The Power of Memory in Modern Japan

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Author: Sven Saaler and Wolfgang Schwentker (editors)

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THE POWER OF MEMORY IN MODERN JAPAN

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THE POWER OF MEMORY IN MODERN JAPAN

Edited by Sven Saaler and Wolfgang Schwentker

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THE POWER OF MEMORY IN MODERN JAPAN Edited by Sven Saaler and Wolfgang Schwentker First published 2008 by GLOBAL ORIENTAL LTD PO Box 219 Folkestone Kent CT20 2WP UK www.globaloriental.co.uk © Global Oriental Ltd 2008 ISBN 978-1-905246-38-0 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A CIP catalogue entry for this book is available from the British Library

Set in Stone Serif 9.5 on 10.5 by IDSUK (DataConnection) L:td Printed and bound in England by Athenaeum Press, Tyne and wear

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Contents

List of Contributors Note on Transliteration INTRODUCTION 1. The Realms of Memory: Japan and Beyond SVEN SAALER and WOLFGANG SCHWENTKER

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Part 1: Memory in Politics and International Relations 2. For the Nation or for the People? History and Memory of the Nanjing Massacre in Japan TAKASHI YOSHIDA 3. Japan’s ‘Comfort Women’ and Historical Memory: The Neo-nationalist Counter-attack YONSON AHN 4. Tokko– Zaidan: A Case Study of Institutional Japanese War Memorialization M.G. SHEFTALL 5. Remembering the War Crimes Trial: The Tokyo Trial View of History YUKI TAKATORI

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6. Historical Memory and Shiba Ryo–taro–: Remembering Russia, Creating Japan ALEXANDER BUKH 7. Developing Memories: Alumni Newsletters in Japanese Development Assistance ANNETTE SKOVSTED HANSEN

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Part 2 : Institutions of Memory: Memorials, Museums, National Heroes 8. Remodelling Public Space: The Fate of War Monuments, 1945–48 MICHAEL LUCKEN

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9. The Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum and its Exhibition STEFANIE SCHÄFER

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10. A Usable Past? Historical Museums of the Self-Defence Forces and the Construction of Continuities ANDRÉ HERTRICH

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11. The New Image of Childhood in Japan During the Years 1945–49 and the Construction of a Japanese Collective Memory CHRISTIAN GALAN

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12. Sato– Eisaku, Yasuoka Masahiro and the Re-establishment of 11 February as National Day: The Political Use of National Memory in Post-war Japan EDDY DUFOURMONT

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13. How Did Saigo– Takamori Become a National Hero After His Death? The Political Uses of Saigo–’s Figure and the Interpretation of seikanron – NORIKO BERLINGUEZ-KONO

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Part 3 : Popular and Intellectual Representations of Memory 14. Literary Memories of the Pacific War – Fiction or Non-fiction? Some Criteria for Further Research on Japanese War Literature HARALD MEYER

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15. The Nokorimono Mode: Remembering the Atomic Bomb in The Diary of Moriwaki Yo–ko ADAM LEBOWITZ

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16. Becoming Insects: Imamura Sho–hei and the Entomology of Modernity BILL MIHALOPOULOS

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17. Memories of a Liberal, Liberalism of Memory: Tsuda So–kichi and a Few Things He Forgot to Mention JOËL JOOS

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Part 4: Realms of Memory – Centre and Periphery 18. New Dimensions in Sino-Japanese Relations and the Memory of the Sino-Japanese War, 1894–95 VALDO FERRETTI

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19. Development for Preservation: Localizing Collective Memory in 1960s Kanazawa PETER SIEGENTHALER

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20. The Remembrance of the 1871 Nakano Uprising in Takayama Village as a Contemporary Trauma in Village Life Today SELÇUK ESENBEL

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21. History and the Construction of Collective Memory: Positivist Historiography in the Age of the Imperial Rescript on Education ALISTAIR SWALE

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Index

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List of Contributors

Yonson Ahn is a research fellow at the East Asian Institute, the University of Leipzig, Germany. She has been conducting research on Korean ‘comfort women’ and Japanese soldiers during the Asia-Pacific War as well as on historical debates in Korea and Japan since the 1980s. – no is Associate Professor of Japanese Studies at Noriko Berlinguez-Ko the Université de Lille III, France, and an associate member of the Centre de Recherches sur le Japon at the Ecole de Hautes Études en Sciences Sociales (EHESS) where she obtained her PhD in historical sociology. Among her articles which focus on the perception of foreigners in modern and contemporary Japan is ‘Debates on Naichi Zakkyo (1879–1899): Spencerian Influence of Social Evolutionism on the Perception of the West’, in: Bert Edström (ed.), The Japanese and Europe: Images and Perceptions (2000). Alexander Bukh holds a PhD in International Relations and is currently a JSPS Postdoctoral Fellow at Waseda University in Tokyo. His research focuses on the place of Russia in modern Japan’s identity construction. He is the author of the forthcoming Japan’s National Identity and Foreign Policy: Russia as Japan’s ‘Other’. Eddy Dufourmont is a PhD candidate at The University of Tokyo and at INALCO (France). His research focuses on Yasuoka Masahiro and Confucianism in Japanese politics in the twentieth century. Selçuk Esenbel is Professor of History in the Department of History, Bogazici University in Istanbul. She is the author of Even the Gods Rebel: Peasants of Takaino and the 1871 Nakano Uprising (1998) and co-editor of

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The Rising Sun and the Turkish Crescent: New Perspectives on JapaneseTurkish Relations (2003). In 2007, she was awarded the Japan Foundation Special Prize for Japanese Studies. Valdo Ferretti is an Associate Professor at the Faculty of Oriental Studies at the University of Rome ‘La Sapienza’ and a member of the Italian Institute for Africa and the East. Among his books is Da Portsmouth a Sarajevo: la politica estera giapponese e l’equilibri o europeo (1905–1914) (1989). Christian Galan is an Associate Professor at the Department for Foreign Languages, Japanese Section, at the Université de Toulouse-Le Mirail in France, author of L’Enseignement de la lecture au Japon – Politique et éducation (2002) and co-editor of Langue, lecture et école au Japan (2006). Annette Skovsted Hansen is an Associate Professor at the University of Aarhus, Denmark. Her research focuses on the history of Japanese development assistance. She co-edited Aid Relationships in Asia: Exploring Ownership in Japanese and Nordic Aid in Asia (2007). André Hertrich is a PhD candidate in Japanese History and a graduate student in Peace and Conflict Studies at the Centre for Conflict Studies in Marburg, Germany. He has been conducting research on the civil-military relations in post-war Japan and the build-up of the Self Defence Forces. Joël Joos received his PhD at the University of Leuven (Belgium) and is currently a JSPS Fellow at the University of Okayama. Recent publications – kichi’s View of China,’ in East include ‘A Stinking Tradition: Tsuda So Asian History 28 (December 2004), and ‘The Insignificant Sinification: Tsuda So–kichi’s (1873–1961) Views on the Fate of Chinese Thought in Japan’, in Japanizing – The Structure and Culture of Thinking in Japan (2006). Adam Lebowitz teaches English as a Foreign Language at the University of Tsukuba. His recent political essays and translations have appeared on the website Japan Focus. His Japanese poetry has been published in the literary monthly Shi to Shiso–. Michael Lucken is an Associate Professor at the Institut Nationale des Langues et Civilisations Orientales, Paris, and author of Grenades et amertume: les peintres japonais a l’epreuve de la guerre, 1935–1952 (2005). Harald Meyer is an Associate Professor at the East Asian Seminar at the University of Zurich and author of Die ‘Taisho–-Demokratie’. Begriffsgeschichtliche Studien zur Demokratierezeption in Japan von 1900 bis 1920 (2005) Bill Mihalopoulos is Assistant Professor in the Department of History at Northern Michigan University. He has published articles in Economy and Society and Postcolonial Studies. An unabashed, long time admirer

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of Imamura Sho– hei, he hopes to publish a longer study of his films in the future. Sven Saaler is an Associate Professor at The University of Tokyo, Graduate School of Arts and Sciences. He is author of Politics, Memory and Public Opinion. The History Textbook Controversy and Japanese Society (2005), co-editor of Pan-Asianism in Modern Japanese History (2007) and co-author of Japanische Impressionen eines Kaiserlichen Gesandten. Karl von Eisendecher im Japan der Meiji-Zeit (2007). Stefanie Schäfer is a PhD candidate in Japanese Postwar History at Cornell University. She studied Japanese Studies and Comparative Literature at the University of Tübingen (Germany) where she received a MA with a thesis on the history of the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum. Wolfgang Schwentker is Professor at the Graduate School of Human Sciences at Osaka University where he teaches comparative social and intellectual history. Among his books are Max Weber in Japan (1998) and Die Samurai (2003). He co-edited Erinnerungskulturen. Deutschland, Italien und Japan seit 1945 (2002). M.G. Sheftall is an Associate Professor of Communication Studies at the Faculty of Informatics of Shizuoka University and author of Blossoms in the Wind: Human Legacies of the Kamikaze (2005). Peter Siegenthaler is an Assistant Professor at the Department of History at Texas State University. His dissertation followed the architectural preservation, public memory and localization of political control in Japan from 1950–65. Alistair Swale is a Senior Lecturer in the Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences at The University of Waikato in New Zealand and author of The Political Thought of Mori Arinori: A Study in Meiji Conservatism (2000). He has recently completed a second work entitled The Meiji Restoration: Monarchism, the Popular Press and Conservative Revolution. Yuki Takatori is an Assistant Professor at the Department of Modern and Classical Languages at Georgia State University. Takashi Yoshida is an Assistant Professor at the Department of History at Western Michigan University and author of The Making of the ‘Rape of Nanking’: History and Memory in Japan, China, and the United States (2006).

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NOTE ON TRANSLITERATION Japanese, Korean and Chinese names appear in the East Asian order, with family name first. Names of contributors to this volume and authors of works in English and other European languages, however, follow the order given in the publication. Macrons have been omitted from common place-names such as Tokyo, Osaka and Kyoto.

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INTRODUCTION The Realms of Memory: Japan and Beyond SVEN SAALER AND WOLFGANG SCHWENTKER

W

e all live with memories that have a firm place in our life: our birthplace, our parents’ house, school and university, our first workplace, stations on a journey. These personal memories have widely differing emotional qualities; both positive and negative memories form the topography of our individual memory in very private ways. Researchers in cultural and social studies are well advised to consider these personal dimensions of memory when thinking about those forms of memory which transcend the private dimension and assume an official character which can have a significant social impact. These so-called ‘collective’ or ‘social’ memories are no longer exclusive to ourselves. We share them with other members of society, making them the product of complex forms of social communication. These forms of ‘collective memory’ – just as with personal or private memories – are mainly focused on real ‘places’ such as historical sites and significant landscapes or events which mark an important moment in the history of a nation, a region, a social group or an ethnic minority. Beyond that, ‘collective memories’ also focus on ‘places’ in a metaphorical sense – what Pierre Nora has called the realms of memory: these also incorporate symbols, mythical figures or events, rituals and festivals, books and artworks – even meals, beverages or clothing which are special to a specific social organism (nation, social class, political party, religious community, sports club, etc.). Due to their symbolic and iconographic meanings, these expressions of ‘collective memory’ constitute the mental topography of a society and make a powerful contribution to its cultural, political and social identity.

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The Power of Memory in Modern Japan JAPANESE MEMORIES

From the mid-1980s, the study of particular ‘realms of memory’ has created a new paradigm in international cultural studies. Within the context of this paradigm, and with reference to the dimensions of time and space, the focus of interest has shifted from a clearly structured surface description of a society or a systematic arrangement of empirical data to the mental-historical or sociopsychological analysis of the structure of society and its social and political implications. This approach has recently been adopted by Japanese studies and has led to a multitude of new, albeit fragmented, findings, especially in the fields of history, society and politics. The editors of this volume are committed to the discussion of these new approaches to Japanese studies within an international framework. The 11th International Conference of the European Association for Japanese Studies (EAJS), which took place from 31 August to 3 September 2005 at the University of Vienna, provided a suitable forum for this task. The section ‘History, Politics and International Relations’ was dedicated to the topic ‘The Power of Memory’. The present volume summarizes the contributions from this section, insofar as they are concerned with modern Japan.1 In Japan, the subject of ‘memory’ has prompted a huge response over the last few years. The reasons behind this phenomenon have recently been summarized by Tsu Yun Hui, Jan van Bremen and Eyal Ben-Ari in their introduction to a volume published in 2005 and entitled Perspectives on Social Memory in Japan.2 The authors focus on six, closely interconnected, factors which they consider responsible for the upsurge of historical memory and debates about memory in Japan in recent decades. These are: an awareness of a general social crisis brought about by the country’s accelerated economic modernization after 1945 and a resulting emotional return to the ‘hometown’ or ‘home village’ (furusato); the quest for a particular cultural identity for Japan against the background of accelerating globalization and internationalization; the provision of material, temporal and professional resources, without which the ‘memory boom’ would have not been possible; the death of – wa in 1989, which marked the end of an era; conscious Emperor Sho reflection on the external influences on Japanese identity; and, last but not least, in the academic context, the influence of cultural studies on Japanese studies. Several other factors contributing to the development of a burgeoning ‘memory industry’ can readily be added to this list. While historical in character, they are also connected to geographical factors, living and climatic conditions, and some are the product of scientific developments. Within this context, the beginning of the new millennium is a significant factor, irrespective of the fact that Japan simultaneously maintains the traditional calendar tied to the era names of successive emperors. In 2000 and 2001, the Japanese book market offered a series

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of publications dealing with the ‘memory’ of the twentieth century. These included a richly illustrated series by Mainichi Shinbunsha, Shirı–zu 20 seiki no kioku (Series: The Memory of the Twentieth Century) in – naturally – twenty volumes (with an additional chronological volume), and an important anthology by Yomiuri Shinbunsha with the title 20 seiki Nipponjin no kioku (The Memory of the Japanese in the Twentieth Century).3 This latter volume does not offer an encyclopaedic view of the twentieth century, but is deliberately focused on those events and actors which form the ‘collective memory’ of the Japanese in the twentieth century. Chapters on the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–05 can be found next to articles on Tanaka Kakuei, the establishment of the Japanese konbini (convenience store) or the legendary wrestler Rikido–zan (actually a native Korean). However, no other volume has come as close to depicting the ‘realms of memory’ of Japanese history in their entirety. A look at recent Japanese publications which include the term ‘memory’ in their title reveals further areas that also claim an important role in the constitution of Japanese society as a ‘memory community’. Thus, for example, Japan’s significant contributions to the so-called ‘world cultural heritage’ are highlighted; after all, no other city has as many acknowledged cultural heritage sites as the old capital Kyoto. Quasiofficial publications such as the 1995 Sekai isan – 469 no kioku (World Heritage – 469 Memories) exhibit a two-fold pride, celebrating Japan’s own cultural achievements while acknowledging its place in the world community despite its insular remoteness.4 Other social memories are shaped by the special geographical and climatic conditions of the Japanese islands, above all memories of the natural disasters (such as earthquakes and typhoons) that continue to trouble Japan. The commemoration of the victims of these terrible events occupies an important place in both private and public discourse. This is also reflected in academic discussion of this particular aspect of Japanese memory culture. Thus, it is no coincidence that the volume Kioku (Memory) from the series Gendai minzokushi no chihei (The Horizon of Modern Folk Recollections) includes a preface acknowledging the ‘consolation of the dead’ (irei) of the Ko–be earthquake in 1995.5 Yet it is not only natural disasters, but also radical changes in lifestyle which have created a feeling of loss, and this threatened or real loss has become, in many ways, characteristic of the Japanese approach to memory. In this context, loss refers to the dramatic modernization of Japan’s economy and society since the nineteenth century, a transformation which has led to deep ruptures in traditional customs and conventions and has led to the disappearance of many features of ‘old Japan’. This culture-pessimistic view of modernity, which is by no means originally or even specifically Japanese,6 engages with ‘memory’ at the point where it advocates the protection of specifically Japanese ways of living – as in the recent book by the Japanese historian of architecture Nakagawa Takeshi, The Japanese House: In Space, Memory, and Language.7

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The Power of Memory in Modern Japan THEORIES OF MEMORY

