THE JAPANESE OCCUPATION, RYUJI, ME AND 8:15 HIROSHIMA

Anyone who knows me is aware I love lacing on my Merrell hikers, with Japan being a choice travel destination. I adore the country with its mesh of tradition and ultra hi-tech modernism, and its delightful people, culture, besides the gastronomic encounter, from grass roots eats to haute cuisine. It is a land of endless places of wonders and mystery, not to mention countless quirks, eateries and convenience stores. Then there are the vending machines with a myriad of products. They stock cold and hot beverages and offer a mindboggling variety to suit every taste. Beyond that, it swells to trinkets and toys, to baby diapers and batteries, to food the likes of fish soup and ramen. Indeed, cakes in cans - souffles in various flavours. The list goes on.

Still, there is their iconic Shinkansen, the fabulous bullet train that’ll deliver you to central Tokyo from Osaka quicker than a Boeing; all without the irksome airport hassles. They are also a better ride in smoothness, seat comfort, legroom, and lesser noise, along with scoffing on a meal from the platform kiosk’s ample selection. In my case, I favour a delectable bento box with a Boss coffee, endorsed by no less than the great Tommy Lee Jones. It’s poles from the usual bland airline slop. Japan is a country in which I could easily live.

But my sentiments differ from how I felt decades ago.

Hiroshima Peace Memorial (Genbaku Dome)

I grew up learning about Japan’s invasion of Malaya (then counting Singapore Island) followed by its occupation. And although the elders lived through it, non-fiction texts were my main source of knowledge. With the folks, it came across as morsels here and there, when I pried away their masks and aversion to revisiting the darkest years of their lives. Their traumas. They minimised the impact of their experiences when answering my questions, then shifted the topic.

No sooner had the British surrendered Singapore when the civilian carnage began. It kicked off with the brutal Sook Ching, meaning to purge through cleansing. Besides the random isolated killings, there were no less than eleven killing fields across the isle, including some with names familiar to today’s tourists. For instance, the Sentosa Golf Course shore, and the Punggol and Tanah Merah beaches, of which the latter no longer exists. The Changi Airport runway entombs it. As if the mass slaughters weren’t vile enough, the killers displayed severed heads planted upon stakes at prominent spots within the city. Its aim was to subdue the populace through sheer terror. And it worked.

It was the ethnic Chinese who suffered the utmost under the intruders. They formed the vast majority of those killed during the purge. The Kempeitai - their military police - targeted persons they deemed anti-Japanese and there were plenty of Chinese who loathed them. Or, at the least, held distrust of them. Who could blame the Chinese? Many had relations in China. The northwest Pacific Orientals invaded China in 1937, during which the infamous ‘Rape of Nanking’ (now Nanjing) occurred. It was genocide. They massacred 200,000 civilians (with some estimates beyond 300,000) and POWs (around 40,000), plus raped up to 80,000 women and daughters. That was besides the looting and destruction of property and crops. They had also invaded Northeast China earlier in 1931.

In Singapore, then on the Malay mainland afterwards, they nabbed many locals and ended them for the puniest of reasons. Such as not bowing deep enough, having donated to the communist cause, or sporting tattoos, regardless of whether the ‘badges’ were gang related. Or showing staunch loyalty to the British. What irony? The Maoists were Britain’s foes, too.

I’d learnt too about the plunder of Chinese assets through the deceitfully named Overseas Chinese Association. It was an initiative of the Japanese. But hardly altruistic. They held people hostage and demanded ransoms from the OCA. By war’s end, Japan had gained $50 million for their war chest, a vast sum in those days.

Over and above the aforesaid, there was the suffering of the POWs at Changi. And during the construction of the ill-famed Burma Railway.

I’d seen occupation survivors react with curses ahead of jetting spittle at the merest mention of the Nipponese. The milder of the verbal was often phrases like “Jipun-kui!” meaning ‘Japanese Devil.’ All else I shan’t repeat. Then, they’d clam tight, saying no more. But their inadvertent lingering facial miens spoke of their pain and the contempt for their abusers. Given their pain, who could blame them?

Likewise, my parents, children in 1942, have said little, choosing not to return to an era of anguish. When asked, they deflected the issue by swapping the subject. But in later life, my dad spoke of his story at age twelve, fending for himself and his kid brother, but bypassing the abhorrent. My grandma in Penang split her family, sending her offspring to various parts of the country to ensure our clan survived the Occupation. It proved a sound decision.

