Chapter 1｜“Japanese cars are the safest,” she said, sipping instant coffee
This morning, my wife declared with her usual conviction, “Japanese cars are still the safest.” But just five minutes later, as we watched the morning news, she added, “I haven’t seen many Nissans on the road lately…” You see, breakfast in our house is often a battleground of contradictions.
And then came the headline: Nissan to close its Oppama and Shonan factories in Kanagawa. Now, to anyone who grew up admiring the sleek curves of a Bluebird or the roar of a Skyline, this isn’t just news—it’s a farewell letter to a certain era of pride.
Oppama isn’t just a factory. It’s hallowed ground in Yokosuka, the place where Japan’s electric vehicle ambitions took their first real shape. Shonan, likewise, has been home to Nissan’s commercial vans, part of the quiet infrastructure of our everyday lives. And now, both are to be shuttered. Like cleaning out the family attic, only to find that all the heirlooms have been deemed obsolete.
But this isn't just a corporate downsizing story. It smells more like a tectonic shift that’s been simmering quietly under the floorboards of our national industry.
Chapter 2｜What it means to abandon your birthplace
The Oppama plant has been operating since 1961. With a capacity of 240,000 vehicles per year, it stood as a symbol of innovation, especially with early EV mass production. Today? It’s running below 40% of that capacity—a figure that doesn’t just whisper “inefficiency,” it screams “despair.”
Shonan, meanwhile, has a capacity of 150,000 units and manufactures commercial vans. But just like Oppama, it’s barely half-utilized. It’s like planning a grand wedding and only inviting the groom’s relatives.
But here’s the kicker: This move effectively ends Nissan’s factory presence in Kanagawa, the very cradle of its founding in 1933. For a company to abandon its birthplace? That’s not just a business decision. That’s a cultural amputation.
Sure, corporate logic doesn’t run on sentiment. But when even your roots are deemed dispensable, what does that say about your direction—or your soul?
Chapter 3｜Beyond “unsold cars”: A nation that can no longer build
The official reason for the closures? Declining sales, overcapacity, financial losses. Fair enough. But scratch the surface, and you’ll find a deeper rot.
Japan isn’t just selling fewer cars. It’s becoming a place where making things—real, tangible things—is no longer feasible. Labor costs are high. Electricity is expensive. Young talent is hard to retain. This isn’t just about Nissan. It’s about a country quietly surrendering its edge.
When my wife says, “Japanese cars give me peace of mind,” I wonder—what exactly does that “peace” rest on now? Branding? Nostalgia? Because the factories that once ensured that reliability are vanishing one by one.
And while governments wave around subsidies for EVs and talk up carbon neutrality, the truth is they’ve done precious little to support the deep foundations of manufacturing. Is it any surprise that Nissan is pulling up stakes and heading abroad?
Chapter 4｜No revival this time?
Back in 1999, Carlos Ghosn led the so-called “Revival Plan.” It was dramatic, brutal, and yet oddly hopeful. Japan still had the resilience, the faith, the muscle memory to rebuild.
Today? The company posted a net loss of 670.8 billion yen in its latest fiscal year. It plans to cut 20,000 jobs and reduce its global factories from 17 to 10 (excluding China). These numbers aren’t part of a “revival.” They’re the anatomy of surrender.
We’re told it’s necessary. That this is just “business.” But who made it necessary? Was it weak government policy? Was it the company’s own short-sightedness? Or was it an entire industry chasing an EV dream it didn’t understand?
Whatever the reason, “rebuilding” no longer feels like an option. The word itself sounds like a ghost from another time—back when we still believed that the future could be made with our own hands.