Australia and Japan Look to the Future of Cybersecurity and Space

On Friday, 13 March 2026, the Canberra Cyber Hub hosted the Australia–Japan Space and Cyber Forum at Work Club Two24 in central Canberra. The event brought together government ministers, industry leaders, academics, and business networks to examine how Australia and Japan can deepen cooperation across the cyber and space domains. What emerged was a clear sense that both countries see shared security, shared innovation, and shared workforce development as essential to navigating future challenges. I have attached relevant links to biographies (in English) and policy documents (in Japanese) below.

Cybersecurity as Economic Strategy

Isamu Yamaguchi, Minister at the Embassy of Japan, opened with a reminder that technology now shapes both national security and national prosperity. Cybersecurity, he argued, “is the cornerstone of economic resilience,” and Japan’s new policy direction reflects that reality.

Yamaguchi and Mihoko Matsubara, Chief Cybersecurity Strategist at NTT, outlined Japan’s latest cybersecurity strategy, which authorises police, the Defence Ministry, and the Self Defense Forces to work together to detect, analyse, and neutralise threats before they escalate. The strategy acknowledges the rise of state sponsored attacks and the growing risks posed by rapidly advancing artificial intelligence. While no countries were named, the audience understood the geopolitical context.

Yamaguchi emphasised Japan’s push to develop human capital, strengthen systems, and expand joint training. These efforts, he noted, will have powerful impact on employment and manufacturing, especially in the space sector, where economic development and peaceful use remain central. The strategy also expands cooperation between government and industry, with critical infrastructure operators participating in new information sharing mechanisms. Both speakers stressed that cybersecurity and space are not separate fields. They require collaboration across government, industry, and academia, and this cross sector approach is where innovation and employment opportunities will emerge.

A Constellation of Agreements

Matsubara described international cooperation as a “constellation of agreements,” extending far beyond hardware transfers. She pointed to the Mogami class frigate, selected by Australia as the preferred platform for its future general purpose frigates, as one example of how defence partnerships are evolving. But she argued that the deeper value lies in the stability that cybersecurity provides for power grids, telecommunications, and the broader Indo Pacific economy. “We must look at more than one field,” she said, urging countries to think holistically about security, technology, and economic interdependence.

Space as a Shared Frontier

Chris Hewett, General Manager of the Australian Space Agency, echoed the centrality of cybersecurity. Geography, he noted, gives Australia unique advantages for launches, tracking, and research. He highlighted opportunities for collaboration with Japan in space medicine and in building norms and rules for responsible behaviour.

Several speakers observed that while Japan’s private space sector is strong, its government cybersecurity posture still lags behind Five Eyes partners. The message here seemed to be that strength in one domain does not compensate for vulnerabilities in another, and weaknesses in cyber could undermine gains in space.

Canberra’s Knowledge Economy

Karen Stewart-Moore (Executive Branch Manager - Chief Minister, Treasury and Economic Development Directorate) described Canberra as “the most educated and the most security clearanced workforce,” a city built on knowledge, innovation, and national capability. She outlined funding pathways for researchers and entrepreneurs, underscoring that both countries stand to benefit from academic and economic exchange.

Building Networks, Building Futures

Representing the Australia–Japan Businesswomen’s Network, Ashurst partner Natsuko Ogawa spoke about the importance of professional networks in shaping the next generation of leaders. Despite the long history of Japanese business activity in Australia, she noted that women remain underrepresented at many industry events, and shared the difficulties of building a network after an international move. This gap inspired the creation of the Australia–Japan Businesswomen’s Network in 2023, designed to give women in both countries a platform to connect, collaborate, and advance their careers.

Alongside the formal program, the Canberra Cyber Hub facilitated networking across tech, law, governance, and emerging industries. It was evident throughout the talks and panel discussions that building the workforce for future cyber and space cooperation will demand a broad range of skills. These are not limited to technical expertise, but also include cultural understanding, geopolitical awareness, and strong linguistic abilities. I do wonder how people are expected to carve out the time to develop such niche, high‑value skills while also keeping pace with the rapid shifts in technology, diplomacy, threats, and partnerships. Even staying up to date with news of one regional partner is a huge amount of work, especially if you’re reading the news in two languages. I hope Canberra Cyber Hub will continue to host events that show the importance of understanding history, language and culture, alongside technology.

Looking Ahead

The Australia–Japan relationship is often framed in terms of defence, but this forum made clear that its future will be built just as much on shared innovation, shared standards, and shared talent. Cybersecurity and space are engines of economic growth and strategic stability. For both countries, collaboration is the pathway to resilience, opportunity, and a more secure region.

Hugh Battye’s A Tale of Two Chinas is primarily a personal memoir of his years living, working, and studying in China. Evolving around this story is a general overview of the cultural and historical forces that shaped contemporary political, economic, and social issues. Through this is the additional presentation of minority cultures and rural life, and how these peoples have experienced China’s rapid changes. Much of these insights are based on the author’s postgraduate fieldwork in Muslim and Tibetan Buddhist communities in the central northwest. The book contains many themes but advances few arguments. Rather it is a collection of experiences, reflections and observations about how things are and have been. Some might find a lack of a firm argument to be a bit wandering, but to be honest my China book shelf is packed with China-related arguments, case studies and warnings, and it was rather refreshing to read something more descriptive than prescriptive.

Each chapter provides a historical overview, which covers a range of topics such as conflicts between Imperial China and the Western Nations, political developments and major key players, the one-child policy, and economic development. Although the author does not shy away from unpleasant points in history, it is the sort of explanations which would suit a dinner party. He doesn’t obscure the harsher realities, yet readers seeking detailed accounts of, for example, the implementation of the one-child policy, will need to look elsewhere. The section on air pollution counter measures felt like rare good news, and I hope this is an area where perhaps China could inspire other nations to take improving their air quality seriously. The discussions do occasionally ramble, but the chapters are short and sweet and generally revolve around a certain theme. It’s sort of like listening to a friend reminiscence and then get side tracked with a historical explanation to provide context and orientation.

The later chapters on minority cultures adopt a more academic tone, detailing subsistence practices, daily hardships, and local religious and cultural customs. The discussion of “the major fault lines of Chinese society the Han and the minorities, the urban and the rural” is well presented. Battye continues to interlace these analyses with his own amusements and misadventures, which makes the transitions between memoir and scholarship less jarring. He recalls, for instance, how “And, of course, with copious amounts of green tea , accompanied , on occasion, with a humungous lump of rock sugar to teach you the true meaning of the expression ‘bittersweet’. The art of sitting cross-legged on the kang for long periods during mealtimes took me a while to get used to, as, too, did the rules around bread consumption.” The book is at its strongest when probing the complexities of identity. He describes confusion over who counts as a minority, how sub-minorities exist within Tibetan culture, and how individuals may present different identities depending on context or bureaucratic categorisation. This encourages him to briefly reflect on his own identity and beliefs. Ethnicity and religion blur at the edges, and language barriers and cultural assumptions further complicate the picture.

The section on ethnic tourism is fantastic, particularly for readers who have encountered only the social media version of the phenomenon. I was keen to read what someone with a PhD in minority cultures of China had to say about the benefits and dangers of packaging minority culture up for the consumption of tourists. This includes “song and dance troupes, architectural replicas, even whole ‘ethnic villages’,” all designed for the tourist gaze. As he notes, communities often have little choice but to participate, though this doesn’t mean they are totally without benefit or agency. Many individuals have built careers as artists, entrepreneurs, or officials thanks to an increasing flow of tourists. Tourist money is often greatly desired in these rural areas. Yet the combined pressures of modernisation and Party ideology have reshaped both traditions and the people who perform them. Battye acknowledges that conditions have grown more restrictive for many minority groups in recent years and the experience of one group doesn’t necessarily mean other groups have similarly benefited.

The author’s years in China are similar to my own, so many of his experiences, troubles and moments of culture shock were very familiar. He mentioned many major China events of the 2000s, so this made for nostalgic reading. If you’re a long time China watcher who is familiar with most of the general historical information, I think these recollections will keep you interested. During the early 2000s, many Westerners in China cycled through English teaching, entrepreneurial ventures, modelling, or enrolment at local universities whenever visas or finances demanded it. I read with amusement that the author “… having been living in a state of denial for far too long, I resorted to the job that, in all fairness, I was probably the most suited to anyway: teaching English.”