This cursory look at the multi-layered structure of Japanese ‘memory culture’ suggests that ‘memory’ is also being debated in the different dimensions of Japan’s political, social, economic and cultural life. In this respect, Japan is no exception – we may compare European discourse on the ‘realms of memory’, and this commonality also applies to a certain vagueness in the use of the term ‘memory’. The questions which the subject raises in Japan are in many respects the same as elsewhere: What exactly do we mean when we talk about ‘memory’ (kioku)? Which forms of memory do we have to distinguish? What is the relevance of ‘memory’ for cultural studies? As far as these questions are concerned, Japanese cultural studies have so far made only a few theoretical contributions to research on the subject. Rather, the field has been dominated by the approaches of French sociology and cultural history. The French sociologist Maurice Halbwachs (1877–1945) deserves special attention in this context. His groundbreaking study Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire (1925)8 has had a revival in social and cultural studies since the 1980s, especially in English-speaking countries but also in continental Europe.9 A Japanese translation of – was published in Halbwachs’s study by the sociologist Koseki To–ichiro 1989 and appeared in a second edition in 1999.10 Halbwachs’s distinctions between individual and collective memory, historical and collective memory, and the dimensions of memory articulated in time and space have played an important role in memory studies related to the Japanese context.11 The German Egyptologist Jan Assmann and the cultural studies scholar Aleida Assmann were responsible for introducing the term ‘cultural memory’ into the debate.12 Though this term is not widely used in Japanese studies, it is relevant for the terminological distinctions made in the contributions to this volume. Hence we should, following Halbwachs and Assmann/Assmann, distinguish three major dimensions of memory. The collective memory – as shown by Maurice Halbwachs – emphasizes the basic social conditions of remembering. According to Halbwachs, individual remembering is not possible without those cognitive instruments formed by words and perceptions which the individual has borrowed from his or her social environment. As a result, individual and collective memory are held to be indistinguishable. According to Halbwachs, past events are not transformed into memories automatically; they become part of a process which results from the collective desire for meaning-making and the traditions and means of perception which arise from a given social environment. By contrast, the communicative memory refers to the actual, most often orally transmitted, experiences of individuals or groups. The ‘communicative memory’ can be perceived as a sort of ‘short-term memory’ which passes on information about experiences and events down

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through at least three successive generations. This cohort – for example, the ‘post-war generation’ – can form an ‘experience, remembrance and telling community’. Assmann and Assmann in particular have distinguished cultural memory from these other forms of memory – an inter-generational and transera construction which is not sustained by psychological affinities but by external media and institutions. Among the media of cultural memory are artifacts like texts, pictures, and sculptures, architecture and landscapes, but also festivals and rituals. Cultural memory thus functions as a memorialized site for ‘objectified’ culture, which each generation must acquire anew. These various dimensions of ‘memory’ and ‘realms of memory’ need to be distinguished, despite the currency of the term ‘cultural memory’ as a comprehensive notion in international studies.13 This term has come to designate every conceivable form of conscious memory of historical events, people and processes, whether aesthetic, political or cognitive in character. Thus, besides forms of ahistorical or even antihistorical memory, the term also includes every form of historical representation. This ‘memory culture’ is supported at various levels by individuals, social groups, nations, or states. They can share such memories or they can fight over them. It is thanks to French cultural historian and publicist Pierre Nora that memory studies did not remain in the realms of theory. The multivolume series Les lieux de mémoire on the ‘realms of memory’ of the French nation was introduced to Japan in 2000. The work was the subject of a special edition of the journal Shiso– which included selected translations and discussion by Tanigawa Minoru, Nora’s translator.14 In greater detail and with more material on the Japanese approach to the subject, Tanigawa explained the paradigmatic significance of Nora’s approach in his preface to the three-volume Japanese edition of Nora’s oeuvre. This edition was published in 2002/2003 by Iwanami Shoten and presents a selection of the hundred articles of the original French work in Japanese translation.15 Tanigawa pointed out that Japanese research has concentrated on ‘remembrance’ and ‘memory’ with respect to the Second World War (senso– no kioku) and within the framework of the debate about the nation-state (kokumin kokka ron). Before the notion of memory was introduced into the discussion, Japanese research was more influenced by the Anglo-Saxon approaches of the ‘invention of tradition’ (Eric Hobsbawm and Terence Ranger) or ‘imagined communities’ (Benedict Anderson) rather than the discourse analysis of the French social anthropologists.16 The debate on memory in Japan was strongly influenced by these two former approaches – especially the issue of segregating ethnic minorities in the course of founding a nation-state. In the controversies over the history textbooks to be used in Japanese schools and the question of national symbols (national flag and anthem), these two approaches to questions of social memory actually

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The Power of Memory in Modern Japan

had already converged before Nora and his colleagues’ work had been widely received in Japan. THE ROLE OF ‘MEMORY’ IN CONTEMPORARY JAPAN This cursory discussion of the literature on social memory and its reception in Japan has shown that Japan is yet to develop a body of systematic research on the Japanese ‘realms of memory’ comparable with Nora’s groundbreaking project – as compared to Italy, Denmark, Germany and other European nations.17 We can assume, however, that some of the large-scale projects undertaken in recent years at the National Museum of Japanese History (Kokuritsu Rekishi Minzoku Habubutsukan, abbreviated to Rekihaku) for the inventory, categorization and documentation of the Japanese landscape of memory – such as cemeteries, monuments and memorial sites18 – have been influenced in various ways by European studies on social memory. While this volume is not intended as a substitute for a yet-to-bewritten Japanese version of Les lieux de mémoire, it constitutes one step in the direction of this goal. For, as mentioned above, it seems to us – and apparently also to a number of the authors represented in this volume – that the paradigm of the ‘realms of memory’ could be very illuminating in the Japanese context, helping explain the intensity of discussion generated by various history-related issues within Japanese society as well as Japan’s relations with her Asian neighbours. Above all, however, while the Japanese experience is only rarely considered in European research on memory, Japan is certainly one of the ‘major players’ in what Piere Nora has called ‘the age of commemoration’, with its ‘ardent, embattled, almost fetishistic “memorialism” ’.19 The notion of memory (kioku), along with the closely related notion of historical consciousness (rekishi ninshiki), has been the focus of heated debates in Japan since the fiftieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War in Asia (commemorated on 15 August 1995),20 if not earlier. Both terms are firmly established in academic research as well as in media and political discourse. Shortly before the 1995 anniversary, a committee set up by the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP), the History Examination Committee (Rekishi Kento– Iinkai), determined to bring the Japanese debate about the nation’s war memory and ‘coming to terms with the past’ to a final end through the publication of its Summary of the Greater East Asian War (Daito– a senso– no so– katsu).21 On the contrary, however, after 1995, debates on Japan’s war history and the necessity for its remembrance rather escalated. As a result, studies of the Japanese politics and culture of memory have continued to increase, in Japan as well as in Japanese studies worldwide.22 At the centre of this debate over cultural and social memory are the quarrels about the contents of history textbooks for Japanese schools; arguments over memorial sites and their significance, especially the

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Yasukuni Shrine;23 and the closely related question of the place of history in Japan’s political and social life. At the end of the premiership of Prime Minister Koizumi Jun’ichiro– (2000–2006), the ‘correct understanding of history’ (tadashii rekishi ninshiki) had become one of the key issues in Japanese domestic politics, as well as foreign relations.24 Several Asian nations, victims of Japanese expansion and occupation in the first half of the twentieth century, have repeatedly lamented the lack of a ‘correct understanding of history’ by the Japanese – a lack of remorse and – in the opinion of the victims – sincere apology for Japan’s wars of aggression in East Asia. Corresponding debates broke out everywhere in Japan – in the media, in politics and in society at large. In the face of this escalating international debate, the largest Japanese daily newspaper, the rather conservative Yomiuri Shinbun, dispatched dozens of journalists to interview contemporaries and scholars in order to answer the question: Who was responsible? The results were published in a series of articles in the newspaper and in several other publications put out by the Yomiuri Shinbun including an English edition.25 The country’s second biggest newspaper, the Asahi Shinbun, which is generally considered more liberal, has pulled even with a similar project.26 Interestingly, both newspapers discovered that – contrary to the claims of the LDP committee mentioned above – the majority of the Japanese population was not at all interested in putting an end to debate over their wartime past and its memorialization; on the contrary, the vast majority held that the discussions had not gone far enough and should be continued. Those interviewed also emphasized that Japan ‘had not yet apologized sufficiently (mada fuju–bun) for its past aggression and colonial rule’.27 Furthermore, in the opening years of the new millennium, opposition developed within society against the use of neo-nationalist textbooks in history and social education in Japanese schools.28 This opposition escalated in connection with the debate over Koizumi’s visits to the Yasukuni Shrine, a central but also very controversial site of Japanese social memory.29 Even academic studies of the ‘Yasukuni problem’ became bestsellers30 and were discussed in neighbourhood reading groups, sometimes under the guidance of professional historians from the local area. Koizumi’s memory politics, which represented an indirect challenge to the established ‘Murayama Statement’ (Murayama Danwa, 1995) regretting Japan’s wartime aggression and colonial rule in Asia,31 while at the same time officially pledging to uphold the ‘spirit of the Murayama Statement’, faced strong societal, or ‘extra-parliamentary’, opposition. In the long run, this opposition failed to deflect the Prime Minister from his chosen course. However, it successfully challenged the authorization of neo-nationalistic textbooks promoted by the rightwing Association for the Creation of New History Textbooks (Atarashii rekishi kyo–kasho o tsukuru-kai, abbreviated to Tsukuru-kai), which had been heavily promoted by national, prefectural and local LDP

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politicians including then Foreign Minister Machimura Nobutaka in a public TV appearance.32 On the political scene, these societal debates on the question of wartime memories have not remained unheard. There has been increasing discussion of the problem of ‘historical consciousness’ in the Japanese Diet over the last ten years,33 especially as a consequence of a worsening of bilateral relations as a result of strongly-worded criticism of Japanese ‘memory politics’ by its neighbours. Early in 2007, the new – caused an international uproar when he Prime Minister Abe Shinzo criticized the statement of former Foreign Minister Ko–no Yo–hei regarding ‘comfort women’ – ‘forced prostitutes’ in the Japanese military during the war34 – stating that it was unclear how much ‘force’ (kyo– sei) had really been used and that it was surely legitimate ‘to question the definition of force’.35 Abe, a member of the LDP committee Rekishi kento– iinkai in the early 1990s, is the grandson of Kishi Nobusuke, a pre-war politician charged as a war criminal at the International Military Tribunal for the Far East (IMTFE, also known as the Tokyo Trials), but released in 1948 to attain the position of Prime Minister in February 1957. His family background has considerably influenced Abe’s view of politics, history, and memory – as set out in his book, Utsukushii kuni e (Towards a Beautiful Country), published in 2006.36 Such examples show that questions of collective memory and commemoration, especially in relation to Japan’s wartime past, play an important role in contemporary Japanese society, politics and the media.37 Mass media such as the now notorious comics (manga) of Kobayashi Yoshinori, websites and war movies – such as the two 2007 movies on the battle for the Pacific island of Iwojima,38 the film on the sinking of the Japanese battleship Yamato in the final days of the war (Yamato no otoko-tachi / The Men of the Yamato, 2005),39 and the recently released movie dealing with the Japanese kamikaze units (tokko– tai) (Ore wa, kimi no tame ni koso shini ni iku / I Go to Die only for You, 2007)40 – all helped include significant portions of the population in the debates over memory, albeit rarely as active participants. There can be no doubt that contemporary Japan is currently experiencing a pervasive ‘memory boom’. The increase in commemorative events, as well as the number of historical museums founded in the 1980s and the 1990s – among them the Rekihaku – hardly suggest that Japan is falling behind other countries on this issue. THE CONTRIBUTIONS TO THIS VOLUME This book deals with the current debates over these issues of cultural memory and commemoration; many contributions are concerned with the cultural construction of Japan’s wartime past. Conservative voices within Japan argue that an ‘exaggerated concern’ with the war years within the context of ‘2000 years of Japan’s history’ (sometimes

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extended to ‘2600 years of history’) could lead to a ‘masochistic’ (jigyaku) mentality (or, conversely, could be the result of such a mentality). However, it cannot be denied that the experience of violence makes a powerful impact on the memory of the individual as well as on the collective memory of a whole society. It was Nietzsche who, as early as in 1887, pointed to this mutual relation between memory on the one hand and violence and pain on the other, when he wrote in The Genealogy of Morals (Die Genealogie der Moral): ‘Whenever man has thought it necessary to create a memory for himself, his effort has been attended with torture, blood, sacrifice.’41 Nietzsche’s powerful insight may help explain why Part 1 of this volume consists of contributions which focus on the current debate over various facets of Japan’s wartime past, such as the massacre of Nanjing (1937/38) during the Sino-Japanese War, the issue of the ‘comfort women’, and the Tokko–tai or kamikaze units – but also the role of collective memory in Japan’s relations with formerly occupied countries, and the role such memory plays in the process of identity formation in modern Japan. Part 2 of this volume deals with institutions that embody collective memory. The various contributions analyse museums, memorial sites, but also textbooks, commemoration days, and national heroes as ‘realms of memory’. Part 3 takes up issues of popular representations of memory in literature, film and other media. Part 4 examines the tensions between centre and periphery in the cultural struggle over the interpretation of collective memory. One contribution examines conflicting views of civil disturbances in rural parts of Japan after the Meiji Restoration (1868) and how they were remembered. Here, a subaltern historical narrative – which differs from the national master narrative – has survived and gradually re-emerged – as a matter of fact as the result of the research activities of the author of the article in question. Memory, as this case shows, is never a one-dimensional and absolute category, but evolves through time as a result of the activities of a broad range of actors, some of whom may not fit easily into conventional reconstructions of historical memory. The contributions in Part 4, however, also suggest that it would be unwise to restrict the paradigm of the ‘realms of memory’ to war and violence. By using cultural-historical or anthropological approaches, it would surely be possible to detect Japanese ‘realms of memory’ which are wholly unrelated to war or violence; we only need to think of the differences in regional lifestyles (Kanto– vs. Kansai), of clothing styles, of local vs. ‘national’ cuisine, religious cult sites, classics of Japanese literature, landscapes and so on. These elements all contribute to a more comprehensive landscape of Japanese memory which is not only part of collective, but also of cultural memory. A few years ago, in a comparative study of the ‘realms of memory’ in France and Germany, Pierre Nora advanced the thesis that the two countries embody ‘two different types of memory culture’: in Germany’s case,

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he argued, the whole debate on memory was overshadowed by the experience of National Socialism; in France, however, the discourse on memory was ‘much more diffuse, more covert, more effective and less strident’, supposedly reflecting a ‘transition from an awareness of national history to an awareness of social history’.42 Nora does not dispute that the French discourse of memory occurs – in a positive as well as a negative sense – within the framework of the nation as a cultural entity or, in his words, as a ‘cultural nation’ (Kulturnation). If Nora’s two types of memory culture are applied to the Japanese case, it is interesting to speculate the direction in which academic research and political discussion about social memory are going to develop over the next few years. Will war remain the prevalent topic of a strongly politicized debate in Japan – and beyond – or will we witness the widening of the paradigm to include ‘cultural memory’ in a broader sense, in which war will figure as only one important issue among others? If the contributions in this volume are able to stimulate further investigation and a deepening understanding of collective memory in Japan, they will have fulfilled their purpose. NOTES 1

2

3

4

5

6

7

A separate volume on social memory in Okinawa is under consideration, which will also include contributions from the Vienna conference. Eyal Ben-Ari, Jan van Bremen and Tsu Yun Hui, ‘Memory, Scholarship and the Study of Japan’, in Tsu Yun Hui, Jan van Bremen and Eyal BenAri (eds), Perspectives on Social Memory in Japan (Folkestone: Global Oriental, 2005), pp. 2–4. Mainichi Shinbunsha (ed.), Shirîzu 20 seiki no kioku (Tokyo: Mainichi Shinbunsha, 2000); Yomiuri Shinbunsha (ed.), 20 seiki Nipponjin no kioku (Tokyo: Yomiuri Shinbunsha, 2000). Nihon Unesuko [UNESCO] Kyo–kai Renmei (ed.), The World Heritage: Unesuko Sekai Isan – 469 no kioku (Tokyo: Nihon Unesuko Kyo–kai Renmei, 1996). Modern mass media frequently present world cultural heritage sites in the form of wrap-ups, for example as multimedia software such as the CD-ROM Nihon no sekai isan published by SynForest (2000) or in the form of TV programmes such as the lavish series Sekai isan broadcast by NHK (cf. the NHK homepage http://www.nhk.or.jp/sekaiisan/), which however is not restricted to the Japanese world heritage sites. Sori Takeshi, ‘Hanshin-Awaji daishinsai to irei’, in Iwamoto Michiya (ed.), Gendai minzokushi no chihei, Vol. 3 (Tokyo: Asakura Shoten, 2003), pp. 14–40. Cf. the stimulating article by Pierre Nora, ‘The Reasons for the Current Upsurge in Memory’ in Tr@nsit online, no. 22/2002, Internet: http:// www.iwm.at/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=285&Itemi d=463 (last accessed 1 July 2007). Nakagawa Takeshi, The Japanese House: In Space, Memory, and Language (Tokyo: International House of Japan, 2005).