It was in this setting that I, a receptive child, formed an early notion of the northern Asiatics. But despite what I had gleaned, the elders’ disdain hadn’t adhered to me. I simply didn’t know what to expect from the Nipponese. My image of them was not unlike Hollywood’s clichéd depiction: short-sighted, obstinate, and inclined to shouting their lungs out. Caricature-like.

By the time I settled in Newcastle, Australia as a young adult, I’d travelled swaths of Malaysia, trekked miles in the wild jungles of Borneo, and backpacked my way through Europe. But I held no thoughts whatsoever of seeing Japan. Then I met Ryuji years later, a transplant like myself. Stoked by a shared interest in architecture and music, he proved the most pleasant and humble man, altering my entire notion of the Nipponese male. He soon became a visitor to my home. Eventually, he changed universities and moved back to Sydney, but by then, he’d made a lasting impression on me.

Also, Akiko, a delightful Japanese lady from Gifu, whom I had the privilege of meeting after moving to Queensland for the climate. She remains a family friend. By the bye, the Gold Coast, once sunny, storms with constancy now because of climate change. It drives me mad.

They sparked a deep curiosity, and I soon - unwittingly at first - grew a love for their native land despite the texts I read on the Pacific War; all of which cited their atrocities. A point needs mention here. Japan had abolished feudalism seven decades earlier and was rising out of a 250-year self-imposed isolation from overseas exchange. But as you would expect with any cultural shift, centuries-old traditions and medieval mindsets are resistant to change. In their case, such as favouring suicide to ceding to a foe, and their treatment of underlings - beatings, etc. What we view in the West as abuse. It’s no wonder they handled Allied POWs the same way. I state the above not to excuse their behaviour, but to understand its root cause.

Then, in December 2015, I came across a gem quite by chance when sifting through the rows of non-fiction books at my local library. My fingers set upon a book called Rising from the Ashes: A True Story of Survival and Forgiveness from Hiroshima by Dr Akiko Mikamo. A title of which I was unaware. The author re-titled it 8:15 more recently.

As luck would have it, I’d just returned from an autumn trip to Nihon. Bummer! It had encompassed Tokyo, the graceful Mount Fuji - or Fujisan as it’s affectionately called by the locals - and Kanazawa across the main island of Honshu on the Sea of Japan.

Within several pages of the book, I rued not having roved westward to Hiroshima on my recent visit. Idiot! I swore at myself.

Dr Mikamo is one of three daughters of a survivor of the atomic bomb code-named Little Boy dropped on Hiroshima on 6 August 1945. Born, bred and schooled in Hiroshima, she is a clinical psychologist, executive coach and speaker based in the United States. She believes in world peace and in harmonious relationships, through healthy psyches.

Image credit: Amazon

Rather than placing a summary of the book risking spoilers, I thought it best to replicate the book description from Amazon:

This is a true and incredible story of a Japanese adolescent, Shinji Mikamo, who miraculously survived the first atomic bombing of human kinds. He was on top of his house roof with nothing to shield him at only ¾ of a mile (1,200m) from the epicenter in Hiroshima on August 6, 1945 toward the end of the World War II. But what made Shinji stand out from most of the survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, or even of many other man-made disasters in our history, he never hated Americans as aggressors. He somehow saw things from a much bigger perspective even in the very strict Japanese military government’s mind control of civilians during the war. As one of his three legacy-carrying daughters, Dr. Akiko Mikamo wrote his story to send out the messages of human love and power of forgiveness to remind the world our worst enemies of yesterday could become the best friends of tomorrow.

When I finished the book, I recall putting it down, feeling sentiments of inspiration clashing against sadness and, I confess, some rile. It wasn’t the first publication I’d read about Hiroshima and Nagasaki, although they were, to a book, written by historians. Western ones at that, skilled and knowledgeable as they are. Dr Mikamo’s book was the exception. It was the first authentic account I had absorbed written from the Japanese standpoint. Plus, it was a personal account; not by a third-party.

Despite seeing both sides of the picture, it made me revisit the questions I’d long held.

The uncomfortable... the inconvenient…

The devastation of Hiroshima by the atomic bomb on 6 Aug 1945

I’m a firm believer in the time-honoured adages regarding history, which you will find on the homepage.