Although Battye keeps his personal anecdotes lightly sprinkled through this book, I wish he had lingered more on how it was to live and study there. He wrote about his identity as a Christian who found more common ground with local Muslims than with many Han Chinese, yet the text offers little about his own tastes and interests. The PhD application process, his program, his supervisors, and the institutions themselves are mainly absent. Flat hunting adventures are a reoccurring event in this book, which comes with all manner of negotiations, misunderstandings and disappointments. I especially enjoyed the moment when he was looking for a flat and found that his prospective host family was of “the Public Security Bureau specifically responsible for overseeing the foreigners of the city, and while that revelation did manage to explain the quality of his English, for me the more important result was that living in that house suddenly didn’t make for the most relaxing of prospects.”

Battye is open about the art of seeking permission from authorities, or rather, seeking forgiveness after. He writes, “The logic followed that trying to get official permission for something – even if it was quite legal and straight-forward – would probably cause the powers that be to worry that something underhand was going on, and to thereby refuse the request; while, conversely, in the event that an apology for over-stepping the boundary was required, nothing much more would likely be said, as the relevant authorities would not want to draw undue attention to any problems occurring under their watch…. For the police it was mainly pragmatic: having a foreigner in the area was serious ‘mafan’, a common term which also regularly found its way into foreigners’ English conversations, and was used to sum up any situation that was less than convenient. If anything went wrong, they did not want to be the ones to take the blame. As a Westerner, I demanded a simple answer as to whether they would give me a stamp or not, and, if not, a logical reason why. From the Chinese perspective, however, the main aim would be to avoid a conflict.” His attempts to secure permissions to live and research in these areas are both exasperating and amusing. I was reminded of bringing nearly transparent sheets of delicate paper and booklets full of stamps to my local Chinese police station and hoping for the best. Against the popular image of corrupt, petty, obstructive officials, he notes that many officers are in fact warm, pragmatic, and willing to warn foreigners of potential issues before the fact. Most people are just trying move along with minimal risk to their own careers and avoid anything too horribly ‘mafan.’

Unlike many other travel memoirs, Battye’s personal life is largely absent. I wish this book had given more space to the tension between being a member of these communities, while maintaining distance. This is touched on when he chooses new, local names to go by, but how did that feel? These sections had the strongest impact when the author reflected on his own identity and religion, and what similarities it shared with these groups. Given that the book did discuss individuals, and not the group generally, I wondered at how it was to remain objective as a researcher while forming these emotional connections. Additionally, since so little was written about the author’s own background and personality, aside from a very slim introduction at the start of the book, I wondered if he had to overcome any biases or preconceptions. Were these reflections incorporated into his academic methodology, or did he consider such introspection too personal for inclusion? Did he experience isolation and loneliness while conducting this research in such remote areas, using languages / dialects that weren’t as strong as his skills in Standard Mandarin? Finally, he mentioned assisting people when they needed medical help or were experiencing legal troubles. What is the ethics of this? I would’ve loved it if the author had been encouraged to outline the personal risks and struggles of conducting this research. Not to sensationalise the experience, but rather so much seems to have been left unsaid, and a closer examination author’s own position within the community would have strengthened an already captivating book.

This book felt guarded, but true. For readers seeking an accessible overview of modern Chinese history, interwoven with glimpses of life in agricultural regions, it offers a worthwhile introduction. If you lived in China in the early 2000s to 2010s, you will recognise the author’s sincerity. The descriptions of a “land juxtaposed between Beijing, Mecca and Lhasa” with humility, admiration and grace. Travel writing can often inadvertently come off as overly romantic or whinging, but Battye’s work here is full of patience, understanding and concern. He notes that living and working in China taught him patience, and how to wait, and those lessons seems visible in his writing, which elevates this travel memoir to something which encourages understanding across a number of cultures. A Tale of Two Chinas is a sensitive engagement with the many Chinas that coexist within the nation’s borders.

This book was provided by Hugh Battye for review.

A Tale of Two Chinas
A Fifteen-Year Odyssey Through China’s Cultural Heartlands by Hugh Battye

Your Data Will Be Used Against You: Policing in the Age of Self-Surveillance takes a new Fourth Amendment angle to examine how digital trails have increased the power of police and how constitutional protections have not caught up. Author Andrew Guthrie Ferguson, Professor of Law at George Washington University, is a leading scholar at the intersection of technology, privacy, and criminal justice. He has made a lifelong study of policing, big data surveillance and the Fourth Amendment. Ferguson’s warning is that what we have adopted out of novelty and convenience now threatens to erode the very foundations of American privacy and liberty. His analysis is serious, but not excoriating. Your Data Will Be Used Against You doesn’t blame consumers for wanting convenience, or police for wanting to solve (or prevent!) crimes, or judges who don’t have the time to keep up with all aspects of new technologies. It’s an optimistic book written from the rare vantage point of someone with a deep understanding of technology and law.

The book makes for pleasantly balanced reading. Ferguson acknowledges that data has revolutionised criminal investigation and prosecution. Contrary to my initial expectations, its argument is not fearful of technology, but rather deeply concerned about how the legal system has not caught up to technology. These same tools expose citizens to governmental overreach and abuse. He asks us to think of even some local corrupt official or officer abusing their access to such huge amounts of data. His argument is not a criticism of over policing and he acknowledges that many such works already exist. This is rather a legal and civic reckoning with the consequences of self-surveillance, in what he describes as a “Smart Home Panopticon.” He calls for deliberate interventions through changes to legislation, restricting the use of warrants, and boosting community safeguards capable of restraining the power of the state. He argues that “Judges are not technologists, and many do not have the time or inclination to rethink foundational theories of constitutional law. Yet, without a judicial response to a world where everything is evidence, the Fourth Amendment, and therefore our individual rights, will continue to weaken as digital surveillance increases. It is not beyond the role of judges to ask how the Fourth Amendment should apply to new forms of data collection and surveillance.”

Smart cars, homes, watches, and medical devices monitor deeply private moments, promising insight and efficiency while quietly constructing a highly accessible record of our lives. This book made me pause and think about everything I have in the cloud, hosted here and there and the time my cardiologist recommended a smart watch. For the ordinary consumer, it can be difficult to resist or avoid such purchases. That record, Ferguson shows, is readily available to prosecutors. Predictive analytics, facial recognition, and citywide camera networks have created a surveillance ecosystem in which exposure is constant, universal, and largely unregulated. Many recent judicial decisions are based on weak comparisons, say the difference between what a neighbour could see over a fence compared to drone being repeatedly flown over your house. The scale of the problem is technological, but its implications are constitutional.

The first part of this book examines how criminal prosecution is being reshaped by the proliferation of self surveillance technologies are increasingly gathered as evidence. The second part turns to the risks of this transformation, highlighting the profound shifts in power and privacy that follow when police and prosecutors gain access to the intimate data of daily life. Through this he refers back to the founding generation of Americans and how they would have felt about such general warrants and invasions of personal papers. I was a bit on edge about any reference to the founding generation, because it’s often used for anyone to make an argument for pretty much anything, but he kept it firmly rooted in historical legal arguments and discussions. He additionally looks back to how certain groups have been targeted in U.S. history, as well as forward to see how the vulnerability of reproductive health data in states criminalising abortion and the troubling expansion of facial recognition. I was completely unaware that prosecutors don’t have to share with the defence that say, a facial recognition technology identified other individuals as just as or more likely to be the perpetrator. What Ferguson makes clear is that no part of the political spectrum is immune from the reach of digital surveillance. The same ‘shopping history’ infrastructure that can expose trans youth seeking gender affirming care in states where such treatment has been criminalised can just as easily be turned against gun owners who fear gun registries. Social media posts, geolocation data, health apps, and consumer purchases all generate evidence that investigators can exploit. Surveillance is not partisan. It is a structural condition and once the machinery exists, the only variable is who becomes the target. These cases underscore the fragility of constitutional protections in the digital age, where the Fourth Amendment has yet to catch up with the realities of pervasive monitoring and massive amounts of data collection.