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Introduction 8

9

10 11

12

13

14

15

16

17

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Maurice Halbwachs, Les cadres sociaux de la mémoire (Paris: Alcan, 1925). Vgl. Takashi Fujitani, Geoffrey M. White and Lisa Yoneyama (eds), Perilous Memories: the Asia-Pacific War(s) (Durham: Duke University Press, 2001), p. 16; Jan Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis. Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1992). M. Arupuwakkusu, Shu– go–teki kioku (Tokyo: Gyo–ro–sha, 1999). Mizuno Haruko, for example, describes the Yasukuni Shrine as a ‘realm of memory’, with explicit reference to Maurice Halbwachs and Pierre Nora. Mizuno Haruko, ‘ “Seisen” no kioku – “Kioku no ba” toshite no – – shin ni,’ in O Yasukuni Jinja o chu saka Daigaku Gengo Bunkabu (ed.), – – – ‘Bunka’ no kaidoku 2 – ‘Bunka ku kan’ no seijigaku (Osaka: Osaka Daigaku Gengo Bunkabu, 2002), pp. 1–15. Another example is Ishida Takeshi, Kioku to bo–kyaku no seijigaku – Do–kaseisaku, senso– sekinin, shu– goteki kioku (Tokyo: Akashi Shoten, 2000). To what extent the term ‘literary memory’, – recently suggested by Ohara Yu–ji, will become accepted in Japan and elsewhere is yet to be seen; cf. his book Bungakuteki kioku – 1940nen zengo: Sho–waki bungaku to senso– no kioku (Tokyo: Kanrin Shobo–, 2006). Jan Assmann, Religion and Cultural Memory (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press 2006); originally published as Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis (op. cit.); Aleida Assmann, Erinnerungsräume: Formen und Wandlungen des kulturellen Gedächtnisses (Munich: C.H. Beck, 1999). Cf. Christoph Corneliβen, ‘Was heiβt Erinnerungskultur? Begriff – Methoden – Perspektiven,’ in Geschichte in Wissenschaft und Unterricht 10, 2003, pp. 548–63, and Christoph Corneliβen, Lutz Klinkhammer, Wolfgang Schwentker (eds), Erinnerungskulturen. Deutschland, Italien und Japan nach 1945 (Frankfurt/M: Fischer, 2003). Cf. Shiso– No. 911 (May 2005), ‘Kioku no ba;’ this issue also includes Tanigawa Minoru, ‘Shakaishi no bankakyo– – “Kioku no ba” no yomikata/ yomarekata,’ pp. 4–12, and Pie–ru Nora, ‘Kioku to rekishi no hazama ni – Kioku no ba no kenkyu– ni mukete,’ pp. 13–37. Piêru Nora (ed.), Kioku no ba – Furansu kokumin ishiki no bunka/shakaishi, 3 Vols. (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2002/03). Cf. in Vol. 1 especially Tanigawa Minoru, ‘ “Kioku no ba” no hazama ni – Nihongo-han jobun ni kaete’, – go – teki kioku to nashonaru pp. 1–13. Cf. also Wolfgang Schwentker, ‘Shu – do–ko – ,’ aidentiti. “Kioku no ba” o meguro Furansu to Doitsu no kenkyu – – Shakai Shiso shi Kenkyu, Vol. 28 (2004), pp. 171–8. Yamamuro Shin’ichi, ‘Kokumin kokka keisei-ki no genron to media,’ in Matsumoto Sannosuke and Yamamuro Shin’ichi (eds), Genron to media (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1990), pp. 477–540; here p. 486; Mitani Hiroshi, Meiji ishin to nashonarizumu – Bakumatsu no gaiko– to seiji hendo– (Tokyo: Yamakawa Shuppansha, 1997); Stephen Vlastos (ed.), Mirror of Modernity: Invented Traditions of Modern Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press 1998). Cf. Mario Isnenghi (ed.), I luoghi della memoria. 3 vols. (Rome: Laterza 1996/97); Ole Feldbaek (ed.), Dansk Identitetshistorie, 4 vols. (Copenhagen:

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19

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21

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The Power of Memory in Modern Japan Reitzel 1991/92); Francois Etienne and Hagen Schulze (eds), Deutsche Erinnerungsorte. 3 vols. (Munich: C.H. Beck, 2001). This refers not only to the Asian-Pacific War of 1931–45, but also to the wars fought by Japan in the modern period – from the Taiwan expedition of 1874 or, at least, the First Sino-Japanese War of 1894/95. Arai Katsuhiro and Ichinose Toshiya (eds), Irei to haka (= Bulletin of the National Museum of Japanese History, No. 102 (2003): Memorial Service and Cemeteries); Kokuritsu Rekishi Minzoku Hakubutsukan, Senso– taiken no kiroku to katari ni kan-suru shiryo– cho–sa, 4 vols. (Kokuritsu Rekishi – cho–sa ho–kokusho, no. 14) (Sakura: Minzoku Hakubutsukan shiryo Kokuritsu Minzoku Hakubutsukan, 2004–2005). Nora, ‘The Reasons for the Current Upsurge in Memory’. Cf. also Franziska Seraphim, War Memory and Social Politics in Japan, 1945–2005 (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2006), p. 315. As Sato– Takumi has recently pointed out, however, the date 15 August refers only tangentially to the ‘end of the war’. While Japan accepted the Potsdam Declaration and announced the cessation of hostilities to the world on 14 August (an announcement reported in anticipation by European newspapers several days earlier), Japanese troops surrendered to enemy forces throughout the second half of August; while in the north, fighting against Soviet troops in Sakhalin continued until the beginning of September. The surrender of Japan was signed on 2 September on board the USS Missouri, as is well known. It is true that, on 15 August, the Japanese Emperor in a radio address announced the ‘end of the war’ to the Japanese population, but this had little relevance to the actual ending of hostilities. However, in the post-war period, 15 August was determined as the ‘Day for the Commemoration of the End of the War’ in order to emphasize the subjectivity of the Japanese decision to end (shu– sen) the war – implying that the war had not actually been lost (haisen). See Sato– Takumi, Hachigatsu ju– go nichi no shinwa – Shu– sen kinenbi no mediagaku (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo–, 2005); Kawashima Shin et al. (eds), Shiryo– de yomu Ajia no hachigatsu ju– gonichi (Tokyo: Yamakawa Shuppansha, 2008). Rekishi Kento– Iinkai (ed.), Daito–a senso– no so–katsu (Tokyo: Tentensha, 1995); see also Sven Saaler, Politics, Memory and Public Opinion. The History Textbook Controversy and Japanese Society (Munich: Iudicium, 2005), chapter 1.5.1. Tsuboi Hideto, Senso– no kioku o sakanoboru (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo–, 2005); Sato– Takumi, Hachigatsu ju– go nichi no shinwa – Shu– sen kinenbi no mediagaku (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo–, 2005); Seraphim, War Memory and Social Politics in Japan; Takashi Yoshida, The Making of the ‘Rape of Nanking’: History and Memory in Japan, China, and the United States (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006); Bob Tadashi Wakabayashi (ed.), The Nanking Atrocity, 1937–38: Complicating the Picture (New York: Berghahn Books, 2007); Carol Gluck, Rekishi de kangaeru (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2007); Philip Seaton, Japan’s Contested War Memories: The “Memory Rifts”

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Introduction

23

24

25

26

27

28 29 30

31

32

33

34

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in Historical Consciousness of World War II (London and New York: Routledge, 2007); Saaler, Politics, Memory and Public Opinion. Concerning the discussions on the Yasukuni Shrine see John Nelson, ‘Social Memory as Ritual Practice: Commemorating Spirits of the Military Dead at Yasukuni Shinto Shrine,’ in Journal of Asian Studies Vol. 62:2 (2003), pp. 443–67; Saaler, Politics, Memory and Public Opinion, chapter 2. The Japanese Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MOFA) lists eight topics in a box with the title ‘issues’ on its homepage (http://www.mofa.go.jp/ as accessed on 15 July 2007), in four rows with two topics apiece. The issue listed ‘first’ (if we ‘read’ the list from left to right and top to bottom) – and therefore apparently the top priority for MOFA – is ‘Historical Issues’. In the third row we find ‘Sea of Japan’ (a link button plus an additional link guiding the visitor to a PR video), a topic that is also primarily a historical issue. Yomiuri Shinbun War Responsibility Reexamination Committee (ed.), From Marco Polo Bridge to Pearl Harbor: Who was Responsible? (Tokyo: Yomiuri Shimbun, 2006). Asahi Shinbun Shuzaihan, Rekishi to mukiau, 2 vols. (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha, 2006/2007). Vol. 1 is entitled Senso– sekinin to tsuito– (War responsibility and mourning [for the war dead]), Vol. 2 is entitled ‘Kako no kokufuku’ to aikokushin (‘Coming to terms with the past’ and Patriotism). Yomiuri Shinbun Senso– Sekinin Kensho– Iinkai (ed.), Kensho– senso– sekinin, Vol. 1 (Tokyo: Chu–o– Ko–ronsha, 2006), p. 208; AIR 21 – Asahi So–ken Ripo–to, No. 193 (June 2006), p. 189 (question 33) and 190 (question 27). See Saaler, Politics, Memory and Public Opinion, chapter 1. Ibid., chapter 2. For example Takahashi Tetsuya, Yasukuni mondai (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo–, 2005). MOFA (Ministry of Foreign Affairs), Statement by Prime Minister Tomiichi Murayama ‘On the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the war’s end’. Internet: http://www.mofa.go.jp/announce/press/pm/murayama/ 9508.html (last accessed on 3 May 2007). See Saaler, Politics, Memory and Public Opinion, chapter 1. Due to the small number of copies sold (and thus the poor profit ratio), the Fuso–sha publishing house announced in May 2007 that it would discontinue distribution of the Tsukuru-kai textbook after 2008. See Asahi.com, Internet: http://www.asahi.com/national/update/0531/TKY200705310255.html (accessed 1 June 2007). A search of the minutes of the National Diet produced sixteen occurrences of the term ‘historical consciousness’ in Diet and Diet Committee sessions in 1997, twenty-six in 1998, thirty-nine in 1999, twenty-six in 2000, thirty-seven in 2001, twenty-one in 2002, twenty-four in 2003, twelve in 2004, seventy-two in 2005 and forty-six in 2006. See http://kokkai.ndl.go.jp/. On the ‘comfort women,’ see the contribution of Yonson Ahn in chapter 3 of this volume.

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The Power of Memory in Modern Japan For an excellent summary of the debate over Abe’s remarks, see Tessa Morris-Suzuki, ‘Japan’s “Comfort Women”: It’s time for the truth (in the ordinary, everyday sense of the word)’, in Japan Focus, Internet: http://www.japanfocus.org/products/details/2373 (last accessed 3 May 2007). Abe Shinzo–, Utsukushii kuni e (Tokyo: Bungei Shunju–, 2006), particularly pp. 18, 69–74, 107. English translation: Towards a Beautiful Country: My Vision For Japan (New York: Vertical, 2007). See also Fujitani, White, and Yoneyama (eds), Perilous Memories: the AsiaPacific War(s). See the official movie website, http://wwws.warnerbros.co.jp/iwojimamovies/. See the official movie website, http://www.yamato-movie.jp/; just before the movie opened, a new Yamato Memorial was opened in the city of Kure. See http://yamato.kure-city.jp/. See the official movie website, http://www.chiran1945.jp/. On the memorialization of the tokko–tai, see the contribution of M.G. Sheftall in this volume and M.G. Sheftall, Blossoms in the Wind: Human Legacies of the Kamikaze (New York: NAL Caliber, 2005), Japanese translation Tokyo: Bungei Shunju–, 2007. Quoted from the English translation in Hayden White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Baltimore and London: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973), p. 361. Pierre Nora, Nachwort, in François/Schulze (eds), Deutsche Erinnerungsorte, Vol. 3, p. 684f.

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PART 1

Memory in Politics and International Relations

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2

For the Nation or for the People? History and Memory of the Nanjing Massacre in Japan TAKASHI YOSHIDA

INTRODUCTION

I

n 1995, a group of scholars led by Fujioka Nobukatsu, then a professor of education at Tokyo University, founded the Association for the Advancement of a Liberalist View of History (Jiyu–shugi shikan kenkyu–kai). Since the organization’s inception, both national and international media have paid substantial attention to the Association, its academic supporters and its views on the ‘Daito–-A senso–’ (Greater East Asian War), commonly known as the Pacific War. Dedicated to defending or, at least, rationalizing many wartime incidents that, in other circles, have been treated as war crimes and atrocities, the Association has engaged in such activities as establishing a de facto branch organization, the Japanese Society for History Textbook Reform (Atarashii rekishi kyo–kasho o tsukuru-kai). Because of the Association’s extremely controversial opinions, its work is probably better known to experts and nonexperts both inside and outside Japan than publications and seminars organized by the academics and activists whom the members of the Association have striven to refute. As the views of the Association are often disturbing to many individuals, it is understandable that the media have published detailed articles on the Association. Nonetheless, many constituents of the non-Japanese media often fail to explain why the Association was founded in the mid1990s and why its members were so outraged by the existing junior high school textbooks. Moreover, such outside observers frequently fail to grasp the ultimate political goals of the Association. The Japanese historiography of the Nanjing Atrocities, discussed in this article, offers a clue

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to understanding these questions. Contrary to what many non-Japanese critics tend to assume, the history of the Nanjing Massacre has been incorporated into Japan’s national history, and the very reason that the Association came to existence was, I argue, to revise the history of the atrocities in Nanjing, as they are remembered today.1 THE NANJING MASSACRE IN WARTIME JAPAN During the Sino-Japanese War (1937–45), the atrocities in Nanjing were never reported in the authorized news accounts, nor were they recorded in official Japanese history. Newspaper articles that escaped censorship uniformly praised the righteousness of Japan and its soldiers, while accusing the Chinese government of committing atrocities against Japanese civilians and disturbing peace in East Asia.2 Killings of Chinese soldiers in these news reports were regarded as distinguished achievements that the nation should applaud. Slaying dozens of the enemy soldiers with the steel of one’s sword became an archetypal image of heroism. For example, on 2 September 1937, the Tokyo Nichi Nichi Shinbun, a daily newspaper, printed a report of a unit commander who had killed more than forty enemies with his sword. The article included a photograph of his smiling wife, who was thrilled to learn the news and expressed delight in what he had achieved for the Japanese Empire.3 Not only Japanese adults, but also children were exposed to the narrative that Japan was fighting a righteous war. This message was expressed in various ways. In the 1930s, for example, a favourite cartoon among Japanese children was Tagawa Suiho–’s ‘Stray Dog, Norakuro’ (Norakuro). The cartoon was serialized in the monthly boy’s magazine Boy’s Club (Sho–nen Kurabu) in 1931, the year when Japan invaded the North-east of China, or Manchuria. The protagonist Norakuro, a black homeless orphaned dog, joined the military as a cook and is later promoted to private second class. He fights against mountain monkeys, pirates, gorillas, chimpanzees, monsters, pigs and frogs. By 1937, Norakuro has become a lieutenant, fighting against a country of pigs and their ally, a country of bears.4 Seemingly, the cartoon reflected Japan’s international affairs of the time: Dogs (Japanese) are fighting against pigs (Chinese) and being assisted by bears (Americans). Through these stories, the cartoon encouraged boys to be loyal and brave soldiers like Norakuro.5 In school, textbooks endorsed the nation, its military and its war efforts. In geography and history, the textbooks underscored the legitimacy of Japan’s crusade to punish Chinese leader Chiang Kai-Shek and to establish eternal peace in Asia.6 In ethics and national language classes, military heroes were often presented as role models, and elementary students were expected to follow them.7 In these classes, students also read about new advanced military technologies, including airplanes, battleships and submarines.8 Intentionally or unintentionally, these stories glorified the military and fostered admiration of the military among children.

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For the Nation or for the People?

