Criminals, victims or passive accomplices? The role of women in the Yakuza has always drawn little to no attention, as the image of the most famous Japanese organized crime cartel is by definition linked to the most toxic masculinity stereotypes. A recent article by Tomohiro Osaki (AFP) recounts the life of Mako Nishimura, a woman who defied convention by becoming one of Japan’s extremely rare female members of the criminal underworld known as the Yakuza. Her missing fingertip, the result of the ritual yubitsume (finger amputation) used to express apology or penance in yakuza culture, signals her deep involvement.
Nishimura’s path began early: she drifted from a rigid, authoritarian family into delinquency and biker gangs in her youth. Eventually, she was drawn into yakuza circles, where she collected debts, operated prostitution and drug networks, and even mediated between rival groups. In a marked break with standard gender roles, Nishimura participated in the sakazuki ceremony (the sake-cup ritual that formally binds a member to a gang), making her one of the few—and perhaps only—women to do so. Yet her time in the underworld was volatile and ultimately unsustainable. She fled, married, had children—but tattoos, gang ties, and instability thwarted her attempts at a “normal” life. After several returns and departures, she severed ties, found work in demolition, and today lives quietly, trying to repair relations with society and help others with similar pasts. Her story is positioned as one of redemption, of resilience, and of an exceptional journey in a male-dominated world. While Nishimura’s story is dramatic and exceptional, it also casts light on the broader, often hidden world of women in Japan’s organized crime.
Marginal but not invisible
Historically, women’s involvement in the yakuza has been constrained. They rarely hold formal or high-ranking roles; instead, their influence tends to be informal and domestic. A key study by Ryu Otomo noted that women connected to yakuza members—wives, partners, daughters—often take on financial or emotional support roles: managing household affairs, caring for the family, or quietly facilitating business from behind the scenes. Another account describes that women are often relegated to roles labeled ane-san (older sister) who might intervene in disputes, control female staff in hostess clubs, or operate as intermediaries—but without formal membership in the gangster hierarchy. Mako Nishimura’s case thus stands out not just for her singular gender identity in that role, but for her bold crossing of symbolic lines: adopting tattoos, cutting her finger in oath, and operating in physically violent, traditionally masculine spheres. As one analysis puts it: “she lived as a male yakuza and retired as one.” That said, her journey was rife with contradictions: despite her deep involvement, she remained an exception, did not seek to be a feminist icon, and was ultimately constrained by her gender, her past, and the social barriers she never completely transcended. Several scholarly works explore how cultural norms and formal regulations limit women’s autonomy in criminal organizations in Japan. A paper titled “Outsiders Amongst Outsiders: A Cultural Criminological Perspective on the Sub-Subcultural World of Women in the Yakuza Underworld” argues that women often operate on the periphery—not because they lack capacity but because the subculture enforces exclusion. Others observe how legal reforms and anti-gang laws in Japan have heightened scrutiny and made formal membership more threatening. That means women’s roles remain more clandestine and less documented, reinforcing the stereotype of passive association even when the truth is more complex. Another recent commentary describes how many narratives portray women in Yakuza as victims or appendages, but interviews and memoirs suggest that many assert agency—even if within constrained boundaries.
Contested narratives and media framing
Popular culture often amplifies the myth of the “lady gangster,” but these portrayals are more fantasy than reality. The media tend to highlight rare female criminals for dramatic effect, and the average involvement of women in gang-adjacent roles is under-appreciated. As one modern article remarks: “a Yakuza cannot be a woman … a mere mention of the word means a male member or a boss.” That in itself speaks volumes about the deeply embedded gender norms. The story of Mako Nishimura offers a gripping, human lens on what is usually an opaque, forbidding world. Yet she remains outlier—not archetype. For most women connected to the Yakuza, power is mediated through domestic, relational, informal channels. Their stories are seldom told, obscured by law, secrecy, and stereotype. Still, her saga—of violence, loyalty, escape, and redemption—challenges assumptions. It forces us to ask: what would it take for more women to claim formal roles? And how does society view those who attempt to cross that boundary? As the underworld evolves under pressure from law enforcement, social change, and economic shifts, the space for women may slowly recalibrate. But for now, the Yakuza remains deeply gendered territory—and Mako’s fingertip is perhaps the starkest reminder of how high the cost is for the rare woman who dares to step across its threshold.