The final section offers remedies, insisting that judges, legislatures, and communities must adjust the balance between security and liberty. Ferguson proposes substantive checks on warrants, requiring courts to weigh the reasonableness of exposing an individual’s digital life against the gravity of the alleged crime. This here goes straight back to the founding fathers and their hatred of anyone ‘rummaging’ through papers. He presents these reforms within a broader critique of policing culture, where technological fixes are often embraced as substitutes for addressing structural inequality. He argues that “… much of the allure of smart surveillance is that it gives police chiefs a way to answer an otherwise unanswerable question: “What are you going to do about crime?” A truthful answer would require them to confront the fact that police can respond to crime but cannot fix its root causes, such as a lack of economic or social opportunity, without dramatically transforming their mandate. It is much easier to tout a shiny new technological fix than fund social services programs that address poverty and inequality directly.” By tracing the role of pilot programs, federal grants and local budgets in fuelling surveillance, Ferguson warns us to wary of how these initiatives are launched. Even services made with the best intentions may cause harm, if they were not created with input from legal experts and community members. For example, I was surprised to read that technology which supposedly reports the location of gunshots could only display the nearest business addresses, not the actual point of the sound, but the police often acted as if the report was completely accurate. What does it mean to have the police expecting a gun at the wrong location?

Occasionally I wished for more examples, such as those drawn from fields like insurance or corporate training, where similar surveillance or analysis methods are being used. Too often the conclusions fizzle out slightly on mentioning possibilities (“it could be,” “one might imagine”), when stronger evidence might have shown how these potentials are not speculative but already fully in use. Ferguson’s focus remains largely within the United States, and while he mentions cases abroad, such as the dense camera networks of Chongqing, China or the surveillance of dating apps by Egyptian police, the book is not a comparative study and does not give much space to surveillance issues outside the U.S. I have mixed feelings about this choice. American readers may dismiss foreign examples as irrelevant to their own “exceptional” context. However, a broader view might have shown how surveillance technologies are profiting internationally and how these methods are completely in operation elsewhere, and are not the stuff of science fiction. That, however, might be beyond the scope of this book.

Ferguson beautifully describes the legal process for those unfamiliar with how things work. “Judges are the least obvious artists in our society. They may look like bureaucrats in robes, but underneath those robes are creative figures who paint with words. A judicial opinion begins on a blank canvas, onto which is sketched the structure of a story and an argument. The final image will be recognisable, borrowing as it does from other artists who came before, but the choices of color, depth, shading, and symbolism, even the mistakes evident in the brushwork, are the artist’s own.” It is with these types of introductions to each chapter that he eases the reader into understanding the finer points of legal opinions. Additionally, he recommends a number of other books, including Four Battlegrounds: Power in the Age of Artificial Intelligence, The Listeners: A History of Wiretapping in the United States and Your Face Belongs to Us, so this book helpfully steers the reader towards other books covering similar issues. The final sections conclude with a basic overview of how to protect your own privacy, listings of advocacy group and a call to protect journalists. In strengthening such movements, this book is a valuable tool. Although it is written with the U.S. legal system in mind, I believe that the questions raised within are general enough to be of interest to other nationalities.

Ferguson’s book is a warning that “criminal” is not a fixed category, but a shifting concept, too often defined by political motives and public fears. Technologies designed to combat violent crime can be swiftly repurposed for repression, and American history is quite full of examples of dissenters, reformers, and marginalised communities being controlled, monitored and targeted. Today, the expansion of police surveillance powers is accelerating far more quickly than constitutional protections, leaving individuals extremely vulnerable. The tools of self surveillance are already woven through our daily lives through the conveniences we have embraced. Your Data Will Be Used Against You argues that without imaginative legal responses, the smart home panopticon we have built for ourselves will continue to erode liberty, and the next target could be you.

This book was provided by NYU Press for review.

I recently began creating a personal study plan that brings together my work and studies in risk and cybersecurity with my preparation for the next level of the Japanese Language Proficiency Test (JLPT N3). My research materials include podcasts, journals, and books. As some of the podcasters profiled below mentioned, it’s very difficult finding English-language sources about the region. Living in Australia and working at an Asian-Pacific organisation, I have noticed that many online features in cybersecurity and risk tend to focus on the United States and Europe, so I hope that my brief notes on these themes might be helpful to others. I especially wanted to look beyond the technical aspects and explore how cultural and social factors influence risk and reporting. Writing short reflections on each topic has helped me retain information and highlight ideas I find particularly meaningful or interesting.

Asahi Cyber Attack

Page, C. (2025) ‘Asahi breach leaves bitter taste as brewer fears personal data slurped’, The Register, 14 October. Available at: https://www.theregister.com/2025/10/14/asahi_breach_update/?utm_source=tldrinfosec (Accessed: 22 October 2025).

Derrick, M. (2025) ‘Asahi breach exposes brewing industry OT security risks’, Cyber Magazine, 30 September. Available at: https://cybermagazine.com/news/how-asahis-breach-signals-rising-ot-security-risks (Accessed: 22 October 2025).

‘Qilin hackers claim responsibility for Asahi cyberattack, allege theft of 27 GB of data amid ongoing investigation’ (2025) Industrial Cyber News, 8 October. Available at: https://industrialcyber.co/ransomware/qilin-hackers-claim-responsibility-for-asahi-cyberattack-allege-theft-of-27-gb-of-data-amid-ongoing-investigation/ (Accessed: 22 October 2025).

The recent ransomware attack on Asahi Group, Japan’s largest beer producer, disrupted operations across its 30 factories and national distribution network, highlighting the increasing vulnerability of the global manufacturing and food and beverage sectors. Initially described as a “system failure,” the September 29 cyber incident has since been confirmed as ransomware, with Asahi now admitting that personal data may have been compromised. According to IBM’s 2025 Threat Intelligence Index, manufacturing remains the most targeted industry worldwide. This industry accounted for 40% of attacks in the Asia-Pacific region. Reading about these developments has been incredibly for understanding the cybersecurity space in Japan and for language practice. I have recently discovered coverage through the Japanese language Security Next website (https://www.security-next.com/175571) and official statements in Japanese from Asahi Group (https://www.asahigroup-holdings.com/newsroom/detail/20251014-0103.html)

Foundation for Defense of Democracies (2025) ‘On the Road Again – in Japan and Taiwan’, FDD’s Foreign Podicy, 8 August. Available at:

(Accessed: 8 September 2025).

Admiral Mark Montgomery discusses his recent travels in Taiwan and Japan alongside Craig Singleton and Matt Pottinger. All three FDD scholars reflect on the perspectives of Japan and Taiwan. The discussion provides a broad overview of regional viewpoints, including those of Australia. One focal point is Japan’s increased defence spending, which was accelerated by Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. This invasion was described as a wake-up call in Japan.

Montgomery outlines the scale of Chinese cyberattacks, North Korean criminal activity, and cryptocurrency theft, describing North Korea as a “cyber gang masquerading as a nation state.” He recommends Chris Miller’s Chip War: The Fight for the World’s Most Critical Technology (2022) to illustrate how supply chains and economics intersect with security concerns. He also addresses misconceptions about U.S. workforce capacity, noting the enormous effort behind the CHIPS and Science Act. Taiwan has provided industry mentors to support the U.S., though Washington complicated the process with restrictive visa policies. In contrast, the Japanese has proven twice as efficient as that of the U.S., with Japan starting a year later on projects yet moving a year ahead. He blamed America’s bureaucracy for this, which is embarrassing as Japan is famously bureaucratic.

The podcast also explores how the Fukushima disaster shaped Taiwan’s approach to nuclear power, given its own vulnerability to earthquakes. The episode closes with an extended discussion of parallels and possible mutually beneficial connections between Ukraine and Taiwan, highlighting Montgomery’s impressions of how different countries are reassessing risks and potential courses of action. It closes with a fair amount of discussion about surprising connections between the situations of Ukraine and Taiwan, how Japan might respond to an invasion of Taiwan, and Montgomery’s general impressions of how other countries might and should act.

International Institute for Strategic Studies, 2022. Japan’s cybersecurity with Matsubara Mihoko. Sounds Strategic [podcast], 21 October. Available at: https://www.iiss.org/podcasts/sounds-strategic/2022/10/japans-cybersecurity-with-matsubara-mihoko/ (Accessed: [6 September 2025]).