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The national culture of militarism was also reflected in museum exhibits. The National Defence Hall (Kokubo–kan) of the Yasukuni Shrine was more like a present-day amusement park, where visitors were invited to engage in acts of simulated warfare, such as shooting air rifles, selecting targets for aerial bombing, operating a miniature tank by radio control, and even wearing gas masks in a room filled with tear gas.9 According to one statistic, more than 900,000 people visited the museum during 1937, and children particularly liked the hands-on exhibits at the Defence Hall.10 After all, these exhibits transformed organized homicide into a type of play, divorcing the violent aspects of war from the misery and suffering that they inevitably cause. Guns, bombs, and tanks were represented as fun and exciting. Although the Japanese population largely supported the culture of militarism and ignored the suffering of their supposed enemies in China, wartime Japan was not entirely united. Always, there existed a determined minority that challenged the Imperial agenda, fighting for the minds of the people through publication and persuasion. For example, Kaji Wataru, who organized the Japanese People’s Antiwar Alliance (Nihonjin hansen do–mei) in China and helped the Nationalist government to fight against the Japanese military, wrote an introduction to the Japanese translation of Harold Timperley’s What War Means: Japanese Terror in China (1938), a book that detailed the Japanese military’s atrocities in Nanjing in December 1937. In this introduction, Kaji accused the Japanese empire of waging an aggressive war in China and urged that Japan must immediately end the war.11 After being prosecuted under the Peace Preservation Law and serving his sentence, Kaji escaped to China and succeeded in persuading the Nationalist government to build a detention facility for captured Japanese soldiers in July 1939. Kaji carefully selected eleven men with whom he undertook subversive activities calculated to provoke anti-war sentiment among the Japanese soldiers. They travelled to battlefields and spoke to them through a megaphone, exhorting them to lay down their arms and abstain from the meaningless slaughter.12 Kaji’s initiative was not unique. Similar anti-war activities by Japanese, Chinese and Korean communists were conducted in north China, as well.13 Whereas anti-war efforts existed both inside and outside Japan, the majority of the Japanese were sucked into a war fever, and they were generally unsympathetic towards the demonized enemy nationals during the war. It was only after the war that the Nanjing Massacre received significant public attention within Japan. THE NANJING MASSACRE IN OCCUPIED JAPAN During the American occupation of Japan, the conqueror introduced a new history of Imperial Japan to the conquered. The History of the Pacific War, written by Bradford Smith, a Japanologist who was working for the

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Office of War Information, was serialized for ten days in all national newspapers throughout Japan. The first instalment appeared on 8 December 1945, or the fourth anniversary of Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor.14 Smith’s history discussed Japan’s invasion of Manchuria in 1931, the attempted coup d’état by the military on 26 February 1936, the war between China and Japan from 1937 to 1945, and the war between the United States and Japan that followed the Japanese attack of Hawaii. In his serial, Smith informed the readers of wartime atrocities such as the Bataan Death March and the Nanjing Massacre. Smith referred to a witness who stressed that the atrocities in Nanjing were the worst in modern world history. In the article, Smith estimated that at least 20,000 civilians, including women and children, were slaughtered in the city from early December 1937 to January 1938.15 This estimate probably came from War Damage in the Nanking Area (1938), written by Lewis Smythe, professor of Sociology at Nanking University, in which Smythe gives the same statistics.16 Before the International Military Tribunal for the Far East (1946–48), nine witnesses testified regarding the atrocities in Nanjing, and their testimonies were detailed in newspaper articles often under shocking headings such as ‘Children Also Brutalized’ and ‘Atrocities in Nanjing Revealed’.17 In contrast to their feelings during the war, many warweary Japanese now condemned the military for dragging the nation into a reckless war and felt ashamed of the atrocities in Nanjing. An editorial printed in the Yomiuri shinbun in late July 1946 is particularly noteworthy: Newspaper correspondents accompanying the army that captured Nanjing were more or less aware of the atrocities by the army. They witnessed innumerable atrocities during the so-called ‘sacred war’, which was in fact a war of aggression. Yet they dared not remonstrate to the military, deeming it wiser to shut their eyes and to excuse the brutality as an unavoidable wartime evil. The irresponsibility of war correspondents, ourselves included, is reprehensible in its disregard of humanity. . . . We must acknowledge the crimes committed by the militarists, epitomized by the Nanjing Massacre, as an ineradicable blot in our history.18 One may debate whether newspaper correspondents intentionally whitewashed the Japanese atrocities in Nanjing or tacitly treated the execution of Chinese citizens as justifiable acts. In any event, however, the remorse expressed in the editorial was indeed sincere and was shared by other Japanese. For example, Hanaki Sankichi, a farmer in Chiba Prefecture, was deeply ashamed of the atrocities in Nanjing and suggested in the op-ed section of the Asahi newspaper that every single Japanese should reflect on what had happened in Nanjing.19 Sentiment among the populace was now overwhelmingly anti-war. Moreover, the

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American occupation censored opinions that questioned the procedures and judgements of the war-crimes tribunal. Thus, few articles criticizing the judgement of the tribunal as to the Nanjing Massacre appeared in the press during the occupation. It was estimated that at least 200,000 civilians and prisoners of war were killed in Nanjing and its vicinity during the first six weeks of the Japanese occupation.20 This view became the orthodox narrative of Nanjing in the post-war period. THE NANJING MASSACRE IN THE COLD WAR The American occupation of Japan officially ended in 1952. By then, driven by fear of communism, the occupational authority had rehabilitated many wartime political leaders, and the Japanese government was no longer eager to discuss its wartime atrocities at home or abroad. In the 1950s and the 1960s, the energies of peace activists were largely committed to movements against nuclear weapons, the US-Japan Security Treaty and the Vietnam War. Nevertheless, even when the great majority of public attention was absorbed by the politics of the Cold War, a few peace activists continually attempted to remind the nation of Japan’s erstwhile colonialism and wartime atrocities. For example, together with the Japanese Red Cross, as well as Buddhist and labour organizations, the Association for Japan-China Friendship (Nit-Chu– yu–ko– kyo–kai), began in 1953 to return the remains of approximately 3,000 forced labourers to China. Formed in 1950 and representing a spectrum of ethnicities and political viewpoints, this association also sponsored memorial services for Chinese war victims.21 In 1957, a group of former Japanese soldiers who had been held as prisoners of war in China published their memoirs of atrocities that they had committed while in China. In this book, titled Three Alls (Sanko–), they confessed to heinous crimes such as arson and murder. These men also founded an organization called the Group of Returnees from China (Chu–goku kikansha renrakukai) in order to enlighten the public regarding the destruction inflicted by Imperial Japan.22 In 1965, as Japan and South Korea discussed the possibility of normalizing their relations, Park Kyong-shik, a scholar of the modern history of – Korea, published Records of Forced Korean Migrants (Cho–senjin kyo–sei renko no kiroku). In this book, Park opposed normalization and, through an extensive examination of his subject, reminded Japanese readers of the sufferings of wartime Korean slave labourers in the Japanese Empire.23 In general, however, these voices of solemn commemoration did little to enrich either the popular understanding or scholarly study of the Nanjing Massacre. It was not until 1971 that millions of Japanese were forced to confront the memory of the atrocities in Nanjing. The year 1971 was indeed a turning point in the historiography of the Nanjing Massacre. In August 1971, ‘Travels in China’ (Chu–goku no tabi), a serialized article appeared in the evening edition of the Asahi

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newspaper. The author, Honda Katsuichi, visited the sites of wartime Japanese atrocities in China, including Nanjing. He interviewed survivors who were still haunted by painful memories of the past and vividly presented these personally agonizing recollections to the newspaper’s nearly four million subscribers.24 Honda reconstructed the history of the Nanjing Massacre solely from the memories of the survivors such as Jiang Genfu, who, at the age of nine, had watched as Japanese soldiers killed his parents and siblings.25 The narratives collected by Honda in no way spared the emotions of his readers; his interviewees spoke tearfully of episodes that can only be described as heartbreaking. Whereas Honda’s article prompted refutations from critics who disagreed such as Yamamoto Shichihei, it succeeded in reminding many Japanese of the Nanjing Massacre and its consequences. Honda often bluntly responded in the media to critics who tried to discredit his reportage, while Honda’s critics were every bit as blunt in their rejoinders.26 Such open hostile exchanges of words incited an unprecedented number of participants to weigh in on the dispute over Nanjing, and both popular journal accounts and scholarly monographs increased substantially in number in the 1970s. Honda himself published two books on Nanjing, and Hora Tomio, a history professor at Waseda University, published two monographs on the atrocities in Nanjing.27 Moreover, the dispute encouraged mindful schoolteachers to shift the focus of their instruction, devoting more attention to Japanese victimizations of other nations than to the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.28 Not only journalists, scholars and teachers, but also well-known artists committed themselves to publicizing the Nanjing Massacre. In 1975, Maruki Toshi and Iri, married artists who had previously produced paintings relating primarily to Hiroshima and Nagasaki, completed a work titled ‘The Rape of Nanking’. Referring to photographs of Japanese atrocities in China that had recently become widely available as a result of the dispute over Nanjing, the Marukis reconstructed the images of horror in Nanjing. In the case of the Marukis, however, the initial decision to paint Nanjing came not from reading Honda’s serial article, but from their tour of the United States in 1970, which they undertook in support of a travelling eight-city exhibit of their Hiroshima and Nagasaki canvases. Their travels through the United States were eye-opening to them. Although they encountered hostile Americans who saw them as perpetrators responsible for the Pearl Harbor attack, they met other Americans who enthusiastically supported the exhibitions, despite criticism or confrontation from their fellow citizens. One day, they experienced a revelation as an American professor who supported their work asked them how they would feel if a Chinese painter asked them to assist in an exhibition portraying the Nanjing Massacre. The two artists were shaken; they realized that they knew little about the history of the Nanjing Massacre. After returning from the United States, they thus began to collect historical materials to enable them to paint the atrocities of

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Nanjing.29 The developing literature on Nanjing facilitated the completion of their painting. The 1970s witnessed a renaissance in public interest regarding the history and memory of the Nanjing Massacre—indeed, the greatest expression of interest in the subject since the end of the occupation period. Yet there was much more to come. In the 1980s, the incorporation of the Nanjing Massacre into Japanese national history was further accelerated by a controversy over history textbooks that provoked both national and international protests. THE TEXTBOOK CONTROVERSY AND ITS AFTERMATH In June 1982, newspapers in Japan reported that the Ministry of Education had tightened its screening standard and was attempting to tone down the discussion of Japanese wartime atrocities and colonialism in history textbooks. The report immediately attracted international attention, and the Japanese government soon received pointed official protests from its counterparts such as China and South Korea.30 In order to ease diplomatic tension, the Japanese government issued an official announcement, stressing that the government and its citizens were profoundly aware that the Japanese state had brought tremendous suffering on peoples in Asia. The Japanese government promised to assume responsibility for rectifying textbook descriptions of Imperial Japan.31 Although the official statement brought international governmental protests to an end, the textbook controversy inspired concerned individuals to educate the public about the devastations and destructions inflicted by the Japanese state, such as the atrocities in Nanjing. For example, Ienaga Saburo–, who had long sought to shed more light upon the misdeeds of the Japanese military, filed his third lawsuit against the government in 1984, condemning the Ministry of Education for its allegedly unconstitutional intervention in the descriptions of historical facts, including the Nanjing Massacre. Also in 1984, disturbed by the government’s attempt to whitewash Japanese wartime atrocities, historians, lawyers and journalists founded the Research Committee on the Nanjing Incident (Nankin jiken cho–sa kenkyu–kai). From the start, members of the committee have enthusiastically published a steady stream of monographs and journal articles. To this day, they remain highly active. Without doubt, the Research Committee laid the foundation for contemporary studies of Nanjing. Collectively, they have enriched the history and memory of the Nanjing Atrocities in Japan.32 By the 1990s, thanks to the vigorous efforts of the members of the committee, the study of the Nanjing Massacre had flourished, and countless readers had discovered the facts of Nanjing from the viewpoints of perpetrators, victims and witnesses.33 This academic trend was reflected in museum displays and history textbooks. The Osaka International Peace Centre, which opened in 1991, the Kyoto Museum for World Peace,

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Ritsumeikan University, opened in 1992, the Kawasaki Peace Museum, opened in 1992, the Peace Museum of Saitama, opened in 1993, the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, renovated and reopened in 1994, the Oka Masaharu Memorial Nagasaki Peace Museum, opened in 1995, and the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum, renovated and reopened in 1996, all included some form of description of the Nanjing Massacre.34 Similarly, by the early 1990s, all history textbooks used in junior high schools and high schools discussed the atrocities in Nanjing, though the degree of description varied, depending on the publisher. Whereas the publisher Yamakawa Shuppan’s 1989 high school history text merely offered a footnote to the effect that the Japanese military killed many Chinese, including civilians, during the occupation of Nanjing, Jikkyo– Shuppan’s 1990 high school history textbook stated in the main text, ‘the Japanese military slaughtered more than 100,000 [ju–su–man] Chinese both inside and outside the city of Nanjing in one month after the occupation’. The 1990 edition of Sanseido–’s textbook even referred to the Chinese official estimate of 300,000 deaths in a footnote, highlighting the ferocity of the atrocities in Nanjing.35 As to junior high school textbooks, by 1997, six out of seven textbooks elected not to use the vague term ‘many’ (tasu–) and included specific estimates of the atrocities, ranging from 100,000 to 300,000.36 By the end of 1990s, the Nanjing Massacre had become one of the best-known symbols of Japanese wartime atrocities among the Japanese populace. Nevertheless, this did not mean that the entire Japanese nation agreed either upon the significance of Nanjing or even on exactly what happened there. As accounts that underscored horrors of Nanjing increased, the historiography of Nanjing written by revisionist authors also increased significantly. Both the condemnations of Japanese atrocities in Nanjing and attempts to answer those condemnations must be understood within a complex conceptual framework. It must always be remembered that, within Japan, ‘Nanjing’ has never had a single, unambiguous meaning. THE HISTORIOGRAPHY OF REVISIONIST ACCOUNTS Although accounts that questioned the authenticity of the Nanjing Massacre have existed since the late 1940s, the history of the Nanjing Massacre introduced to Japan during the American occupation period went largely unchallenged until Honda Katsuichi’s ‘Travels in China’ appeared in the Asahi. Disturbed by Honda’s serial article, revisionist critics often accused Honda of using testimonies of the survivors without critical scrutiny. They maintained that Honda was one-sided and wilfully disregarded accounts of the Japanese veterans who participated in the Battle of Nanjing. Honda refuted his critics with vigour, and so did his opponents. It was in this exchange that the dispute over Nanjing in the mass media originated.37

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Yet it was only after the 1982 textbook controversy that publications of revisionist accounts of the Nanjing Massacre dramatically accelerated. Revisionists excoriated the Japanese government for meekly yielding to the demands of the foreign governments, and the controversy compelled them to publicize their viewpoints. Some revisionists such as Tanaka Masaaki, a critic, sued the Ministry of Education in 1984 for erroneously describing the Nanjing Massacre and demanded that the term ‘Nanjing Massacre’ be deleted from the textbooks.38 To a number of revisionists, the opening of the Nanjing Massacre Memorial Hall in Nanjing in 1985 was another notoriously offensive event. The Memorial Hall includes an inscription affirming the Chinese official estimate of 300,000 deaths, and, to many revisionists, this figure was intolerable. In the 1980s alone, two frustrated ministers openly denied the Nanjing Massacre, and they were forced to resign from the cabinet because of their denials. Although their political careers were ruined, neither regretted what they had said, nor did they withdraw their controversial statements.39 In the 1980s and the 1990s, as the Nanjing Massacre became an icon of wrongful acts of Imperial Japan, revisionist activities inevitably redoubled. Revisionists routinely denied Japanese responsibility for the massacre or blamed the Chinese communist government for fabricating historical facts and demonizing Imperial Japan. They courted attention from the media in order to appeal to the public, and the media seem to have welcomed their comments as a ready source of provocation and controversy. In 1996, a cadre of revisionists led by Fujioka Nobukatsu, a prominent spokesman for revisionism in the 1990s, formed the Japanese Society for History Textbook Reform, whose mission particularly focuses on the revisions of textbook descriptions which, in their eyes, deprive the youth of national pride. In 2000, Fujioka and Higashinakano Osamichi, a professor at Asia University, established Nihon ‘Nankin’ gakkai (the Japan Association for ‘Nanjing’ Studies), whose stated objective is to study the historical truth of the incident known as the ‘Nanjing Massacre’.40 To Higashinakano, president of the Association, the Nanjing Massacre is nothing but a myth, fabricated by wartime Chinese propaganda and the Tokyo War Crimes Trial during the American occupation of Japan.41 To many members of such revisionist organizations, killings of the Chinese combatants were an acceptable procedure of warfare. They regard estimates of more than 200,000 civilian deaths in Nanjing as brazen attempts to manipulate public opinion and to undermine the honour of nation.42 They find it astonishing and unacceptable that six out of seven 1997 junior high school history textbooks included the specific death tolls as a historical fact. Unlike the objectives of members of the Research Committee on the Nanjing Incident, the main concern of the revisionists lies narrowly in disputing the estimate of the number of victims killed in the ‘massacres’. Indeed, it is a grave limitation of the revisionist approach that its understanding has been so obsessed