For example, the words of the philosopher George Santayana:

“Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

Or those of Hajo Holborn, a German-American historian:

“History gives answers only to those who know how to ask questions.”

And that of Confucius:

“Study the past if you would define the future.”

Thus, I always query what I extract from the pages of history.

As I did - still do - with Hiroshima.

I (and I realise I’m not alone) harbour cynicism about its choice for the Little Boy atom bomb, and I’ll outline my thoughts. The purpose isn’t to sway you, but to encourage you to reflect. Then decide for yourself what sits right with you. Or otherwise.

In WWII, the Western Allies had stockpiled chemical weapons at strategic locations but not deployed them, with the question of morality barring their use. One would think they’d apply the same ethics towards atomic bombs? Yet they razed Hiroshima? Then Nagasaki?

Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall, Oct 1945

With the former, the bombardier’s aiming point was a T-shaped bridge in the city centre, square in its commercial zone, and miles from a military target of value. Even the motive of ending the city’s economic structure seems disingenuous. Japan was on its knees. The Allies would have been aware, via their intel services and news from neutral channels.

That the majority of casualties were civilian suggests the target wasn’t a legitimate one. The civilians afflicted numbered between 70,000-126,000 (some estimates rose to 200,000) from a city of 340,000 residents. Meanwhile, 7,000-20,000 were servicemen. Still, those soldiers were teens or the elderly. Not crack troops. While there’s variance in the numbers based on the sources, the fact remains civilians, by a huge margin, comprised the victims.

Were the Allies immune to mass civilian deaths after their wholesale bombing of Germany?

If the justification for the bomb’s use was the ruin of a military target, then they’d have decimated Kure instead. Some twenty-five kilometres away, it was Japan’s equal to Pearl Harbour. A historic port since the Edo period, it became an operational naval district in 1889. In WWII, it served as a major Imperial Japanese Navy harbour and arsenal, and was the home port of the Yamato and Musashi, the largest battleships that ever sailed. Each displaced 72,000 tons. While the US had sunk both by April 1945, its docks serviced and armed other warships. Even today, it is home to the Japanese Maritime Self-Defence Force, their Coast Guard, and the Kure Maritime Museum, which houses the Yamato Museum. Thus, we must ask why they had targeted civic Hiroshima instead. Wasn’t the USAAF’s mantra to pursue ‘precision strategic bombing’ of the enemy’s resources? In the event, Kure was untouched. So much so, Allied forces used it post-war.

The atom bomb’s aim was to bring a swift end to the war, while minimising the number of casualties. In doing so, they needed to showcase its might. Its destructive potential. A sound enough rational.

But what sits uncomfortably with me is Hiroshima or any well-populated city as a choice. Compared to today’s nuclear weapons, the Little Boy bomb was small. Still, logic dictates they could have held the demonstration anywhere, e.g. a small rural town or a forest. In the latter, trees would have been burnt, charred and felled akin to the Mount St Helens eruption in 1980. Its power shall have been apparent. And doing so near Tokyo would have shocked Emperor Hirohito and Tojo Hideki into taking notice. Pronto. Crushing Hiroshima seems senseless. An overkill. Unless the overarching goal was the inhuman one all along: to gain an adequate sample size of ‘guinea pigs’ for their scientific data. To study the effects of an atomic explosion on humans.

Its ill-effects have carried onward to this day, in the city’s descendants.

This reminds me of another adage. Aeschylus, the father of Greek tragedy, stated, “In war, truth is the first casualty.” I believe this is one such case.

These issues make me pause and query.

While Dr Mikamo’s book merely brought to the surface my extant thoughts, it brought a further message, a key part of Dr Mikamo’s narrative: One must leave the past in the past, but learn from it. And learn to forgive.

Her father’s story moved me, and I regretted having overlooked Hiroshima earlier. In that instant, I vowed to visit it in the following year.

In 2016, I fulfilled the promise I made myself. My wife and I visited Hiroshima. We stepped off the 300 kph Shinkansen from Osaka into a bustling railway station, then out into a cool, glorious autumn day. A freakish shiver struck me with suddenness, prompting me to look upwards, and I pictured the air-burst exploding 2,000 feet (600 metres) up and about 1.25 miles (2 km) away from where I stood. It took me momentarily, then I shook my wits and paced for the tram stop.