In this episode of Japan Memo from The International Institute for Strategic Studies, Yuka Koshino and Mariko Togashi host Matsubara Mihoko, chief cybersecurity strategist at NTT Corporation and Associate Fellow for Cyber, Space and Future Conflict at the IISS. Mihoko is the author of “サイバーセキュリティ 組織を脅威から守る戦略・人材・インテリジェンス”, 松原 実穂子 (“Cybersecurity to Protect the Way of Our Digital Life”). Koshino, Togashi and Mihoko analyse Japan’s approaches to cybersecurity, Japan’s perceptions of China’s use of cyber espionage, and notably following Russia’s invasion of Ukraine how this sparked some self-reflections on Japan’s defence capabilities, the opportunities and risks of such a large threat landscape when hosting the Olympics, offer perspectives on Japan’s cyber capabilities and their impact on national security, and ask how cybersecurity fits into Japan’s economic security framework. They discuss the economic security act, supply chain risk management, emerging technologies and protecting critical infrastructures. They discuss how there is a scarcity of English language sources about Japan’s cyber capabilities may cause non-Japanese speakers to underestimate Japan’s capabilities, and speaks to the difficulty of how difficult it is for countries to measure another’s cybersecurity capabilities, as is in most cases documents are not well revealed even in their own language, and also in English, and Japan has not published many English-language documents about its own efforts. It is a bit challenging for non-Japanese organisations to understand what Japan is trying to do, and there may be also some difficulties in joint operations when activities move from ‘defence’ to ‘offense’ which may have different interpretations and implications from the Japanese and outsider’s perspective.

Japan Security Contributors. Japan Cyber Security Glossary. Japan Security. January 8, 2024. [online] Available at: https://japansecurity.dev/en/blog/glossary [Accessed 11 Sep. 2025].

A useful list of Japanese cyber security terms in kanji, hiragana, English with examples.

Unpacking Japan. (2025) Why Japan is so behind on cybersecurity [podcast episode]. Unpacking Japan. 11 April. Available at:

[Accessed 11 Sep. 2025].

A highly enjoyable podcast interview with Japan-based Cybersecurity Project Manager Chinyere. She shares how her educational background in engineering, time on the JET Programme, and passion for programming shaped her path into cybersecurity as both a project manager and educator. Chinyere describes her typical work day, from starting with the ISF podcast to answering e-mails and organising meetings. She also discusses Japan’s cybersecurity awareness, effective risk communication, working in smaller businesses, and case studies of major cybersecurity incidents, including how Japanese companies respond to breaches. The conversation concludes with an overview of the legal framework for cybersecurity and Chinyere’s other educational and advocacy work.

Woodford, M. (2012) Exposure: Inside the Olympus scandal: How I went from CEO to whistleblower. London: Penguin.

Michael Woodford’s Exposure: Inside the Olympus Scandal begins against the backdrop of the 2011 Tohoku earthquake, as he travels to Japan to assume the role of chief executive of Olympus. His appointment appeared to symbolise Japan’s new openness to global practices, but it quickly led to the exposure of a long running corporate scandal. The book is notable for its dissection of how social networks and corporate culture allowed management to sustain fraud across successive generations of leadership. The inner circle not only rationalised their conduct among themselves but also enlisted outside associates to endorse and normalise the deception. It also revealed the lack of effective oversight in Japan, where neither financial institutions nor the domestic press played a meaningful role in holding the company’s directors to account. By pushing against silence, he invited not only institutional hostility but also an almost mob-like aggression from his colleagues, uncharacteristic of the politeness he had long associated with Japanese corporate life. His story underscores how corruption flourishes when loyalty is prized above accountability, and how isolating the experience must have been. Exposure is a thrilling account of the difficulty of reporting misconduct when so many are implicated and the personal toll of insisting on transparency. It would be suitable for readers interested in business ethics, financial regulation, shareholder values and obligations, anti-fraud measures, and Japanese business culture. Above all, it offers a strong warning against the temptation to explain away malpractice as merely a cultural difference.

Michael Woodford’s Exposure: Inside the Olympus Scandal begins against the backdrop of the 2011 Tohoku earthquake, as he travels to Japan to assume the role of chief executive of Olympus. It opens with a rather typical expat narrative, with descriptions of luxury flights, elegant flight attendants and soft slippers, and then it picks up pace as he describes how the mismanagement of the Tohoku disaster aligns with his own experiences at the top levels of Japanese management. Woodford had joined Olympus’s British subsidiary as a salesman nearly thirty years before and by his late twenties was managing director of the division. He later became head of Olympus in Europe before being elevated to the top job in Tokyo. He was the first foreigner to run the company and one of the very few ever to lead any major Japanese corporation. His appointment appeared to symbolise Japan’s new openness to global practices, but it quickly led to the exposure of a long running corporate scandal. The book is notable for its dissection of how social networks and corporate culture allowed management to sustain fraud across successive generations of leadership. The inner circle not only rationalised their conduct among themselves but also enlisted outside associates to endorse and normalise the deception. It also revealed the lack of effective oversight in Japan, where neither financial institutions nor the domestic press played a meaningful role in holding the company’s directors to account.

Barely weeks into his new role, he was sent a translated article from Facta, a Japanese monthly investigative magazine, alleging extremely questionable transactions within Olympus. What followed was a battle not only over their financial activities but also over the limits of corporate governance in a society where silence and loyalty often outweigh transparency. Woodford pressed his Japanese colleagues about very large sums being spent on ‘Mickey Mouse’ companies and an unprecedented amount on mysterious “advisory fees.” His confrontations, both in turns frightening and darkly funny, revealed both his refusal to play by the unspoken rules of deference and the extraordinary lengths to which Olympus executives would go to protect a fraud. Funds, as forensic accountants later traced, had vanished into offshore accounts. What had prompted me to read this book was reading remark about how he knew he was in trouble when he was given a passive aggressive tuna sandwich when his colleagues were given sushi.

The book is not merely a tale of corporate malfeasance but also a study of cultural issues. Olympus’s management structure blurred the line between personal loyalty and fiduciary responsibility, and its absence of independent remuneration committees exemplified a wider lack of checks and balances. In Japan, salaries and bonuses could be determined by the executive alone, creating a fertile ground for mutual back scratching and the concealment of wrongdoing. What I especially liked about this narrative was that it demonstrated that “cultural” justifications shouldn’t be used as a defence mechanism. Those involved in such cross-cultural situations have to work extra hard to frame their reports in terms of ethics, legality and policy. Woodford was trying to point out longstanding criminal activity and people responded to it as if he just couldn’t grasp the nuances of Japanese culture.

Woodford argued that these actions created a hostile environment and could bring serious harm to the organisation. He gave them plenty of opportunities to do the right thing, but were of course in no hurry to do so. When he alerted company members outside Japan, the Japanese board seemed more upset by this than the idea of a huge amount of missing money. I’m sure it was very frustrating for him to see cultural differences used to deflect criticism or accountability, particularly when it was paired with accusations that he was racist or didn’t understand the organisation’s hierarchy.

Woodford is frank about the personal cost of exposing the reality of the company’s finances. He recounts his fear, the absolutely crazy working hours, his constant sleep deprivation, and the long separations from his wife and children. Even when he was physically with his children he wasn’t really mentally there. A chapter in the centre of the book is dedicated to his childhood, often reminding readers of his own working-class origins and how these shaped his instincts and sense of values. Some critics have found this emphasis distracting, yet it clarifies the moral codes that guided his decisions. Honestly, it’s difficult to imagine a British memoir that doesn’t touch on class, though I can understand why those unfamiliar with the British class system might see it as irrelevant. Additionally, he had been bullied for his racially ambiguous appearance as a child, and therefore found accusations of his whistleblowing being fuelled by racism to be especially infuriating. By pushing against silence, he invited not only institutional hostility but also an almost mob-like aggression from his colleagues, uncharacteristic of the politeness he had long associated with Japanese corporate life. His story underscores how corruption flourishes when loyalty is prized above accountability, and how isolating the experience must have been.

The final chapters, including an afterword by journalist and crime author Jake Adelstein, place the Olympus affair within a larger framework of Japanese corporate crime and its uneasy ties to organised crime. This includes descriptions of other people who died under suspicious circumstances and unconvincing ‘suicides.’ If Adelstein’s perspective had been woven throughout rather than placed at the end, the book might have been better received. I read a number of comments online saying that Woodford had exaggerated the danger he was in, even though the UK police clearly didn’t think so. Exposure is a thrilling account of the difficulty of reporting misconduct when so many are implicated and the personal toll of insisting on transparency. It would be suitable for readers interested in business ethics, financial regulation, shareholder values and obligations, anti-fraud measures, and Japanese business culture. Above all, it offers a strong warning against the temptation to explain away malpractice as merely a cultural difference.