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with statistics. Revisionists seem not to recognize that, even if only ten thousand people were wrongfully put to death in Nanjing, those deaths still represent an incalculable and irremediable tragedy for the victims and their loved ones. By reducing the controversy to a bland debate over numbers, the revisionists fail to see that they, like the empire of seventy years ago, are reducing the humanity of thousands to a meaningless figure on a printed page. In the eyes of the revisionists, the history of the Nanjing Massacre does not exist because they believe that the Japanese troops were not responsible for the ‘massacre’ of 200,000 Chinese non-combatants during the Japanese occupation of Nanjing. They claim that inclusion of such a mythical event in textbooks is compulsively anti-Japanese and demonizes the history of the nation.43 Understandably, their denials are not limited to the Nanjing Massacre. They also claim that the so-called comfort women were paid prostitutes and that Imperial Japan fought the war to liberate Asia from Western colonialism.44 In short, their ultimate goal is to liberate Japanese history from the alleged ‘leftists’ whom they regard as hopelessly obsessed with writing an ‘anti-Japanese’ and ‘masochistic’ (jigyaku) history of Japan. SEEKING THE UPPER HAND: WHICH VERSION OF NANJING WILL ACHIEVE BROADER ACCEPTANCE? Today various accounts on Nanjing, including those written by the members of the Japan Association for ‘Nanjing’ Studies and the constituents of the Research Committee on the Nanjing Incident, are widely available in Japanese society. One may be curious to learn whether the revisionists are winning or losing the struggle for public acceptance. As no detailed numerical survey has ever been conducted, my analysis can only offer speculation. Even so, the ideas, interests and passions involved are too complicated to permit a simple conclusion. Whereas a number of cabinet ministers have openly denied the Nanjing Massacre since the 1980s, both Diet members and local government representatives are generally reluctant to publicly endorse the revisionist viewpoint. Such a controversial stand would not only jeopardize national or regional relations with China, but would also set at risk the political career of the speaker. This reasoning also helps to explain why the New History Textbook, a junior high school history textbook written by the strongly revisionist Japanese Society for History Textbook Reform, has rarely been selected for use in schools since 2002.45 Though the revisionists continue to struggle for dominance in Japanese society, those who publicize the horrors of the Nanjing Massacre have not been fully victorious, either. Whereas most junior high schools in Japan are not using New History Textbook, which stressed the on-going dispute over Nanjing rather than the dreadful facts of the atrocities, the other existing seven textbooks have reacted to New History Textbook by toning down the

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description of the Nanjing Massacre in comparison with their previous editions. In general, these textbooks retreated from controversy, replacing – ).46 numerical death estimates with ambiguous terms such as ‘many’ (tasu Likewise, in order to avoid challenges from reactionary forces, many public museums, such as the Osaka International Peace Centre, are now more defensive in nature, and contradictory accounts of Nanjing stand side by side on their library shelves. Seemingly, neither side is winning an all-out victory in the dispute over the Nanjing Massacre. Instead, each side has experienced both gains and losses. Both views have been more easily accessible since the early 1980s and both have cultivated their own supporters among the public. Whereas those who acknowledge Japan’s responsibility for its wartime conduct and colonialism tend to support the narratives written by the Research Committee on the Nanjing Incident, others who firmly believe that Imperial Japan liberated Asia from Western imperialism are likely to support the publications by the Japan Association for ‘Nanjing’ Studies. In the Nanjing dispute there will probably be no winner in absolute terms. In the eyes of many revisionists, the Japanese military did not ‘massacre’ 300,000 Chinese civilians, therefore, they argue, the Nanjing Massacre was a fabrication and must not be a part of Japanese official history. Although the members of the Research Committee would agree that the Japanese military never slaughtered 300,000 civilians in Nanjing, they believe that the Nanjing Massacre was a historical truth that should be remembered as the sufferings of the victims were too dreadful to be dismissed. The differences in interpretation regarding Nanjing are irreconcilable. Neither side will yield to the other, nor will either faction be silent so long as each remains committed to writing its ideal national history. CONCLUSION In post-war Japan, ‘progressive intellectuals’ who deeply regretted Japan’s wartime aggression and destruction have traditionally been the prevailing voice in the historical academy. However, opponents have assailed these progressives with cries of ‘leftists’, ‘Marxists’, ‘masochists’, ‘anti-Japanese Japanese’ and other labels that they consider derogatory. They believe that these progressives are obsessed with negative aspects of national history and are deterring young Japanese from experiencing patriotism. After all, they reason, nations need citizens who are willing to sacrifice their lives for the state. In the eyes of progressives, however, Japan’s wartime nationalism and militarism caused the deaths of millions of human beings in the Pacific region, including Japanese lives, and they have passionately studied the war and its impact on the peoples to prevent the state from repeating the errors of the past. It is no wonder that the progressives have examined wartime Japanese atrocities

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and colonialism, such as the Nanjing Massacre, for decades. It is probably fair to say that Japan today has a far more extensive scholarly literature on the study of Nanjing than any other country, and peace activists have amassed a strong arsenal of facts and arguments to defend their views against revisionist claims. It is true that the revisionists have their own crowds who believe in their efforts to extenuate the atrocities in Nanjing, a stance which, by the way, has elicited reciprocal feelings of ethnocentric nationalism in other nations, particularly in China. Nevertheless, these revisionists deserve a partial credit for nationalizing and internationalizing the history and memory of the Nanjing Massacre. They are, perhaps, the irritant within the oyster that has produced the metaphorical pearls of progressive scholarship. Without the revisionists, the study of the Nanjing Massacre within Japan and elsewhere would not have been as advanced as it is today. Without them, the history and memory of the Nanjing Massacre would have never become a symbol of Japanese wartime misconduct in modern world history. However, their denials of Nanjing have justly disturbed many individuals both inside and outside Japan, who too quickly forget that the revisionist position is the minority view. Sensationalist denials attract more interest than moderate voices and patient scholarship. It is therefore perfectly understandable that these revisionists receive significant attention from the media and critics. Nevertheless, we must all keep in mind that training too much focus on the revisionist movement obscures the fact that the revisionists are the challengers who have been trying to rewrite the existing history of the Nanjing Massacre for more than three decades. More importantly, those who are unfamiliar with Japanese history may blindly assume that the revisionists dominate Japanese society and that the nation as a whole is trying to efface the history and memory of the Nanjing Massacre. To suppose that the revisionists speak for the entire Japanese people is to do grave disservice to the progressives and their supporters who certainly deserve credit for facilitating the understanding of Nanjing in Japan for nearly four decades. NOTES 1

2

For a more detailed analysis of the Nanjing Massacre, see my The Making of the ‘Rape of Nanking’: History and Memory in Japan, China, and the United States (New York: Oxford University Press, 2006). – shageki ni waga gun hangeki’ (Our Army Fights See, for example, ‘Fuho Back Against Illegal Shootings), Tokyo Asahi Shinbun, 9 July 1937, p. 1; – shageki’ (Chinese Army Commits More Unlawful ‘Shinagun mata fuho – gun o jo–mon ni irete Shootings), Tokyo Asahi Shinbun, 20 July 1937, p. 2; ‘Ko – sha o abisu, gekisen jitsuni san-jikan’ (After Allowing Imperial totsujo mo Army inside Wall, [Chinese Army] Suddenly Begins Intense Shooting; Fight Lasts Three Hours), Tokyo Asahi Shinbun, 27 July 1937, p. 2.

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For the Nation or for the People? 3

4 5 6

7

8

9

10 11

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14 15

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‘Counted up to Forty; Don’t Remember the Rest of Slaying’, Tokyo Nichinichi Shinbun 2 September 1937, reprinted in Kikan Senso– Sekinin Kenkyu–, no. 50 (winter 2005), p. 77. Ishiko Jun, Nihon manga-shi (Tokyo: Shakai Shiso–sha, 1988), pp. 184–6. Ibid., p. 186. Kaigo Tokiomi, Nihon kyo–kasho taikei kindai hen (Tokyo: Ko–dansha, 1965), vol. 16, p. 644; Nihon kyo–kasho taikei kindai hen (Tokyo: Ko–dansha, 1962), vol. 20, pp. 232–3. See for example, Kaigo Tokiomi, Nihon kyo–kasho taikei kindai hen (Tokyo: Ko–dansha, 1964), vol. 8, pp. 34–5 and his Nihon kyo–kasho taikei kindai hen (Tokyo: Ko–dansha, 1962), vol. 3, pp. 298–9. Kaigo, Nihon kyo–kasho taikei kindai hen (Tokyo: Ko–dansha, 1963), vol. 7, pp. 709–11; vol. 8, pp. 202–204. Yasukuni jinja, Yasukuni jinja hakunen shi (Tokyo: Hara Shobo–, 1983), vol. 2, pp. 77–8. Yu–shu–kan, Yu–shu–kan-shi (Tokyo: Yu–shu–kan), pp. 477–89. Hora Tomio, Nit-chu– senso–: Nankin daigyakusatsu jiken shiryo–shu– (Tokyo: Aoki Shoten, 1985), vol. 2, pp. 311–13. Kaji Wataru Nihon heishi no hansen undo– I (Tokyo: Do–seisha, 1962), pp. 79, 83–5. Fujiwara Akira and Himeta Mitsuyoshi, Nit-chu– senso–-ka Chu–goku ni okeru Nihonjin no hansen katsudo– (Tokyo: Aoki Shoten, 1999). The date in Japan when the attack occurred was 8 December 1941. See, for example, ‘Taiheiyo– senso– shi’ (The History of the Pacific War), Asahi Shinbun, 8 December 1945, p. 2, 4; ‘Taiheiyo– senso– shi: senki no dai tenkan’ (The History of the Pacific War: The Turning Point of the War), Asahi Shinbun, 9 December 1945, p. 1; ‘Taiheiyo– senso– shi: Rengo–koku no tainichi mo–ko–’ (The History of the Pacific War: Fierce Attack against Japan by the Allied Forces), Asahi Shinbun, 10 December 1945, p. 2; ‘Taiheiyo– senso– shi: Hokyu– o tatsu’ (The History of the Pacific War: Cutting the Supply Lines), Asahi Shinbun, 11 December 1945, p. 2; ‘Taiheiyo– senso– shi: To–jo– shusho– no botsuraku’ (The History of the Pacific War: The Fall of Premier To–jo–), Asahi Shinbun, 12 December 1945, p. 4; ‘Taiheiyo– senso– shi: Reite, Sam~ru no sensen’ (The History of the Pacific War: The Battles of Leyte and Samar), Asahi Shinbun, 13 December 1945, p. 2; ‘Taiheiyo– senso– shi: Kanpai ni owatta Hito– sen’ (The History of the Pacific War: The Complete Defeat at the Battle of the Philippines), Asahi Shinbun, 14 December 1945, p. 2; ‘Taiheiyo– senso– shi: Io–jima to Okinawa’ (The History of the Pacific War: Iwo Jima and Okinawa), Asahi Shinbun, 15 December 1945, p. 2; ‘Taiheiyo– senso– shi: Soren kara mo hijitetsu’ (The History of the Pacific War: Getting a Snab from the Soviet Union, Too), Asahi Shinbun, 16 December 1945, p. 2; ‘Taiheiyo– senso– shi: Tokyo wan jo– – in’ (The History of the Pacific War: The Signing Ceremony in Tokyo ni cho Bay), Asahi Shinbun, 17 December 1945, p. 2. Lewis Smythe, War Damage in the Nanking Area (Shanghai: Mercury Press, 1938), p. 8.

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Memory in Politics and International Relations ‘Osanago ni mo bo–ko–; Wuiruson shi Nankin gyakusatsu o bakuro’ (Children Also Brutalized; Dr. Wilson Discloses Nanjing Atrocities), Asahi Shinbun, 26 July 1946, p. 2; ‘Onna kodomo mo higo– no shi; Nankin no gyakusatsu o bakuro’ (Women and Children Died by Violence; Atrocities in Nanjing Revealed), Yamanashi nichi nichi Shinbun, 27 July 1946, p. 1. ‘Chu–gokujin ni shai’ (Gratitude to Chinese People), Yomiuri Shinbun, 31 July 1946, p. 1. Hanaki Sankichi, ‘Nankin jiken’ (The Nanjing Incident), Asahi Shinbun, 8 August 1946, p. 2. John Pritchard, The Tokyo War Crimes Trial (New York: Garland Publishing, 1981), vol. 20, pp. 49, 608. Nihon Chu–goku yu–ko– kyo–kai zenkoku honbu (The Headquarters of the Japan China Friendship Association), Nit-chu– yu–ko– undo– shi (Tokyo: Seinen Shuppansha, 1980), pp. 62–3, 66n2. Chu–goku kikansha renrakukai (The Group of Returnees from China), Sanko– (Tokyo: Ko–bunsha). The group still exists today and continues to be involved in public education. Park Kyong-shik, Cho–senjin kyo–sei renko– no kiroku (Tokyo: Miraisha, 1965). According to an advertisement of the Asahi, the circulation of the evening edition in November 1970 was 3,979,055. See the Japan Newspaper Publishers and Editors Association, The Japanese Press 1971, n.p. Honda Katsuichi, ‘Chu–goku no tabi’ (Travels in China), Asahi Shinbun, evening edition, no. 24 (6 November 1971), p. 2; no 25 (8 November 1971), p. 2; no. 26 (9 November 1971), p. 2; and no. 31 (16 November 1971), p. 2. See, for example, Isaiah Ben-Dasan (Yamamoto Shichihei), ‘Asahi Shinbun no “gomen nasai”,’ in Shokun! 4:1 (January 1972), pp. 166–79; Honda Katsuichi, ‘Izaya Bendasan shi e no ko–kaijo–,’ in Shokun! 4:2 (February 1972), pp. 208–17; Isaiah Ben-Dasan, ‘Honda Katsuichi sama e no hensho,’ in Shokun! 4:3 (March 1972), pp. 40–60; Honda Katsuichi, ‘Zatsuon de ijimerareru gawa no me,’ in Shokun! 4:4 (April 1972), pp. 148–76. Honda Katsuichi, Chu–goku no tabi (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha, 1972); Chu–goku no Nihongun (Tokyo: So–jusha, 1972). Hora Tomio, Nit-Chu– senso–shi shiryo–shu– 9: Nankin jiken (Tokyo: Kawade Shobo– Shinsha, 1973); Nankin daigyakusatsu: ‘maboroshi’ ka ko–saku hihan (Tokyo: Gendaishi Shuppankai, 1975). See, for example, Oda Baku, ‘Ju–gonen sonso– o do– oshieruka,’ in Rekishi Chiri Kyo–iku 219 (December 1973), pp. 28–33. Kozawa Setsuko, ‘Genbaku no zu’ egakareta kioku, katarareta kaiga (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2002), pp. 221–4. Maruki Toshi, Onna ekaki no tanjo– (Tokyo: Nihon Tosho Sentâ), pp. 228–35. Tokutake Toshio. Kyo–kasho no sengo shi (Tokyo: Shin Nihon Shuppansha, 1995), p. 202. ‘Seifu kenkai’ (View of the Government), Asahi Shinbun, 27 August 1982, p. 1. Founding members included Fujiwara Akira (historian), Honda Katsuichi (journalist), Hora Tomio (historian), Kasahara Tokushi (historian), Ono

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36 37 38

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40 41

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43 44

45

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Kenji (factory worker), Yoshida Yutaka (historian), and Watanabe Harumi (lawyer). For more details of the Study Group, see Takashi Yoshida (2006), chapters 7 and 10. For example, see Nankin jiken cho–sa kenkyu–kai (The Research Committee on the Nanjing Incident), Nankin jiken shiryo–shu– (Tokyo: Aoki Shoten, 1992), 2 vols. As to general descriptions of war and peace museums in Japan, see Rekishi kyo–ikusha kyo–gikai (Association for History Educators), Heiwa hakubutsukan, senso– shiryo–kan gaido bukku (Tokyo: Aoki Shoten, 1995). Tawara Yoshifumi, Kyo–kasho ko–geki no shinso– (Tokyo: Gakushu–-no-tomosha, 1997), pp. 158–9, 161. Ibid., pp. 170–2. See Yoshida (2006), chapter 4. The Tokyo District Court ruled against Tanaka in May 1987, and the Supreme Court dismissed the case in December 1989. Takashi Yoshida, ‘Battle Over History: The Nanjing Massacre in Japan,’ in Joshua Fogel (ed.), The Nanjing Massacre in History and Historiography (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), p. 92. See Yoshida (2006), chapter 10. See, for example, Higashinakano Osamichi, Nihon ‘Nankin’ gakkai nenpo–: Nankin ‘gyakusatsu’ kenkyu– no saizensen Heisei 15 nen ban (Annual Report of Japan Association of Nanjing Studies: The Forefront of the Studies of the Nanjing ‘Massacre,’ 2003), pp. 305–308. See, for example, Fujioka Nobukatsu and Nishio Kanji, Kokumin no yudan (Tokyo: PHP Kenkyu–jo, 1996), pp. 209–14. See, also, Yoshida (2006), chapter 10. Fujioka and Nishio (1996), pp. 1–3. Ibid., pp. 155–62, 194–7. See also the contribution of Ahn Yonson in this volume (the editors). According to Shuppan ro–ren kyo–kasho taisaku iinkai (The Textbook Examination Committee of the Japanese Federation of Publication Workers), Kyo–kasho Repo–to 2002, no. 46 (February 2002), the share of the revisionist textbook was 0.039% of the market. Since spring 2006 the share has risen to 0.4%. See Uesugi Satoshi, ‘ “Tsukuru-kai” to no tatakai 2005 nen,’ in Senso– Sekinin Kenkyu– 50 (winter 2005), pp. 58–9. Ishiyama Hisao, ‘Chu–gaku rekishi kyo–kasho wa do– kakikaerareta ka,’ in Kyo–kasho Repo–to 2002, no. 46, pp. 17–18.

