In the world of higher education, where intellectual passion and long hours of research fuel the pursuit of knowledge, one might expect stability to be a given. But in Japan, many researchers find themselves in an exhausting limbo, clinging to temporary contracts while chasing the ever-elusive dream of a permanent academic position. Despite the country’s strong cultural emphasis on employment security, the reality for thousands of scholars is starkly different — and sometimes, tragically ironic.
Take the story of Keiko, a molecular biology researcher in her late 30s, who spent over a decade contributing to groundbreaking cancer research at a prestigious university in Tokyo. Her dedication was unwavering; she worked late into the night, mentored graduate students, and secured competitive grants. Yet just before hitting her 10-year mark — the legal threshold for qualifying for a permanent role under Japan’s Labour Contract Act — her contract wasn’t renewed. She was thanked, celebrated, and then quietly let go. No one said it out loud, but it was clear: keeping her on would’ve meant granting her tenure. The institution simply couldn't commit.
Her story isn't unique. Recent data from the Ministry of Education revealed that a staggering majority of Japan’s university researchers remain bound to fixed-term contracts, with many being terminated just shy of the tenure benchmark. The report, which covered over 8,000 individuals across hundreds of academic institutions, paints a troubling picture of job insecurity deeply embedded in Japan’s higher education system.
What makes the situation more disheartening is the environment these scholars operate in. Universities are expected to foster innovation, provide mentorship, and produce impactful research, all of which require time and stability. But how does one write the next great scientific paper or revolutionize social theory when unsure if their job will exist next spring?
Universities argue for flexibility. Institutions claim that fixed-term contracts allow them to create a more dynamic academic environment, where only the most productive researchers advance. In theory, this makes sense. After all, academic excellence is vital. But in practice, it often becomes an excuse to avoid long-term commitments and manage tight budgets. The pressure to "perform" under such constraints turns university departments into high-stakes battlegrounds rather than centers of learning.
At Japan’s top universities — including Tokyo, Osaka, and Kyoto — the situation is especially pronounced. These institutions, celebrated for their academic prestige, have also recorded the highest numbers of contract terminations just before the 10-year employment threshold. It’s a contradiction that’s hard to ignore: the very institutions that symbolize academic excellence in Japan are also among the most prolific at perpetuating employment insecurity.
What adds fuel to the fire is the financial strain on Japan’s public universities. Since being transformed into public corporations two decades ago, these institutions have faced shrinking government subsidies. Today, the funding for national universities is over 13 percent lower than it was in 2004. This drop has forced universities to aggressively compete for limited public and private research grants — turning research from a collaborative pursuit into a survival game.
In the midst of this upheaval are the young researchers, often under 40, who bear the brunt of the instability. These scholars, many of whom hold doctorates and have trained for over a decade, often find themselves hopping from one short-term project to another. It's not unusual to hear of postdoctoral researchers who, despite publishing in top journals and receiving international recognition, still live in shared apartments and delay starting families because of financial uncertainty.
The government acknowledges the issue but offers a complicated mix of solutions. On one hand, it promotes a vision of flexible career development, encouraging researchers to explore diverse roles in industry and beyond. On the other, it urges universities to take appropriate action to stabilize employment practices, though rarely with binding enforcement. The contradiction is striking, and for many scholars, it feels like being pulled in opposite directions.
Still, some see a silver lining in the mobility that fixed-term employment allows. In her early 30s, Aiko, a neuroscientist from Kyoto, left her university post after six years and took a research position at a private biotech firm. She admits it was a hard decision, one driven more by necessity than ambition, but the move gave her a level of financial stability she hadn’t known before. With better hours and a clear promotion path, she finally had the freedom to plan for the future — something academia never offered.
But such transitions are rarely seamless. For many researchers, leaving the university system feels like a defeat. After years of specialized training, moving into industry can be daunting, especially when the skill sets aren't always directly transferable or easily understood outside of academia. Moreover, the cultural prestige associated with university positions still runs deep in Japan, making such decisions emotionally taxing.
The government’s recent push to raise the number of PhD holders in broader society through its “Doctoral Human Resources Action Plan” is, on paper, a step forward. It emphasizes job-based research internships, closer industry-academia ties, and promoting doctoral talent across sectors. But without addressing the root problem of unstable university careers, such initiatives risk becoming just another well-meaning policy with little practical impact.
Academic careers are not supposed to be sprints. They’re marathons, requiring patience, commitment, and above all, support. When universities function like revolving doors — constantly ushering in fresh talent only to discard them before they become permanent — it undermines the very foundations of research and education. Japan prides itself on its social cohesion and long-term employment models, yet its academic institutions seem stuck in a contradictory cycle.
For now, many researchers continue their work, driven by passion and the faint hope of one day earning that elusive permanent role. They juggle grant deadlines, mentor students, write proposals, and submit papers — all while quietly wondering how long their careers can stay afloat. Behind every published article, every lecture delivered, and every innovation unveiled, there’s often a human story full of anxiety, uncertainty, and unacknowledged resilience.
And sometimes, the most brilliant minds find themselves not celebrated in lecture halls, but sitting at their kitchen tables, updating resumes and hoping the next contract might be the one that finally sticks.