given the opportunity to handle sanitary products firsthand.
Menstruation will also take center stage at this Saturday’s International Women’s Day events. Trading giant Itochu is hosting a temporary “Period Museum” in Tokyo’s Kitaaoyama neighborhood, showcasing the history of menstrual products and policies. Other exhibits include a video featuring male employees experiencing simulated menstrual pain while on the job.
“We believe that menstruation is one of the biggest topics related to women’s activities and lives, considering its symptoms and duration,” says Hiroko Koga, an Itochu representative overseeing the exhibition, which runs from March 8 through May 4.
She hopes the event will provide a rare opportunity for men and women to engage in open discussions about menstruation.
“We want visitors to gain a deeper understanding of periods — and to reflect on the connection between women’s health and society as a whole.”
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