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3

Japan’s ‘Comfort Women’ and Historical Memory: The Neo-nationalist Counter-attack YONSON AHN

INTRODUCTION

A

mong the controversies and conflicts over interpreting Japan’s Second World War history (sometimes referred to as the Asia-Pacific War, 1931–45) is the debate over the issue of ‘comfort women’. Since 1970, and particularly since the 1990s, numerous studies on the ‘comfort women’ have sustained remembrance of the issue in Japan, Korea and across the English-speaking world. This body of literature examined the involvement of the Japanese state, the role of nationalism, sexual violence, colonialism and transnational feminism. In response, Japanese neonationalists, known as ‘historical revisionists’ in Japan, since the 1990s have attempted to erase this issue from public memory. This nationalist ‘historical revisionism’ (rekishi shu–seishugi) ‘proposes to replace the “masochistic” view of “leftist” historians (jigyaku shikan) by a “bright” historical narrative as the basis for a “healthy nationalism” or patriotism’.1 Japan’s neo-nationalists set out explicitly to ‘preserve the national essence (kokutai)’, for example, ‘to honour the special (dokutoku) values, traditions and the culture of their country’.2 Authors working within this framework – ichi,4 Nishio Kanji,5 Sakamoto include Fujioka Nobukatsu,3 Watanabe Sho 6 7 Takao, Nakamura Akira, Hosaka Masayasu,8 Nishioka Tsutomu,9 Hata Ikuhiko,10 Kusaka Kimihito,11 Okazaki Hisahiko and cartoonist Kobayashi Yoshinori.12 These authors have challenged the literature on the ‘comfort women’ with respect to the following issues: 1. the terminology of the ‘comfort women’ 2. state involvement in the ‘comfort station’ project

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Japan’s ‘Comfort Women’ and Historical Memory 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

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credibility of narratives of former ‘comfort women’ reference to ‘comfort women’ in school textbooks identifying the ‘comfort women’ as prostitutes universality of the existence of military brothels ‘presentism’.

This chapter investigates the themes raised in recent works of ‘historical revisionism’ and analyses the representation of ‘comfort women’ in neo-nationalist discourse in Japan. In doing so, it also examines the way Japanese neo-nationalists represent the ‘comfort women’ in their reconstruction of the memory of the Asia-Pacific War. TERMINOLOGY OF ‘COMFORT WOMEN’ To begin, the very term ‘comfort women’ (ianfu) is questioned by authors such as Fujioka Nobukatsu and Watanabe Sho–ichi.13 The full expression, ju– gun ianfu, literally means ‘comfort women who followed the military.’ Fujioka argues that ju– gun is a reference to gunzoku, that is, civilians who had official status in the military.14 Fujioka and Watanabe claim that the women had no such official status in the military but were ‘paid prostitutes’ taken by traffickers who served ‘client soldiers’.15 The neo-nationalists as a group seek to distance the state and the military from the ‘comfort women’ by insisting that they had no official status in the military, a question to which we return below. The heart of the problem, however, lies not only with the inappropriate use of the term ju– gun, but also ianfu which means ‘comfort women’, since the term ianfu describes the women’s experience in a euphemistic way. Yet, the improper use of the term ianfu has been conveniently ignored by the neo-nationalists. Some mainstream liberal activists and scholars who have worked on, or written about, this issue also reject the term ju– gun ianfu because of the euphemism in the term ianfu, ‘comfort women’. They prefer to refer to the women as ‘sex slaves’ (seidorei), based on the slavelike conditions (such as detention, confinement and lack of autonomy) under which the women were forced into sexual servitude. For example, a report from the United Nations Human Rights Committee by Radhika Coomaraswamy in February 1996 described the ‘comfort women’ as ‘sex slaves’.16 I use the term ‘comfort women’ here in order to record the euphemistic and subtle implications of the term as well as to address the international debate which has principally been conducted on the basis of the term. In Korea, the term cho ˘ ngsindae17—the Women’s Volunteer Labour Corps, teishintai in Japanese—has generally been used to frame the experience of the ‘comfort women’. Cho ˘ ngsindae were mobilized ostensibly to work in various sectors to support the war. This mobilization was conducted on the basis of Imperial Japan’s Manpower Mobilization

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Act, promulgated in 1939. A further ordinance, the Women’s Volunteer Labour Corps Act (Yo ˘ja cho ˘ ngsindae ryo ˘ ng) was promulgated in August 1944. Women between the ages of fourteen and forty-five were required to participate in the ‘volunteer’ corps for a period of one to two years.18 Accounts of the former ‘comfort women’ and a report by the Korean Ministry of Foreign Affairs reveal that female members of the corps were sometimes transferred to provide sexual ‘services’ as ‘comfort women’ ˘ n-jin and Kang To to soldiers.19 In the case of Kim U ˘ k-kyo ˘ ng, even though they were first recruited in the name of the voluntary corps through their schools, they were later sent to ‘comfort stations’ instead of doing ordinary physical labour.20 Thus, the general term cho ˘ ngsindae tends to obscure the fact that some women were mobilized to provide sexual services while others worked in diverse industrial and service jobs. The neo-nationalists’ disapproval of the term ju–gun ianfu centres on the denial of the fact that the Japanese state and military were involved in the ‘comfort station’ project. They point out that if the women were civilian personnel with official status in the military like ju–gun kangofu, who were wartime nurses on the military payroll, this implicates the military or the state in running the ‘comfort facilities’ in the Japanese Imperial Army and Navy. At the heart of the question of correct terminology is the role of the state and the military in the ‘comfort women’ project. STATE INVOLVEMENT IN THE ‘COMFORT STATION’ PROJECT The state and military involvement in running the ‘comfort facilities’ in the Japanese Imperial Army and Navy and the use of force in the procurement procedure of ‘comfort women’ are central to the denial discourse of neo-nationalist works. Fujioka, for example, insists that proof of force in procurement requires military or government archival evidence.21 The testimonies of the former ‘comfort women’ and those who witnessed or were involved in the ‘comfort women’ system in fact provide abundant evidence to document the fact that the military and government authorities were heavily involved in the procurement—and, in particular, in the coercive procurement—of women, and in the establishment and management of ‘comfort stations’.22 There were basically two avenues of recruitment of the women—one was through military or local authorities, the other was through traffickers.23 Both routes were more or less controlled and supervised by agents of the Japanese state. While the recruitment was carried out by civil agencies in many cases, the Japanese Imperial Army screened and selected the agencies.24 My own interviews with former ‘comfort women’ include instances of police or military police escorting the recruited girls, and the use of military equipment and accommodation, for example, trains, naval ships or military trucks controlled by the military, both within Korea and internationally.25 Many of the women as well as army veterans have testified to the involvement of civilian or military police in recruitment

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and transportation.26 But these narrative materials are not considered credible evidence by neo-nationalist academics and intellectuals. They insist that the absence of official documents to verify the narratives is proof that no state force was used in procuring the women. This enables them to claim that the women were paid prostitutes who ‘volunteered’ themselves into the business since, they claim, there was no forced procurement. Fujioka and Kusaka claim that if there was forcible recruitment, official documents in support of this should exist.27 In fact, due to the scarcity of official records, discussion of coercion relies mainly on the oral narratives of the former ‘comfort women’. But this lack of documentary evidence should not be a reason to discredit oral testimonies. One can be sceptical whether there are any official documents available by the Japanese state or military on forces used in the procurement procedure of the women. Despite the scarcity of official records on the issue, Yoshimi Yoshiaki, a Japanese historian, has retrieved and published Japanese archive material on the direct role of the Japanese military in establishing and maintaining a huge network of ‘comfort stations’, for example in the transport of the women to ‘comfort stations’, granting permission to open the facilities, equipping the facilities and drawing up regulations for the ‘comfort stations’ that set the hours of operation and fees and stipulated such matters as precautions to be taken in the use of the facilities.28 It should be pointed out that the employment of military transportation needed the sanctioning of the military headquarters, because civilians were not allowed on board naval ships. All civilians needed an official pass to leave the country and travel abroad.29 Furthermore, when the women were allocated to each unit, their names were written on papers under the titles of ‘distribution of supplies’ and ‘receipt of supplies’ for the forces.30 The contribution of Yoshimi’s research has been to establish unequivocally the involvement of the Japanese military, from the recruitment of the women to the setting up and running of the ‘comfort stations’, using official military documents. His research has shown a systematic involvement by the military and the state both in the process of recruitment and transportation of the ‘comfort women’ and running the ‘comfort facilities’. As an excuse, neo-nationalists like Hata and Fujioka depict the ‘comfort stations’ as akin to modern-day restaurants housed within Japan’s Ministry of Education building: visited by Ministry personnel but not operated by the Ministry.31 In this example, Fujioka points out that the Ministry merely provides water and electricity, and restaurant employees are not Ministry personnel. In the same way, Fujioka alleges: ‘The military at the front during the war did not run “comfort stations” but was just involved in transport and protection for the women given the extraordinary wartime situation.’32 His rationalization of the military’s involvement leads even further to a rhetoric of protection of the women in which this involvement is legitimized.

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Another problem with the neo-nationalist assertion is their narrow definition of force/coercion—one limited to the application of physical force, such as abduction or slave hunting. As defined in the Protocol to Prevent, Suppress and Punish Trafficking in Persons, Especially Women and Children by the UN High Commissioner for Human Rights, force/coercion encompasses ‘the threat or use of force or other forms of coercion, of abduction, of fraud, of deception, of the abuse of power or of a position of vulner ability or of the giving or receiving of payments or benefits to achieve the consent of a person having control over another person, for the purpose of exploitation’.33 These various forms of coercion—including physical force, mental or psychological coercion, and abuse of authority—were clearly involved both in the procurement procedure and in the everyday life of the ‘comfort women’. For example, testimony of former ‘comfort women’ reveals that daughters were sometimes blackmailed into offering themselves to the stations in order to save their fathers and brothers from being conscripted into the Japanese army or from having to work in the coal mines and other forms of forced labour in Manchuria or Japan.34 Daughters from families who were involved in the Korean independence movement were often targeted as ‘comfort women’.35 The use of mental coercion, deception and abuse of power can be routinely witnessed from the narratives of ‘comfort women.’ More important, former ‘comfort women’ report the presence of physical and psychological coercion not only in the recruitment but also in their day-to-day experiences in the ‘comfort stations’. After the crisis of sexual initiation, which usually took the form of rape by military personnel, being forced to ‘serve’ the soldiers became an on-going daily routine of the women. In most cases, they were confined in the ‘comfort stations’ and under surveillance. Even though they were allowed to go out of the station in some cases, when the station was housed on or very near battlefields, it might have been more dangerous outside. Moreover, they were not able to access help or transportation to escape mainly because of a language barrier between them and local people when they were taken abroad, which occurred frequently.36 They were isolated physically and socially. Despite this overwhelming narrative evidence, neo-nationalists do not credit the testimony of ‘comfort women’ on coercion as valid evidence, and they claim that no documentary source shows the role of the state or military in coercive practices in procurement. The issue of coercion inherent in the ‘comfort women’ project itself, not only in the procurement process but also more intensively and constantly, in everyday life in ‘comfort stations’, is conveniently ignored by the neo-nationalist groups. THE VALIDITY OF NARRATIVES OF THE ‘COMFORT WOMEN’ Japan’s neo-nationalists question the validity of the narratives of former ‘comfort women’. If the narrative evidence is not corroborated by official

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written documentation, it is discounted. Minute details of the women’s accounts of their experiences six or seven decades earlier are checked for factual accuracy, and any errors that are found are presented as proof of the unreliability of the testimony. Official state documents are deemed as the only legitimate historical source, that is, they engage in ‘documentary fetishism’, to use Gregor McLennan’s term.37 The state evidence is held to be uniquely reliable and valid while that of the victims is written off. Official state documents are deemed as the most legitimate historical source by the neo-nationalist intellectuals; yet, interestingly, narrative sources are selectively introduced as evidence. Some of the testimonies by former Japanese government officers that deny the responsibility of the state for the ‘comfort women’ system are presented as crucial evidence, for example, in Nakamura’s work.38 Yet, no credence has been given to the women’s accounts of the events. It appears that checking the reliability of the testimonies of the women with documents is stressed merely to discredit, rather than to weigh and assess, their evidence. Another contradiction can be observed in the notion of ‘history as storytelling’ by neo-nationalist academics like the late Sakamoto Takao, Nishio Kanji and Fujioka Nobukatsu. Sakamoto Takao viewed history as a story that is derived from a plot. He ‘employs the discourse of a national history that is not necessarily based on verified facts from studies of history, but one in which facts are simply “woven into the story” in order to enhance its reality’.39 Fujioka also implies that any kind of story, including fictive stories, can be constructed as history.40 It seems that congruence between ‘scientific’ history and myth, ritual and memory is acknowledged. This echoes the American philosopher of history Hayden White’s argument about the fictive character of historical reconstructions.41 Neo-nationalist historians such as Sakamoto, Nishio, and Fujioka appear to abandon the empiricist or positivistic methodology to historical inquiry based on verifiable facts and then accede the historian’s emplotment of historical events in historical investigation. They recognize that historians are implicated in the fictive constitution of the past as history. But in contrast to the neo-nationalists’ assumption about history writing as construction, contradictorily, when they deal with issues such as ‘comfort women’ they strictly return to the naïve historical positivist’s quest for a ‘scientific’ approach to the past that can be objectively verified with documents. It is an ironic inconsistency: they deal with the issue of ‘comfort women’ applying strict empiricist or positivistic methodology to finding historical ‘facts’ but nonetheless attempt to construct national history by blurring the boundary between ‘fact’ and ‘fiction’ or myth. Yoshiko Nozaki highlights the contradiction in neo-nationalist methodology: ‘The vocabulary they used may have been borrowed from recent postmodern literature, but it paradoxically serves modernist ends, especially the construction of a national unity by (re)instituting national history.’42 In order to serve and reify national

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history, both the modernist paradigm of nations and national history and the fictive character of historical reconstructions in the postmodern approach are selectively and conveniently employed. Progressive historians in Japan have challenged neo-nationalist historical investigation and methodology, particularly the assumption of ‘history as fiction’. In doing so, interestingly enough, the progressives cling to the empiricist or positivist approach in also stressing ‘scientific and objective’ historical scholarship based on verifiable evidence.43 They pursue historical factual findings on the ‘comfort women’ system based primarily on official written material issued during the colonial period; for example, studies by progressive liberal historians such as Yoshimi Yoshiaki, Hayashi Hirofumi and Yoshida Yutaka.44 They have documented what the system was like and how it was recorded. This actually provides a good entrance point to open up investigations in relation to Japanese military and state involvement in the ‘comfort station’ system. To some extent, it is useful to confront defensive positions of the neo-nationalists with official records, when there is any counter-documentation. However, the limitation of this methodology is that it can only show a ‘documented’ picture of the ‘comfort women’ system. The heavy reliance on official records in both the neo-nationalist and progressive historical enquiries trivializes the experiences and voices of the ‘comfort women’. The narratives of the women are being used only as additional evidence. Testimonies are selected only where they can support already established facts in the written records. When there is tension between documentary evidence and narratives, the latter tend to be discounted as ‘less credible evidence’. Particularly in recent ‘historical revisionism’ by neo-nationalist academics and intellectuals in Japan, the memory of the women who have testified is written off without discussion of how to evaluate human memory as historical evidence. If there is omission, exaggeration, or understatement in a narrative, the reasons for that should be sought and analysed, rather than discrediting the authenticity of the whole narrative and labelling those stories as unreliable. Memories are complex cultural products, involving private memories and public representations, past experiences, and apprehensions of the present situation. In the words of Carol Gluck, ‘the definition of a presentable past is socially constituted’.45 The narratives of the ‘comfort women’ are also conditioned by personality, interests and social values of the society to which they belong. Therefore, selective memory needs to be interpreted and analysed in terms of social context, instead of being put aside as unreliable. Narrators recounting personal experience are of course products of their social surroundings; but so too are historians and recorders of official records. The content of written documents is bound to be linked to the interests and social values of their producers, and the purposes for which they were recorded. In short, documents as much as personal narratives do not present some ‘objective truth’; they reflect the position of their author and the institutions