Before long, we were gazing at Hiroshima’s most famed landmark, the Atomic Bomb Dome, and the tangible link to the singular, shocking destruction of the city. Now a UNESCO World Heritage Site, it was the city’s Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall until the fateful day. It stood at 130 yards from the hypocentre, with the blast reducing it to a fractured shell of walls barely standing. An eerie sight. It filled me with gloom.

Thereafter, we cut across the Motoyasu River into the Peace Memorial Park or the Heiwa Kinen Kōen. Almost at once, we came upon the Children’s Peace Monument, a memorial to the young victims, numbering in their thousands, who perished. To our surprise, the bell-shaped structure was a wind chime embraced by a gallery of colourful artwork promoting peace. At its base, an inscription read, “This is our cry, this is our prayer, to bring peace to the world.” Despite its solemn message, it was touching, beautiful. It lifted my spirits.

The Bell of Peace, Atomic Bomb Memorial Burial Mound and the Peace Kannon Statue followed before the lengthy open mall, which begins at the Flame of Peace. This rests at the head of the Pond of Peace while the Hiroshima Victims Memorial Cenotaph, an elegant arch-shaped monument erected in 1952, presides at the opposite end. The latter hosts the names of over 220,000 victims. The cenotaph aligns with the Pond of Peace, Flame of Peace, and the A-Bomb Dome; besides the Peace Memorial Museum, in the reverse direction.

While the park proved beautiful and indeed peaceful, along with an almost palpable aura of souls lost, it was the museum I found the most stirring. Besides special exhibitions, the permanent display shows the stark reality of these weapons of conflict, and depicts the event of 6 August 1945. Among the myriad of exhibits, a twisted steel truss and a stack of glass bottles fused together. They illustrate the bomb’s force and intense heat. Then there were personal items such as a child’s tricycle, watch, and a uniform pockmarked with holes and rips. They filled me with sadness.

The Honourable Barack H. Obama, the first US President to visit Hiroshima, contributed to the gallery too. In his case, orizuru or origami paper cranes, he had made himself, after being moved by the story of Sadako Sasaki; an irradiated two-year-old. During her battle against its effects for a decade, she folded and strung together more than one thousand paper cranes in a wish for happiness and a long life.

President Barack Obama with Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe at the Hiroshima Victims Memorial Cenotaph, 27 May 2016

Throughout, it pleased me to see the memorial park and museum bustling with schoolchildren; upbeat and full of life. Watching the youths studying the exhibits, reading the epitaphs, and being enlightened gave me a sense of hope. I hope they’ll grow into our wise leaders in the future.

Dignified at every turn, the park and museum came across as purposeful in portraying the harsh realities of nuclear war and in lobbying for the abolition of such weapons. Indeed, I found a city, a region and a country, united in that cause, besides being far removed from wanting pity or trying to ‘play the victim.’ It has inspired me to slot Nagasaki onto my next trip.

The Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park and Museum moved us to the degree that we’ve vowed a repeat visit in the future. The experience humbled us.

It is a tourist and historian’s must-do.

Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park and Museum in 2016 (viewed from the northeast). The T-shaped Aioi Bridge - the bomb aiming point - is at the right edge of the photograph (partly obscured by a building).

The visit reminded me of the plain truth. War confers no true winner. Every side loses and loses markedly, with the civilian populace often suffering the greatest. The mums and dads, sisters and brothers, grandparents and cousins. In a conflict, the belligerents are invariably both right and both wrong. It beggars belief that we, a people, can’t get along despite our inherent intellect.

Street Car #651, 9 Aug 1945. The city restored and put it back into service, continuing for decades beyond.

I wholeheartedly recommend Dr Akiko Mikamo’s book 8:15 - A True Story of Survival and Forgiveness from Hiroshima. It is especially pertinent given the state of the world and folly of our leaders. This book should be required reading in all schools. In the East and West.

As for me… My outrage on Hiroshima’s behalf has eased having read 8:15 and visited the peace park. If the victims can carry themselves with grace, despite their suffering, and if they can forgive, then surely I, a third-party, should lay my miff aside.

There was a last item on our To Do list. That was to ride a genuine ‘treasure.’ Hiroshima has several trams, survived from the atomic blast, remaining in service. As it trundled and clanked along, my thoughts drifted to the poor souls who perished on the streetcar. Afterwards, we swapped to a train heading southwest. Miyajima, with its giant Torii gate, was the next magical spot on our autumn tour of Honshu, and they waited to welcome us.

Best regards,

Gabe