Exposure: Inside the Olympus Scandal: How I Went from CEO to Whistleblower
Michael Woodford
Penguin

Emma Pei Yin’s When Sleeping Women Wake traces the World War II journey of a wealthy family after their escape from Shanghai and resettlement in Hong Kong. Their household, comprised of Mingzhu, her husband, his concubine and their son, their teenage daughter Qiang, her tutor, and a team of servants, carries the lingering trauma of past encounters with the Japanese, only to face their presence once again. The novel explores layered identities, shaped by external forces, and examines how war will once again redefine them. The novel is driven by the profound tension between women’s lack of autonomy and their yearning for self-determination. Whether it’s the ability to leave their home, the obligation to share a husband, the freedom to choose their own romantic partners, the decision to join a resistance movement, or the responsibility of caring, each of these choices is framed as a privilege, one that not all women are afforded. Even the simple act of contemplating their own future is portrayed as something that can be taken away, reinforcing the novel’s exploration of control, agency, and resilience.

News of war spreads gradually through newspaper articles and whispered rumours, lending the narrative a grounded realism that avoids the common historical fiction pitfall of characters possessing an improbable degree of foreknowledge. Separated by sudden events, Mingzhu’s linguistic skills and a hidden romantic connection draw her into service for the Imperial Japanese Army, while Qiang and Biyu’s experiences, labouring in factories, searching for food and aiding resistance fighters, reflect the everyday struggles of Hong Kong civilians under occupation. Through their separate journeys, the novel examines the brutality of war and occupation, touching on themes of trauma, domestic violence, familial love, and the resilience of women. It is an unflinching portrayal of survival with a sharp examination of the status of women.

“Biyu could only offer prayers, hoping the voice crackling through the radio was right and the British Allied Forces would prove strong enough to repel the Japanese. Yet she couldn’t rid herself of the overwhelming sense of futility. What was the point of fighting against such brutality now? Evidently the Japanese had already infiltrated the colony, like a seed planted in the heart of Hong Kong months earlier that was now sprouting, wreaking havoc throughout the city.”

Colonialism is a key theme. As the novel presents the fall of Hong Kong from the perspective of civilians rather than the military, it criticises British priorities. “Hong Kong is a British colony,” Biyu says. “Surely they will fight hard for it, no?” Francine raises an eyebrow. “I think you’ll find that the British like to fight their way into places. Whether they care enough to fight for Hong Kong’s people…” The book also touches on how some Japanese believed the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere was a liberation effort from Western colonial rule, though reality proved to be disappointing.

Class divides are intricately woven into the narrative, particularly in relationships between masters and servants. The dynamic shifts at times, such as when a wealthy woman cooks for Biyu is an act that leaves the lifelong servant grappling with discomfort rather than relief, highlighting ingrained notions of hierarchy and status. War often comes with progressive shifts in society roles and the book represents the discomfort that can come with these changes well. Racial divides within the upper classes are highlighted by a conversation which illustrates how some clubs and other elite institutions in Hong Kong were only open to Westerners. “A discussion unfolded between the wives about the restrictions placed upon Chinese civilians in Hong Kong. Mingzhu pretended to listen, but she understood that all this talk was merely a façade. What, after all, would these women ever do to effect change and reduce discrimination against the Chinese? The answer was painfully clear. Nothing. They would do nothing.”

There are several romantic storylines in this novel, with one I found particularly satisfying. It’s infused with restrained yearning and secret connections. These elements of a relationship the woman had long been deprived of due to her lonely circumstances. What stood out most was how desire and exposure to fresh perspectives encouraged her to reassess her responsibilities, ambitions, and mindset, ultimately allowing her to embrace herself and her decisions with confidence.

Mingzhu, though admirable, is initially hard to relate to due to her lack of flaws. Her tastes in literature are impeccable, her fashion refined (unlike the ostentation of other women), her conversations intellectual rather than frivolous, her views progressive in contrast to her peers, her sense of duty unshakeable and her bravery unparalleled in the face of domestic violence and Japanese soldiers. Other characters, despite a lack of experience and the stress of their environment, rarely falter and deliver thrilling speeches which seem prepared in advance, with polish and composure. I would encourage readers wondering if these characters are just too good to continue on to the second half. The narrative does tend to align events in ways that absolve the protagonists from moral ambiguity, allowing them to remain admirable even in the face of difficult decisions. At times, the novel's coincidences and resolutions feel overly convenient, seemingly orchestrated to ensure the main characters remain unsullied by how their actions to survive might be perceived by others. The book grows stronger in its later parts, as personal conflicts, and the outcomes of their choices become messier and more emotionally tangled. The sections exploring specific historical events and the use of these events as a framework stand out, showcasing the author's skill for action, suspense and tension.

Despite multiple viewpoints and flashbacks, the novel remains fairly easy to follow. The characters’ voices carry a sort of timeless neutrality, lacking English linguistic markers of the 1940s. Given that the story unfolds through Mandarin, Cantonese, and English conversations, the decision may be an attempt to create a sense of being in translation, but it does mean that distinctions in age, background, and personality are less pronounced. This is an incredibly well researched novel and I have no doubt that the author put in a huge amount effort into analysing of how these events unfolded, but the voices might have benefited from deeper immersion in period specific media to enhance its authenticity and it would have strengthened the first chapters of the book.

When Sleeping Women Wake is a highly ambitious and character driven novel which shares Shanghai and Hong Kong’s wartime experiences through the viewpoints of extraordinary women. English language novels have rarely explored the experiences of civilians in the Pacific theatre, and even fewer have examined the atrocities from the Chinese perspective. A novel which presents this history helps us understand political landscapes, national identities and relationships between neighbouring countries. The war has left many scars on Chinese society, affecting collective memory and shaping perspectives across generations. Many parts are difficult to read due to the brutality, but this novel is a must read for fans of historical fiction and women’s fiction. It is an incisive look at British rule and the impact of Japanese occupation on civilians. While the novel occasionally leans into idealised portrayals and conveniently orchestrated outcomes, its sweeping narrative remains undeniably compelling. When Sleeping Women Wake delivers a beautifully crafted exploration of gender roles, family responsibilities, community building and the difficult choices forced upon those living through war. I am greatly looking forward to Emma Pei Yin’s next work.

This book was provided by Hachette Australia for review.

In Eastward, Westward: A Life in Law, Jerome A. Cohen chronicles his life’s work in China and legal studies with warmth, humour and rare perspective. My interest in Cohen’s memoir was sparked by his incredibly engaging interview with the Asia Society, so I was thrilled when Columbia University Press sent over a copy for review. Cohen’s memoir presents an intimate exploration of his diverse legal career, a critical period in U.S.-China relations, and offers heartfelt reflections on his family and enduring friendships. His understanding of China’s political shifts and its recent return to repression is explored in the final chapters, highlighting his grasp of the cyclical nature of Chinese politics.

In the first chapters, Cohen briefly describes how his upbringing is unusual when compared to other China experts of his generation, who were typically the children of missionaries or military members. He reflects on his Jewish heritage and his immigrant parents’ relentless pursuit of education. This set against the backdrop of the Great Depression and the lead up to WWII greatly shaped his worldview. He describes the unsettling presence of Nazi sympathising German-American groups that paraded through U.S. cities in an attempt to garner support for Hitler. His time at Yale as a scholarship student was marked by blatant antisemitism in academia and the legal profession. The early death of his father only added to his powerful sense of purpose.

As a Fulbright scholar in France, he witnessed the lingering aftereffects of the Holocaust firsthand. Aside from the Jewish experience, he repeatedly refers to disgraceful treatment of his Japanese-American classmates and colleagues. His recollections of Yale Law classroom debates remain accessible rather than overly niche. A particularly striking moment involved a debate on mass detentions, where he challenged a professor by asking whether he would support the internment of Americans of Scottish descent if the U.S. and Britain ever went to war. Aside from these heavy subjects, recollections of his younger years include humorous interludes, such as his frugal student lifestyle. This involved risky budget cafeteria meals to fund his European travels and losing a significant amount of weight through food poisoning in the process. Eventually, he chose law over political science studies both out of a respect to his father’s self-directed legal studies and out of a concern over being able to find meaningful employment outside academia.