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that commission the document and the information available. Thus, the common assumption of ‘unproblematic correspondence between evidence (text) and reality’46 begs all the important historical questions. Finally, the hierarchy of evidence between official records and narratives is also about gender; men’s voices and perspectives are more likely to be recorded in official documents, whereas women’s experiences are more likely to be oral accounts. Consequently, heavy reliance on written records, especially official records, leads to the marginalization of oral narratives and undercuts the impact of women in producing historical knowledge. Therefore, in historical investigation on the ‘comfort women’, written documents alone are not sufficient to explore women’s experiences during the war. Not only official records, but also oral narratives need to be considered as historical evidence. THE ‘COMFORT WOMEN’ IN SCHOOL TEXTBOOKS Empiricist or positivistic logic as applied by the neo-nationalists has been used to remove references to the ‘comfort women’ from history and social studies textbooks in Japan. Fujioka asserts that as a consequence of neglecting an empiricist attempt to investigate the ‘comfort women’ issue, and a suppression of counter opinions, references to the ‘comfort women’ are inappropriately included in history textbooks in Japan. Thus, he urges: ‘We, as offspring [of the Japanese nation], have a duty and a right to scrutinize testimonies of the former comfort women.’47 What he invokes here is a sense of ‘extended kinship’ in defending Japan’s past and in consolidating its national pride and patriotic spirit. In the introduction to the 2006 version of the Atarashii Rekishi Kyo–kasho (New History Textbook) by the ‘Japanese Society for History Textbook – kasho o tsukuru-kai, hereafter referred to Reform’ (Atarashii rekishi kyo as Tsukuru-kai), biologically constituted homogeneity is underscored in asserting that the history of Japan is ‘the stories of your [i.e. the students’] ancestors—your blood relatives’.48 Neo-nationalist groups have linked the issue of ‘comfort women’ to questions of sex education and morality education. Sakamoto49 and Fujioka50 say the statement that thousands of Asian women were abducted and forced to provide sex to Japanese soldiers during the war is inappropriate to teach middle school students, as it gives juveniles a distorted view of sex at puberty. Fujioka thus urges: ‘To ensure their psychological sound development, introducing the abnormal case of sexuality at a place of national education for teenagers should be suspended’ on the ground that ‘it is psychological rape to force Japanese girls to listen to this kind of account’.51 Teaching the issue of ‘comfort women’, he claims, is ‘antieducational behaviour, and pollution of children’s minds’.52 Kobayashi Yoshinori, a cartoonist, fiercely attacks textbooks with the ‘comfort women’ reference, too, claiming that their use of terms like ‘rape’ and ‘sexually transmitted disease’ are ‘quasi-pornographic’.53 For Kobayashi,

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the actual rape or other sexual abuse committed by the Japanese military should be suppressed in order to protect children from references that he deems pornographic. The result has been to reverse the modest gains of the 1990s in inserting brief references to the ‘comfort women’ in high school history textbooks. The neo-nationalist offensive succeeded in transforming school curricula so that ‘none of the 2006 edition textbook drafts refer to comfort women’.54 Moreover, the neo-nationalist narrative has been inserted into the Atarashii Rekishi Kyo–kasho (New History Textbook) for middle school students by the Tsukuru-kai. As Sakamoto argued, the purpose of history education is for them to promote national consciousness.55 Japan’s neo-nationalist groups have influenced the sphere of public memory of the ‘comfort women’ through both publication of their own textbook and leading the offensive by attacking the mention of the issues in other textbooks, as well as by their ability to shape public debate. IDENTIFYING ‘COMFORT WOMEN’ AS PROSTITUTES In neo-nationalist writings, ‘comfort women’ are represented as professional prostitutes motivated by money and earning high incomes.56 It is alleged that the women earned ‘often as much as 100 times the pay of their soldier clients’,57 or almost 250 yen a month, which is more than 3.5 times the monthly salary for a university graduate military officer during the war, according to an account by a former Japanese civil servant in Korea during the Japanese colonial period (1910–45).58 Hata Ikuhiko describes the work as ‘high risk, high return’.59 By earning high incomes, Watanabe asserts: ‘They were able to become dutiful daughters by helping their families to build houses.’60 These critics of the lawsuits and the campaign for apologies and compensation from the Japanese government claim that the women are motivated by greed and desire for money, seeing their law-suits as a chance to ‘win the lottery’. In fact, the organization of daily life in ‘comfort stations’ was similar to that found in brothels whereby the men chose their favourite one among those lining up, and then paid for having sex. Yi Yo ˘ ng-suk, a former ‘comfort woman’, recollects the practice of being sat on a chair after tidying up to be selected by a military ‘customer’.61 The women’s name tags or numbers were attached to the wall. In some ‘comfort stations’, the women were identified with numbers; every woman had her own number, and the soldiers lined up in front of the room where the number plate he had chosen was hanging.62 Concerning payment, substantial numbers of the former ‘comfort women’ testify that they were paid virtually no money, even though the military personnel paid for sex. Fees were determined by regulations and were primarily paid with tickets sold to the troops prior to their visit.63 According to regulations presented in the Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers Research Report: Amenities in the Japanese Armed Forces in 1945, 50–60% of their gross takings were theoretically

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supposed to be allocated to the women.64 However, costs for food, clothes, medical treatment and other daily necessities were charged to the women. When the women caught any sexually transmitted diseases, they had to pay expensive costs for medical treatment, for example in China.65 In addition, it was common practice to retain a substantial part of their wages, if there were any, as part of a compulsory savings scheme, or simply to extend the initial employment contract.66 Parts of their compulsory savings were reserved for military expenses, for example, to buy military planes.67 Pak Yo ˘ -ni recalls that her income was put into a bank account and she trusted the saving scheme. But after the war the account book turned out to be just a sheet of paper.68 In many cases, there was virtually no money left in their hands. Kim To ˘ k-jin confirms: ‘We collected these tickets and gave them to the manager, who recorded them in his notebook each day. He promised to improve our conditions once Japan won the war, but we received no wages.’69 This underlines the fact that it was a deal between proprietors of ‘comfort stations’ and the forces. Fujioka says that the central point in the ‘comfort women’ issue is whether they were coercively recruited, which means they were sex slaves, or voluntarily participated in a commercial transaction, which identifies them as prostitutes.70 He sees the two categories as fundamentally different. Here the concept of prostitution is simply deemed to be a choice through ‘voluntary’ involvement for economic reasons. The distinction between state or military coercion on the one hand, and economic ‘choice’ (or economic coercion) on the other is a significant one. However, it is important to recognize that there can be a convergence between ‘force’ and ‘free choice’, particularly where extreme economic hardship or psychological pressures are involved. I emphasize that instead of concentrating on the problematic question of whether the ‘comfort women’ might properly be described as prostitutes or not, the question of what the effects were of so classifying them needs to be raised. For example, one consequence of categorizing them as prostitutes is to impose on the former ‘comfort women’ all the negative connotations associated with prostitution. Furthermore, the neo-nationalist ideologies draw another dichotomy: deceived or abducted ‘innocent’ sex slave versus ‘guilty’ willing prostitute. This view exemplifies the persisting trope that only ‘decent’ women with a ‘blameless’ sexual past can claim protection against violence, rape or abuse, and call for the punishment of those who have criminally abused them.71 The categorization of the ‘comfort women’ as prostitutes thus permits the legitimization of the practice of sexual servitude. This gendered distinction between ‘innocent’ sex slaves and ‘guilty’ prostitutes is shared by Korean nationalists, especially in their distinction drawn between the Japanese ‘comfort women’ as prostitutes and their Korean counterparts as sex slaves. The representation of the ‘comfort women’ as prostitutes mirrors the predominant opposition of ‘respectable’ and ‘defiled’ in the patriarchal

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code of womanhood. Naming former ‘comfort women’ with the language of promiscuity, such as ‘public toilets’,72 dismantles their respectability while distancing the Japanese military from responsibility for their plight. This metaphor for the woman’s body represents it as an object available for public use for everybody and as an excretionary object, suggesting it is filthy like a toilet. Accordingly, negative connotations of the prostitute— mercenary, unclean, valuable solely by virtue of her sexual instrumentality for others—were attached to them. Sakamoto used this connotation in order to argue against including references to the ‘comfort women’ in history textbooks: he stated that it is not essential for a proper understanding of Japanese history to include references to changes in toilet structures.73 Positioning the women as prostitutes transforms the act of sexual coercion into one of ‘whoring’, in which the women bear full responsibility. In so doing, the responsibility of the Japanese state can be deflected. The neo-nationalist spin thus appears to exempt Japan from responsibility for the ‘comfort women’ system: the victims are responsible for what happened to them. In this way, the historical event is defined strictly in ethnocentric and androcentric terms. This masculinist approach is part and parcel of the neo-nationalists’ effort to maintain patriarchy as Japan’s ‘tradition’. Consequently, a challenge to patriarchy constitutes a challenge to the nation itself, one that can only be ‘impure’ and ‘fundamentally anti-Japanese’.74 This androcentric approach has evoked intensive criticism from feminists in Japan, for example, Ueno – Chizuko,75 Ogoshi Aiko,76 Hayakawa Noriyo,77 and Nishino Rumiko, among others. In 2001, VAWW-Net Japan (Violence Against Women in War–Network Japan) compiled a book to contest against the patriarchal and nationalist perspectives in the New History and Social Studies textbooks by the Tsukuru-kai.78 For example, patriarchal stands such as family values, sexual division of labour in a family, and the ideology of ‘good wife, wise mother’, in the textbooks have been criticized.79 Because of the criticism from feminist groups, the Tsukuru-kai has been actively mobilizing women members and has recently recruited a number of women onto the board of the Tsukuru-kai. THE UNIVERSALITY OF THE EXISTENCE OF MILITARY BROTHELS Japan’s neo-nationalists also point to the universality of military brothels to legitimate their claims. The ‘comfort station’ system is viewed simply as a brothel located on or near a military base, something that is not unique to Japan. They claim that creating brothels on military bases is a normal aspect of military life in wartime, and there is nothing particularly wrong in the case of the Japanese Imperial Forces.80 Fujioka thus protests that giving voice to the ‘comfort women’ is an act of disgracing Japan by instilling in Japanese children the idea that wartime Japan alone was lewd and inferior in maintaining the ‘comfort women’ system.81 He sees references to the ‘comfort women’ as a defamation of Japan’s cultural identity.

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There are two issues here. First, it is correct that particularly in wartime, military units frequently are serviced by brothels, one of the major sources of the venereal disease pandemic that American, British, French and German troops faced at various times during the First and Second World Wars. Second, the literature makes clear uniquely oppressive features of the Japanese ‘comfort women’ system including sexual slavery, and violations of international law by the Japanese government and military in transporting women, often against their will, across international boundaries. Systems of military prostitution and of sexual slavery both merit close scrutiny. Hosaka contends that the Japanese soldiers of the Second World War were human beings who needed sexual outlets like any other military men.82 Watanabe goes so far as to defend having the ‘comfort women’ system in the Japanese Imperial Army with its own budget as a means of preventing rape of the civilian population under combat conditions: ‘Rape and plunder can happen in battlefields. This was not only in the Japanese military but was common in all militaries throughout the world. That is why the Japanese military brought prostitutes with its own budget, and this was the beginning of comfort women. In that sense it can be said that the Japanese army was very scrupulous.’83 Thus, whereas many neo-nationalist historians reject the claims that the Japanese military and government organized and administered the ‘comfort stations’, it seems that Watanabe accepts military involvement in administrating the ‘comfort facilities’ in the military and defends it on humanitarian grounds. These authors employ two tropes, first, the ‘uncontrollable’ male sexuality and second the role of women to fulfil this ‘need’. This latter trope presents an image of the men as suffering children in need of maternal ‘comforts’ under stress or fear of death on a battlefield. In the assertion of the universality of the existence of military brothels, women are presented not only as sexual objects but also as maternal figures undertaking caring tasks. It is no coincidence that the women were named ‘comfort women’. Biological determinism in these tropes results in the legitimization of using women’s sexuality for colonial or national projects as in the use of ‘comfort women’ and karayuki-san (literally, ‘China-bound persons’). In fact, the Japanese imperial regime had a long history of using women’s bodies for the sake of colonial projects, notably the karayukisan, Japanese women who were sold into debt bondage to brothel keepers throughout South East Asia and China, mostly in the years 1905–30, as an integral tool of colonial expansionism.84 They were sent abroad to sexually entertain Japanese men who were also sent abroad for military and trade activities to promote colonialism.85 The two tropes of ‘uncontrollable’ male sexuality and of a woman to provide ‘maternal services’ can explain the history of karayuki-san as well. Japanese feminist historian Suzuki Yu–ko makes the point that modern

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Japanese power suppressed and controlled women’s sexuality for the purpose of expansion and invasion of other countries.86 This tradition of karayuki-san and a preexisting pervasive culture of officially sanctioned prostitution in Japan formed the backdrop to the ‘comfort women’ project. The patriarchal myth of uncontrollable male sexual desire and the supposed necessity of women to provide sexual services had wide circulation in the military in wartime. One of the reasons commonly given for setting up ‘comfort stations’, which was to prevent soldiers from raping indigenous women in areas occupied or colonized by Japan, should be viewed against this historical record.87 A report from a Japanese general stationed in Wuhan, central China, in 1938, is but one of many accounts documenting rape of Chinese women by troops that enjoyed the services of ‘comfort women’.88 The trope of uncontrollable male sexuality rationalizes the ‘ordinariness’ of the military brothels and even rape committed by military men. A fundamental problem with this understanding of male sexuality is that it reduces a social phenomenon to a biological one, making it appear inevitable and unavoidable. Nature is always a powerful legitimating tool since it is considered outside of human control. As Wendy Hollway suggests, the acceptance of the irrepressible nature of male sexuality confers power on men that, in a circular way, motivates them to take up the position of sexual conquerors.89 The myth that men have no control over the sexual urge has been used historically to keep women in a subordinate or victimized position. A second flaw in the neo-nationalists’ analysis is the failure to examine the historical record or document of widespread rape throughout wartime occupied areas. ‘PRESENTISM’ In contrast to the assertion of the universality and ordinariness of the military brothels, neo-nationalist ideology also draws attention to the exceptional situation of wartime, alluding, for example, to ‘the ardently sweet taste in an encounter with flesh and affection in a situation of imminent death’.90 On this point, neo-nationalists such as Hosaka and Watanabe assert the insolence of contemporaries forcing the wartime past into a present point of view in peacetime. Hosaka especially opposes ‘viewing wartime with a standard drawn from peacetime’.91 What is implied in this assertion is that moral and legal restraints on sex and even rape are legitimately suspended in wartime because under extreme stress such behaviour could be regarded as ‘natural’ or ‘inevitable’. Charges of ‘violation of human rights and crime’ made in launching the ‘comfort women’ support campaign are not justified in this view, since these events happened ‘in wartime’. Thus, the trope of uncontrollable male sexuality and the practices of military male sexuality in wartime reinforce each other, constituting a cohesive ‘discursive practice’. Furthermore, neo-nationalists