During his year clerking for Chief Justice Earl Warren, he was surrounded by a cast of remarkably energetic individuals, each navigating their professional and personal responsibilities in Washington. He references legal cases such as Kinsella v. Krueger and Reid v. Covert, both dealing with civilians (wives in particular) accompanying military forces overseas. This memoir highlights how things have changed for women during his lifetime, a fact which he frequently comments upon. His observations about elite social circles highlight the exclusivity of Ivy League alumni functions and professional networking and how difficult it could be for those who couldn’t break into such circles. With some exceptions, the book typically offers succinct summaries of numerous figures he encountered, which can serve as a useful resource for further reading but may feel overwhelming in its breadth.

His post-Yale journey was shaped by a series of unconventional career moves, including avoiding being sent to war, working as an unpaid political speechwriter, and juggling financial pressures with a pregnant wife. Despite his lack of specialised experience in one area of law, his academic credentials granted him remarkable flexibility in choosing roles within different legal sectors, from law firms to pro bono work to sitting on committees. His time in California introduced him to colleagues whose lives had been dramatically shaped by historical upheavals. Many had fled the Nazis as children or endured Japanese internment camps. He describes the lasting resentment in Berkeley following the state government’s loyalty oath requirement and tensions among Japanese-American faculty regarding the wartime internment of their families. I found the strains of international conflicts playing out on American campuses to feel very reminiscent of currently unfolding events.

The author’s lifelong exploration of China began with the struggle to balance his Mandarin studies alongside legal teaching. He vacillated on prioritising spoken fluency over writing, confessing his embarrassment at being unable to write Chinese while some of his students had mastered it. This is something I also struggled with once I reached around the HSK5 level of study materials. Should I spend my time going out and speaking with people, or stay at home with Skritter in hopes of getting a certificate for employment purposes? It was somewhat comforting that this conflict, the subject of many Reddit posts and YouTube debates, was causing Cohen issues back in the 1960s.

Upon relocating to Hong Kong in 1963, he immersed himself in interviews with refugees from the mainland, many of whom had fled Chairman Mao’s Great Leap Forward. His research sought to understand how China’s criminal justice system functioned. He categorised legal actors into those accused, regular participants, and most crucially those administering justice, including police, prosecutors, judges, and officials. In an environment lacking legislative clarity, he examined how the boundaries between criminal and noncriminal behaviour were drawn, recognizing the discrepancies between law and practice across different societies. I particularly appreciated reading about how different Asian countries shaped their legal systems after opening up, whether influenced by French, German, or Soviet law. As a Mandarin speaker, I also enjoyed following the evolution of legal terminology, such as the shift from qiyue to hetong. He explores thought-provoking debates, such as the feasibility of law playing a meaningful role under communist rule and the balance between interpreting laws at face value versus considering political realities.

An ethical dilemma quickly emerged in his first experience fieldwork. What responsibility did he bear toward his interviewees, who had been indispensable in shaping his understanding? He went beyond academic engagement by helping them secure employment through his considerable network. Later, he published the article “Interviewing Chinese Refugees: Indispensable Tool for Legal Research on China” to document his approach. Finally, translation remained a persistent challenge in his work, as Chinese and English legal terminology presented intricate linguistic hurdles. His writing is sprinkled with self-deprecation and many jokes, recalling a suggestion from his wife that he could have sold more books by titling his work Sex, Chinese Law, and You! He also found himself confronted by academic scepticism, particularly from colleagues who questioned his extensive time abroad, remarking wryly, “If you fellows are professors, why aren’t you professing instead of taking so much time off to study China?”

His transition to Harvard marked a deepening of his comparative law expertise and China scholarship. Exposure to both the law school and Asian studies faculty at Harvard enhanced his understanding of public international law. One of his guiding motivations in Chinese studies was to facilitate the integration of communist China, called “Red China” at the time, into the world community. As the Vietnam War escalated, he became vocal in student protests, leading to tensions with alumni who disapproved of such activism. He also observed Harvard’s complex relationship with the government and military. Alongside colleagues from Harvard and MIT, he engaged in discussions on how Washington might soften its stance toward Beijing. With the upcoming 1968 U.S. presidential election, he and fellow scholars hoped to influence the incoming administration to end the prolonged diplomatic stalemate. The book underscores the cyclical nature of history, emphasising that similar geopolitical and legal struggles will continue.

In the late 1970s, the author was drawn into China’s emerging legal landscape when General Motors contacted him for assistance in structuring a joint venture investment in the country. As international businesses rushed in, he found himself at the centre of pioneering legal collaboration with the PRC. He conducted intensive training sessions for tax law officials and educators in Dalian, working within a system where no licensed lawyers existed. I’ve read a number of books about the Cultural Revolution, but not many accounts of the opening up of China and how difficult it must have been to find people to fill these roles. China’s legal profession had been dismantled during the Anti-Rightist Campaign and had yet to be formally reinstated. His request for financial documentation was denied on the grounds that such information constituted “state secrets,” leading him to urge Chinese authorities to reconsider their stance if they wished to attract foreign investment. Once again, these situations will resonate with anyone who has done business in China.

Around this time, his work started to expand elsewhere in the region. I would have also appreciated a brief overview explaining the political context behind Future President Kim Dae-jung’s kidnapping by the KCIA. While the author provides such background in other chapters, this section assumes the reader already has knowledge of South Korea at the time. Instead, the chapter opens with a discussion of the art tours available to his wife, leaving me to refer to Wikipedia to catch up.

By 1981, he made the difficult decision to leave Harvard to establish law offices in Beijing and Hong Kong, embracing the opportunity to shape China’s legal framework firsthand. His practice quickly expanded beyond traditional legal work, delving into trademark protection for companies such as IBM and Honda. Negotiating contract issues was complicated by deep-seated anti-Japanese sentiment stemming from World War II, which was evident when Japanese companies were deliberately excluded from industry conferences. In these sections, I wish he had described how he approached such difficult and sensitive situations. In his effort to acknowledge everyone who played a role in his journey, he occasionally delves too deeply into lists of Yale alumni he lunched with, rather than offering deeper insights into how he navigated complex social and legal challenges. I do wish he had provided a clearer window into his thought processes and decision making strategies.

Beyond corporate disputes, he also assisted in drafting China’s first foreign corporate and individual income tax legislation, marking another milestone in his legal work. His advocacy extended to human rights, supporting political prisoners in Taiwan, the Philippines, and South Korea through Harvard’s Center for International Affairs, which he had twice transformed into a haven for persecuted Asian democratic leaders. The Tiananmen Square crackdown of 1989 had severe consequences for legal and business relations. Rejecting an invitation to speak at an international rule-of-law conference hosted by PRC officials, he denounced their audacity in organising such an event so soon after June 4th. Western and Japanese investors halted operations in China, leading to sharp revenue declines for his law offices.

China’s legal system slowly evolved in the 1990s. Following Deng Xiaoping’s southern tour, the PRC permitted select foreign law firms to formally register under their own names. As this change unfolded, he neared retirement. By 1997, at age sixty-seven, he entered his firm’s “eldering process,” officially retiring at seventy with mixed emotions. Reflecting on his career, he recognised the limitations of working exclusively with government and corporate elites. His proposal to improve legal representation at the grassroots level was met with scepticism, as most Chinese lawyers operated within local government patronage systems and were reluctant to oppose official interests. His experience revealed the insularity that came with navigating high-level negotiations, underscoring the enduring challenges of legal reform in China and understanding the limitations of China’s legal and social systems.

Given the expansive scope of this book, I compiled a list of mindsets and behaviours that I found particularly inspiring.

1. Commitment to Lifelong Learning
   A classic immigrant-family devotion to education shaped his discipline. Even in his forties, he dedicated himself to rigorous Mandarin Chinese language studies, proving that learning new skills is possible at any stage of life. He describes it as, “I decided to do two hours every morning five days a week. Every hour required at least two hours of home preparation, so this was a major commitment, but I was determined to prove that, even at age forty-one, I was not too old to learn a new East Asian language.”
   

2. Courage to Defy Convention
   He pursued paths others discouraged, carefully considering their concerns but ultimately following his own interests. His drive to become America’s first specialist in contemporary Chinese law reflected a pioneering mindset. He was discouraged from studying something described as a “narrow speciality” with such intensity, without knowing whether any opportunities would come from it. Although Cohen was very much within the system and a member of numerous old boys’ clubs, his independent thinking lent itself to his skills in critical analysis, advocacy, ethical integrity, and leadership in legal innovation.
   

3. Partnership as a Foundation for Growth
   His marriage embodied mutual support, with each partner taking turns to pursue their own ambitions. Their opportunities were expanded through collaboration, whether through joint academic pursuits, securing research funding, or improving their language skills during their honeymoon. Although I don’t envy many of the employment or legal situations of the women profiled, I do envy how, for his example, his wife “… also saw greater opportunities to pursue her interests in Asian art history. Not only was she excited about the possibilities for faculty spouses to audit the many courses Harvard offered in Japanese and Chinese art, literature, and history, but the staff of the great Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, Massachusetts, and its school for budding artists warmly welcomed her contributions to lectures and to weekly educational television programs on art.” I have been a trailing spouse before, sometimes without work rights, and my partner’s employer certainly wasn’t offering free university classes, art tours or other enriching activities. We can’t know what happened beyond what is described in this book, but he dedicates quite a bit of space to his concerns over the education, employment and enjoyment of his wife and children.
   

4. Embracing New Experiences
   A mindset focused on anticipation of future adventures defined his approach to career and life transitions. Aside from his many international and interstate moves, he included in his studies of China’s legal systems a working knowledge of China’s “…history, philosophy, society, economics, politics and culture…” Furthermore, even if he decided not to go down a particular path, he displays a deep respect and curiosity for what others were doing. One does not get the impression that people had to be ‘useful’ to him in order for him to take an interest in them. A genuine curiosity and a love of learning radiates through many of his social interactions. When faced with challenges later in his career, he said “Would I continue to be part of history in China or simply record it at home? Giving up on this adventure seemed inconsistent with the pioneering aspirations that had led me into Chinese studies two decades earlier.”
   

5. The Power of Community and Networking
   Social interactions through shared hobbies (So much tennis in this book), meals, and professional gatherings played a vital role in career opportunities. He fully recognises that many of these networking meals were benefiting from the fact that the vast majority of his colleagues had partners not in paid employment who could manage the household and host on what seemed to be a professional level. He said, “It was an era when most faculty spouses were women who had not undertaken full-time employment and had the leisure to squander on gracious entertainment. Indeed, the pace of Harvard social life seemed so swift that it began to infringe on my research and class preparation. Nevertheless, it felt good to both of us to be appreciated and even flattered.”
   
   Building connections through shared hobbies and meals has long been a cornerstone of both social life and career advancement. These personal bonds can open doors professionally, offering mentorship, job opportunities, or simply a strong support system. Yet, today’s work culture has shifted toward remote interactions, digital communication, and packed schedules that leave little room for leisurely networking. The decline in communal activities and shared meals means fewer opportunities to build meaningful relationships, making professional connections feel more transactional than personal. On the other hand, these social networks can also serve as a barrier to exclude others who may not come from the same social background as those in the in group.
   

6. Commitment to Writing as a Skill
   He recognised writing, particularly legal writing, as a craft. He valued the distinct voices of others and admired the precision of seasoned legal minds. He said, “That is why Justice Frankfurter urged me to improve my writing and why he strongly suggested that the best way to do so would be to write something for at least fifteen minutes a day. “Write anything,” he said. “It doesn’t matter, so long as you keep practicing.” Throughout this memoir, Cohen encountered numerous situations where clear thinking and persuasive writing were essential to achieving meaningful influence on legal reform and policy.
   

7. Sustaining Connections Throughout Life
   Even in retirement, he maintains active relationships and purpose through correspondence, publications, and digital meetings, showing how intellectual engagement can remain fulfilling well into later years. Reflecting on his time after retiring from the law firm, he observed that “Especially during the recent COVID-19 years, the publications, emails, phone calls, Zoom meetings, and visits of this distinguished six-decade harvest of talent have informed and sustained me. They have made the retirement from teaching that I chose at ninety barely noticeable.”
   

8. Focused Expertise with Broad Curiosity
   Despite exploring a range of disciplines, he remained committed to developing a specialised academic and legal field, adhering to the principle that self-limitation is a mark of mastery. While he broadened his scope to include the legal systems of other East Asian countries and briefly studied Japanese, his primary focus remained on China.
   

Cohen is very keen to acknowledge everyone who contributed to his journey. It doesn’t come across as name-dropping, but the level of detail often including defining characteristics, degrees, and graduation years (typically from Yale) sometimes slows the momentum of the chapters. At times, I wished he had focused more on how he approached challenges in his career. For example, insights into his culture shock when switching universities, managing multiple responsibilities like teaching, publishing, and securing grants, would have added valuable perspective. Balancing an international legal career with academic engagement proved difficult and he sought to remain involved in university life but not overly committed. These struggles speak to his prestige and readers who work in academia today won’t recognise the world he worked in, particularly in the cushy working arrangements and luxurious housing. Additionally, after the Tiananmen massacre, he mentions the criticism he faced, such as accusations of either being “a friend of China” or a “running dog” for the regime, but he does not explore his personal reflections on these tensions or how it made him feel. This theme recurs throughout his career, from the Red China Scare during McCarthyism to Tiananmen and even into the pandemic era, making it a crucial topic for anyone navigating similar ethical conflicts today.

The dilemma of assisting China’s legal and economic development while simultaneously advocating for dissidents is touched upon but not deeply examined until the end of the book. He said, “Instead, they argue, engagement has enabled a communist dictatorship to become increasingly repressive at home and a threat to world peace and the values we cherish. Implicit in this view is the belief that those of us who sought to assist in the early efforts of Deng Xiaoping’s Open Door Policy to improve the legal system of the People’s Republic of China (PRC) and its practice of both domestic and international law were not merely wasting our efforts but, like Dr. Frankenstein, had created a monster.” He discusses this viewpoint in the final chapter Was Helping China Build Its Post-1978 Legal System a Mistake? I think I would have preferred these thoughts interwoven throughout the earlier chapters rather than saved for the conclusion, but it was a pleasant surprise to find at the end.

For readers interested in East Asian policy and law, this book feels like having a mentor at your fingertips. It’s rare to find such a strong interdisciplinary work written by someone who had a front-row seat to major world events. It is in these final chapters that his love, understanding and admiration for the Chinese people shine through, particularly in his later years as he expanded his legal work from the corporations to the countryside. His engagement with and support of activists gave him fresh insight into Chinese law, making for a compelling conclusion. Students should turn to this work to trace the evolution of China’s legal and political landscape. More than just a historical account, it serves as a testament to the power of curiosity, dedication, and lifelong learning and reminds us that it’s never too late to grow, redefine ourselves, and shape the world around us.

This book was kindly provided by Columbia University Press for review.

Eastward, Westward: A Life in Law
by Jerome A. Cohen
Biographies & Memoirs | History | Politics & Current Affairs

The War for Chinese Talent in America: The Politics of Technology and Knowledge in Sino-U.S. Relations by David Zweig
Association for Asian Studies
Publication date: 16 July 2024

Scam: Inside Southeast Asia's Cybercrime Compounds
by Ivan Franceschini; Ling Li; Mark Bo
Publication date: Jul 08 2025

In an era where cybercrime increasingly dominates the global threat landscape, one particularly insidious form has taken root in Southeast Asia. Scam: Inside Southeast Asia’s Cybercrime Compounds reveals the origins and dynamics of the region’s industrial-scale scam operations. These operations are run out of office compounds by transnational criminal networks and are fuelled by forced labour. Types of scams range from ‘pig butchering’ romance scams, task scams, e-commerce scams, blackmail, investment scams to impersonating law enforcement. Of course, these workers are often held for ransom, with their families pressured to pay for hope of their release. These scam compounds absorb every novel digital technology, utilising sophisticated AI tools, phony crypto exchanges, ChatGPT conversations, and increasingly polished online personas. Yet, behind the screens and phishing emails lies something profoundly archaic: slavery. It is a fluid, international enterprise in which “… a Chinese perpetrator residing in Cambodia trafficked a Filipino individual to deceive a US citizen, using credit cards from Dubai for money laundering.’

People are being trafficked, coerced, or deceived into labour across borders and forced into defrauding people around the world through e-mail, phone, social media and even online multiplayer gaming. After being transported into compounds surrounded by guards and barbed wire, they are then subjected to militaristic discipline, physical abuse, sleep deprivation, stress positions, sexual abuse and psychological manipulation, all to serve as the human machinery behind these scams. This new book by Ivan Franceschini, Ling Li and Mark Bo offers a disturbing investigation into the expansion of these brutal compounds, combining extensive fieldwork, map surveys, financial investigations, survivor interviews, and social media reviews to present one of the most comprehensive portraits yet of this growing form of modern slavery. The authors’ regional expertise and understanding of the social aspects at play is undeniable. Bo and Franceschini have tracked Chinese investment and labour rights abuses in Cambodia since the early 2010s, while Li has worked closely with dozens of survivors since 2022. Throughout the text, the authors interweave their own personal stories and those of friends impacted by the scam industry, adding a human dimension to what might otherwise be a purely academic work.

This grounding enables them to draw out nuanced patterns in how people are recruited and trafficked. For example, they are not all highly educated or digitally literate, contrary to the previous news media portrayals of higher profile victims. Many are economically vulnerable individuals, driven abroad by financial desperation, job loss during the pandemic, or promises of work in industries such as construction, hospitality or office administration. Once recruited through legitimate seeming job ads or a personal referral, complete with professional interviews and onboarding, they are kidnapped, frequently transported across borders, and transported to a compound. One of the more horrifically ingenious methods included hiring people to start work at what appeared to be a normal company, providing training for the fake job and then offering them a “team-building” trip (not uncommon at all in corporate environments in the region) and taking them across borders to the scam compounds. Most victims enter the countries legally, as corrupt immigration and airport authorities work with traffickers. Many sign an employment contract, unaware of what is before them and how it will be later used to say their grievances are a labour dispute rather than human trafficking.

What unfolds is a dystopia. These compounds are often styled as “technology parks,” hiding vast criminal infrastructure behind hotel and casino façades. Victims describe rigid hierarchies, dormitory / prison style living conditions under constant surveillance, and reward systems where those who meet scam quotas may receive bonuses (which will never be enough to buy their freedom, as their ‘employers’ constantly increase the fees related to their meagre housing and food) or access to trafficked women as a “perk.” Violence, torture, malnourishment and sexual assault are commonplace. Rescue attempts are sporadic at best, hampered by corruption, lack of regional cooperation, and language barriers. Police are just as likely to prosecute rescuers and the victims, if they don’t simply hand back any escapees to their captors. In some jurisdictions, laws don’t even recognise men as victims of trafficking, further complicating their ability to seek help. Victims who manage to reach out to their country’s consulates are told to contact the local police and are then isolated and beaten in punishment for seeking to escape. Each chapter is a relentless nightmare of incompetence, disinterest, corruption and evil.

The authors carefully illuminate the economic and political ecosystems that allow these compounds to flourish. Far from being isolated, parasitic organisations, they are deeply embedded in local economies. These scam compounds have become economic lifelines during and post-COVID, employing local workers in auxiliary roles, propping up struggling restaurants and vendors, and stimulating real estate development. Local elites, enriched by years of land grabs and speculative investments, have a vested interest in enabling or at least tolerating the scam industry. The compounds offer yet another lucrative source of revenue. The result? A chilling inversion of public morality, where even the presence of corpses near compounds draws little outrage, and escapees are handed back by self-serving locals. If that doesn’t make you lose your faith in humanity enough, the authors also profile online influencers who cosplayed as ‘rescuers’ for internet clout, making it even more difficult for legitimate victims and their families to find the help they desperately need. In the beginning of the book, I would have liked a more general introduction to the origins and history of the influential families associated with these compounds. For example, the text refers to the “Four Families that have long been known to control the administration, police, military and organised crime…” These brief paragraphs introduce a dizzying array of names and groups, making it difficult to keep track of where the events were unfolding. The authors do come back around with further explanations in Chapter 4, Players and Enablers.

Crucially, this book refuses to flatten the complexity of its subject matter. Rather than place all blame on foreign investment, it highlights the complex interplay of push and pull factors. They discuss the regulatory gaps, corruption, porous borders, and the complicity or active participation of local authorities. At the same time, it offers a much-needed corrective to overly simplistic narratives about victimhood. The common assumption of a clean divide between “offenders” and “victims” does not hold here. Many victims are coerced into scamming others, creating what criminologists call a “victim-offender overlap.” This nuance is vital, especially in policy and legal frameworks that still struggle to classify these individuals as legitimate victims of trafficking. Law enforcement, consulates and immigration officials are typically complacent or criminally disinterested in helping any of these victims. When the victims find themselves released, they will typically be detained by the country’s immigration facilities. The profile of a very young woman who struggled to breastfeed her newborn while being held in immigration detention turned my stomach.

Contrary to previous publications, the authors challenged the perception of the Chinese state as a monolithic actor capable of controlling its diaspora or criminal elements abroad. Instead, what emerges is a fragmented picture of competing interests. Some scammers are fugitives from Chinese law enforcement, armed with foreign passports and bolstered by connections to triads, gambling magnates, and even political patrons across Southeast Asia. The Chinese government’s rhetoric, particularly its suspicion of “foreign hostile forces,” unfortunately deters victims from seeking help from NGOs and civil society actors, whom Chinese citizens have been increasingly conditioned to distrust. This creates a chilling loop where victims are vulnerable to exploitation, suspicious of aid, and often unreachable by foreign or local actors who genuinely want to help them.

As a Mandarin speaker, I found the inclusion of bilingual text and translations of official terms, puns and cultural idioms particularly enriching. Including new terms and slang also shows the humour, creativity and resilience of the people. These linguistic choices serve not just as translation aids but as cultural keys, unlocking deeper layers of meaning behind victims’ experiences and their hesitancy to engage with rescue channels. I was glad to see coverage of scams where an individual impersonates Chinese police officers or government officials in phone or online to intimidate overseas Chinese citizens into believing they are under investigation. These scammers often demand personal information or large sums of money, threatening arrest or deportation if the victim does not comply. Awareness of these scams is essential, as many of the techniques are able to flourish due to the vulnerability and isolation of Chinese citizens overseas. Many victims from Taiwan faced additional challenges due to the absence of formal ties between Taiwan and other countries in the region. This is just one of the many factors traffickers have taken advantage of to prey upon Mandarin-speakers. Issues in the Asia Pacific region are often underrepresented in criminological scholarship, making books like this not only timely but also essential. Such works contribute to a more comprehensive understanding of regional challenges and provide critical insights that are frequently overlooked in mainstream criminology literature.

The final chapters detail how the industry is adapting and expanding. From its origins in Taiwan and China in the early 2000s, the scam economy has now rooted itself deeply in Southeast Asia, morphing into an ever more sophisticated, decentralised, and elusive force. Pandemic-era desperation accelerated its growth, but the infrastructure, impunity, and profit motives were already in place. Today, hundreds of thousands may be trapped in these networks, fuelling a machine that manipulates victims and targets alike. The scale is staggering and deeply sobering. We are often urged to consider the slave labour behind our clothes or household goods, but how often do we stop to realise that the scammer we just hung up on may have been a slave, and that, for a fleeting moment, we were unknowingly connected to them across the miles?

I finished this book about a week before writing this review, and it has lingered in my thoughts ever since. It reminded me of Fatal Distraction, the 2010 Pulitzer Prize winning article by Gene Weingarten, which explored the stories of parents who unintentionally left their children in cars. That piece revealed how a simple change in routine can lead to devastating consequences, prompting many readers to reflect on their ideas of criminality and to question their assumptions about the kinds of people these tragedies happen to. Too often, scam and trafficking victims are dismissed as foolish, greedy, or naïve. But as I read, I began to reflect on how easily we could find ourselves in similar circumstances. I’ve travelled alone as a young woman to the places profiled in this book. I’ve accepted job offers or networking invites across the region based on referrals from acquaintances. I’ve met people from the internet. I’ve gotten into company cars believing I was heading to further interviews related to a recruitment process. This book is important because it shifts our perspective from judgment to empathy. This is an essential change, as it is the absence of empathy that allows such exploitation to persist and denies victims redress. By exposing the techniques used by traffickers, the authors equip readers with the understanding needed to prevent the creation of future victims.

This book is a brilliant display of investigative reporting. It is a vital resource for policymakers, journalists, human rights workers, and anyone trying to understand one of the most grotesque intersections of technology, global capitalism, and human exploitation. While the authors tread carefully, protecting survivor identities and never sensationalising their suffering, they do not shy away from the horror. Nor should they. In the end, Scam is a terrifying, masterfully researched, and urgently necessary read. It challenges our assumptions, demands accountability, and reminds us that even in our hyper-connected digital age, the most ancient forms of human cruelty still find new ways to thrive.

This book was provided by Verso Books for review.