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like Watanabe, Hata and Fujioka insist that prostitution was legal under the law of licensed prostitution during wartime in Japan, and that standards and values were very different from what they are today.92 They insist, moreover, that ‘nothing is wrong with having had the comfort women system if it is seen from the perspective that existed at that time’.93 The ‘comfort women’ system is thus portrayed as legal prostitution in order to avoid placing responsibility on the state for the crimes associated with it. In the introduction of the 2001 version of the New History Textbook for middle schools by the Tsukuru-kai group, it is emphasized that the past should not be measured according to present standards of method and morality.94 This assertion begs the question of how the presentation of the past without contemporary judgement can be negotiated within the recognition of history as ‘a constituted narrative discourse written by a historian in the here and now’, as Alun Munslow points out.95 It might be rather naïve to think it possible to get into the minds of people in the past, in order to see the past from their own points of view and to gain ‘real’ historical insight. Memory of the past is also constituted by social contexts of the present. It needs to be recognized that the past can be interpreted in the present rather than represented as it was. Therefore, as Keith Jenkins points out, it would be more constructive to try to get into the minds of historians, rather than the minds of the people who lived in the past and who only emerge through the minds of historians.96 Even though neo-nationalist groups reject evaluating past events and people through the lens of present-day values, it needs to be noted that the past is firmly linked with the present, which is paradoxically the neo-nationalists’ motivation for writing history. They are attempting to impose their views on both the past and the present while legitimating them as the one true interpretation of ‘tradition’. Ironically, their attempt to reinterpret the past using a yardstick drawn, they claim, from the period being interpreted is actually a ploy to transform present historical consciousness, even though they claim to reject ‘presentism’. For them, knowledge about the past is aimed at promoting a particular definition of present collective identity, one based on a hierarchical and distorted definition of gendered relations. They seek to reconstruct the past in light of the present but do so, paradoxically, while claiming to disapprove of viewing the past with a point of view drawn from the present. The purpose of the neo-nationalist historians in interpreting the past according to their present needs is clearly involved in the constitution of particular versions of the past as history. CONCLUSION The issue of ‘comfort women’ has been much contested, with Japan’s neonationalist ideologies staging a counter-attack against critics over what

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to include and what to exclude in the reconstruction of the collective memory of Japan’s past. It can be clearly seen that writing history is ‘the production of a knowledge that reflects and reifies power relations’.97 The contest over how to interpret the past demonstrates how neo-nationalists have selectively used memory and history to shore up nationalist sentiments in Japan. For the neo-nationalist historians, rewriting history is tightly linked to reconstituting and politicizing memory. It can be seen in how the past is recreated through intervening remembrances within the social context in which the historians contest. This is a struggle for control over historical memory. It is inevitably as much about the present and the future as it is about the past. These issues are by no means confined to Japan. Neo-nationalist reconstructions of war memory are the source of tension not only within Japan but between Japan and its neighbours throughout East Asia and beyond. This chapter has shown that neo-nationalist ideologies seek to reconstruct the past of the ‘comfort women’ from an ethnocentric and androcentric point of view. Women’s experiences are understood through masculine and colonial lenses that marginalize and subordinate women. The rhetorical tools such as so-called uncontrollable male sexuality and the dichotomy between ‘respectable’ women and ‘whores’ have been used to shape historical memory of the ‘comfort women’ in ways that reverberate with the rights and perceptions of women in the present. Neo-nationalist historiography ignores the coercive dimensions of colonialism and its effects on gender. Issues of gender and colonialism have remained untouched in this perspective. At the heart of this approach is the attempt to preserve pride in the Japanese conduct of colonialism and war. That is why Fujioka and others assert that raising the issue of ‘comfort women’ is ‘a grand conspiracy for the destruction of Japan, in collaboration with foreign elements’.98 He goes so far as to assert that ‘Japanese history should be written for Japanese’, thereby delegitimating the perspectives of the victims of Japanese rule.99 The neo-nationalist claim that the national history they propose is appropriate and meaningful for the majority of Japanese and that this is the only proper yardstick to make a judgement. In their attempt to establish a hegemonic national identity, one wonders whether their construction is meaningful or appropriate for the women who constitute the majority of the population, and whether it is equally appropriate for the numerous citizens who reject many of the claims that led Japan and Asia down the path of a disastrous period of colonial rule and endless war. One wonders, too, about those many Japanese who have reflected deeply upon Japan’s war crimes and atrocities. This calling for a Japan-centred perspective in historical inquiry is an attempt to instil a sense of homogenous memory within the nation-state. In the words of German historian Jörn Rüsen, ‘ethnocentric history conceives of identity in terms of “master-narratives” that define togetherness and difference as essential for identity in a way that causes tension and

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struggle’.100 Thus, the proposed ethnocentric history not only excludes others, including the victims of that history throughout Asia, but also many Japanese. It also prevents dialogue between national histories and the development of transnational history in East Asia. This rupture of dialogue can be clearly seen in the neo-nationalist’s imposition of their ethnocentric interpretation of the past on the question of ‘comfort women’. It would be constructive to probe the ways in which the differently remembered pasts could be reconciled to achieve a shared historical understanding that transcends national boundaries. Such transnational understanding and cooperation were evident in the December 2000 Women’s International War Crimes Tribunal on Japan’s Military Sexual Slavery in Tokyo.101 This tribunal was organized by NGOs in Asia such as VAWW-Net Japan, the Korean Council for the Women Drafted for Military Sexual Slavery by Japan and ASCENT-Philippines on behalf of former ‘comfort women’. It was staged to draw international attention to Japan’s responsibility for its past by ‘publicizing testimony and reaching judgements on a war crime not addressed by the post-war Tokyo Trials’.102 Sixty-four survivors of the ‘comfort stations’ from all across Asia were present at the tribunal. Hundreds of legal experts, academics and human rights activists from around the world—including both South Korea and North Korea, China, Taiwan, Philippines, Indonesia, Netherlands, Malaysia and East Timor—attended. As the tribunal illustrated, rather than be a contested issue of memory and overt nationalism, the subject of ‘comfort women’ could function as a transnational site for shared historical memory and as an impetus for change resting on the foundations of human rights and respect for human dignity that transcends nation, ethnicity and gender. NOTES 1

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Sven Saaler, Politics, Memory, and Public Opinion: The History Textbook Controversy and Japanese Society (Munich: Iudicium, 2005), p. 23. Tahara So–ichiro–, Nishibe Susumu, and Kang Sang-Jung, Aikokushin (Tokyo: Ko–dansha, 2003), p. 5, quoted in Saaler, Politics, Memory, and Public Opinion, p. 166–7. Fujioka Nobukatsu is an education specialist at Takushoku University and the founder of the Jiyu–shugi Shikan Kenkyu–kai, literally the Liberal View of History Study Group. The English name on the organization’s homepage is Association for the Advancement of Liberalist View of History. Fujioka is a self-professed Marxist who switched ideological sides after feeling ‘ashamed’ of Japan’s behaviour during the 1990–91 Persian Gulf War. David McNeill, ‘History Redux: Japan’s Textbook Battle Reignites,’ Japan Policy Research Institute Working Paper 107 (June 2005), http://www.jpri.org/publications/workingpapers/wp107.html (accessed 16 August 2005). Fujioka’s major works are: Ojoku no kingendaishi (Tokyo: Tokuma Shoten, 1996); Jigyaku shikan no by o–ri (Tokyo: Bungei Shunju–,

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Memory in Politics and International Relations 1997); ‘Ronso– kingendaishi kyo–iku no kaikaku 21: rekishi jinbutsu shirîzu “Takasugi Shinsaku” o kaite, Meiji-ishin to bushi 2,’ in Gendai Kyo–iku Kagaku 494 (1997); and Nishio Kanji et al. (eds), Atarashii rekishi kyo–kasho (Tokyo: Fuso–sha, 2006). Watanabe Sho–ichi, Kakute Sho–washi wa yomigaeru (Tokyo: Kuresutosha, 1995); Watanabe Sho–ichi and Okazaki Hisahiko, Kenja wa rekishi ni manabu (Tokyo: Kuresutosha, 1997). Nishio Kanji is a specialist of German literature and philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. His major works are: Nishio Kanji and Fujioka Nobukatsu, Kokumin no yudan (Tokyo: PHP Kenkyu–jo, 1996); Nishio Kanji, Kokumin no rekishi (Tokyo: Fuso–sha, 1999); and Nishio Kanji et al. (eds), Atarashii rekishi kyo–kasho (Tokyo: Fuso–sha, 2001). The late Sakamoto Takao was a historian of Japanese political thought. He died in 2002. His major works are: ‘Rekishi kyo–kasho wa ikani kakarerubekika,’ in Seiron 297 (1997); Rekishi kyo–iku o kangaeru (Tokyo: PHP Kenkyu–jo, 1998); and Towareru Nihonjin no rekishi kankaku (Tokyo: Keiso– Shobo–, 2001). – -uso,’ in Seiron, November Nakamura Akira, ‘Kentei: pasu shita rekishi no o 1996, pp. 62–73. Hosaka Masayasu, ‘Ju–gun ianfu mondai o goju–nen atoni danzai suru na,’ in Shokun! November 1996, pp. 64–72. Nishioka Tsutomu, ‘Wianbu munje amudo odo leu ˘ l sijo ˘ nghaji aneu ˘nda,’ in Ilbon Forum ( Japan Forum), Summer 1997, pp. 86–101. Hata Ikuhiko, ‘Waekoktoen nau ˘ i nonji,’ in Ilbon Forum ( Japan Forum) 29, Summer 1996; Hata Ikuhiko, ‘Ianfu minouebanashi o tettei kensho– suru,’ in Shokun! December 1996, pp. 54–69; Hata Ikuhiko, ‘Ju–gun ianfu mondai de kuni no ho–teki sekinin wa toenai,’ in Sekai, May 1997, pp. 322–5. Kusaka Kimihito, ‘Chonggun wianbu munjeu ˘i pulgasau ˘i,’ in Ilbon Forum (Japan Forum) 29, Summer 1996. Kobayashi Yoshinori and Takeuchi Yoshikazu, Kyo–kasho ga oshienai jo–kyo– (Tokyo: Bunkasha, 1997). Watanabe, Kakute Sho–washi wa yomigaeru, pp. 186–7. Fujioka, Ojoku no kingendaishi, p. 36. Watanabe, Kakute Sho–washi wa yomigaeru, p. 186. UN Economic and Social Council E/CN.4/1996/53/Add. 1/Corr. 1, http://www.comfort-women.org/coomaras.htm (accessed 18 January 2005). In another UN document to the UN Human Rights Commission entitled ‘Systematic Rape, Sexual Slavery and Slavery-like Practices During Armed Conflict,’ by Gay J. McDougall (1998), the term ‘sex slave’ is employed. UN Report to the UN Human Rights Commission, Document No. E/CN.4/Sub.2/1998/13. Cho ˘ ngsindae literally means ‘the body-offering corps’. Lee Man-yo ˘ l, ‘Ilbon’gun wianbu cho ˘ ngch’aek hyo ˘ ngso ˘ ngu ˘i choso ˘ nch’u ˘k yo ˘ ksajo ˘ k paekyo ˘ ng,’ in Han’guk chongsindae munje taech’aek hyo ˘ pu ˘ ihoe (Korean Council of the Women Drafted for Military Sexual Slavery by

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Japan) (ed.), Ilbon’gun wianbu munjeu˘ i chinsang (Seoul: Yo ˘ ksa Bip’yo ˘ ngsa, 1997), pp. 84–9. Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae yo ˘ n’guhoe and Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae munje taech’aek hyo ˘pu ˘ ihoe (Korean Researchers for Women Drafted for Military Sexual Slavery by Japan, and Korean Council for the Women Drafted for Sexual Slavery by Japan) (eds), Kangjero kkullyo˘gan Choso ˘ nin kunwianbudu˘l vol. 1 (Seoul: Hanul, 1993); Cho ˘ ngsindae Task Force in Northeast Asia Section, Iljeha kundaewianbu silt’ae chosa (Seoul: Ministry of Foreign Affairs, 1992), p. 10. Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae yo ˘ n’guhoe and Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae munje taech’aek hyo ˘pu ˘ ihoe (eds), Kangjero kkullyo ˘ gan Choso ˘ nin kunwianbudu˘l vol. 2 (Seoul: Hanul, 1997), p. 239. Fujioka, Ojoku no Kingendaishi, p. 229. There are also testimonies of the former ‘comfort women’ and those who witnessed or were involved in the system of ‘comfort women’, for example Ju–gun ianfu hyakuto–ban henshu– iinkai (Editorial Committee of Military Comfort Women Hotline 110) (ed.), Ju– gun ianfu hyakuto–ban (Tokyo: Akashi Shoten, 1992); Yoshikai Natsuko, Kesenai kioku (Tokyo: Nicchu– Shuppan, 1996), pp.120–3; Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae yo ˘ n’guhoe, Kangjero kkullyo˘gan Choso˘nin kunwianbudu˘l vol. 1; Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae yo ˘ n’guhoe, Kangjero kkullyo˘gan Choso˘nin kunwianbudu˘l vol. 2; Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae yo ˘ n’guhoe and Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae munje taech’aek hyo ˘ pu ˘ ihoe (eds), Kangjero kkullyo ˘ gan Choso ˘ nin kunwianbudu˘l vol. 3 (Seoul: Hanul, 1999); Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae munje taech’aek hyo ˘ pu ˘ ihoe (ed.), Kangjero kkullyo ˘ gan Choso ˘ nin kunwianbudu˘l vol. 4 (Seoul: P’ulbit, 2001); Nishino Rumiko, Ju– gun ianfu – moto heishitachi no sho–gen (Tokyo: Akashi Shoten, 1992); Senkyu–hyakunanaju–ni Kyoto oshiete kudasai ianfu jo–ho– denwa hokokushu– henshu– iinkai (ed.), Sei to shinryaku (Kyoto: Sekai Hyo–ronsha, 1992); Die Koreanischen Frauengruppe in Deutschland (ed.), In die Prostitution Gezwungen (Onsnabrück: Secolo, 1996). Kang Cho ˘ ng-suk, ‘Ilbon’gun wiansou ˘ i chiyo ˘ kjo ˘ k punp’owa ku t’ukjing,’ in: Han’guk chongsindae munje taech’aek hyo ˘ pu ˘ ihoe (Korean Council of the Women Drafted for Military Sexual Slavery by Japan) (ed.), Ilbon’gun wanbu munjeu ˘ i chinsang (Seoul: Yo ˘ ksa Bip’yo ˘ngsa, 1997), p. 219. – Yoshimi Yoshiaki (ed.), Ju– gun ianfu shiryo–-shu– (Tokyo: Otsuki Shoten, 1992), pp. 32, 99–106. The former comfort women Mun P’ilgi and Yun Turi were taken to Manchuria by Japanese forces (interviewed in 1992). Hwang Ku ˘ mju was taken to Jilin in China by military train (interviewed in 1995). Mun Okju, Yi Sunok, and Yi Tu ˘ ngnam were taken to Rangoon, to Singapore and to Sumatra, respectively, by naval ships (Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae yo ˘ n’guhoe, Kangjero kkullyo ˘ gan Choso ˘ nin kunwianbudu˘l vol. 1, pp. 156, 175, 204). Mun Okju was transported by military trucks in Rangoon and in Thailand (Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae yo ˘ n’guhoe, Kangjero kkullyo ˘ gan Choso ˘ nin kunwianbudu ˘ l vol. 1, pp. 97, 156, 158, 160, 175, 204). Ju–gun ianfu hyakuto–ban henshu– iinkai, Ju– gun ianfu hyakuto–ban, p. 91.

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Memory in Politics and International Relations Fujioka, Jigyaku shikan no byo–ri, p. 20; Kusaka, ‘Chonggun Wianbu Munjeu ˘ i Pulgasau ˘ i,’ pp. 76–7. See Yoshimi (ed.), Ju– gun ianfu shiryo–-shu– ; Yoshimi Yoshiaki, Ju– gun ianfu (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1995), pp. 232–3. Chung Chin Sung, ‘The Origin and Development of the Military Sexual Slavery Problem in Imperial Japan’, in Positions 5, 1, p. 228. Ju–gun ianfu hyakuto–ban henshu– iinkai, Ju– gun ianfu hyakuto–ban, p. 67. Fujioka, Ojoku no kingendaishi, p. 26. Ibid. p. 40. UN High Commissioner for Human Rights, ‘Protocol to Prevent, Suppress and Punish Trafficking in Persons Especially Women and Children, Supplementing the United Nations Convention Against Transnational Organized Crime,’ (2000), http://www.ohchr.org/english/law/protocoltraffic.htm (accessed 20 January 2006). Alice Yun Chai, ‘Asian-Pacific Feminist Coalition Politics: The Cho ˘ ngsindae/ – gunianfu (Comfort Women) Movement,’ in Korean Studies 17 (1993), Ju p. 70. Testimonies of Cho ˘ ng So-u ˘ n and Yun Sun-man. Ajia taiheiyo– chiiki no senso– giseisha ni omoi o hase kokoroni kizamu shu–kai gikko–iinkai (The Executive Committee for the Gathering to Think About and Engrave in the Heart the War Victims in Asia and the Pacific Area), ‘Watashi wa ianfu – de wa nai’: Nihon no shinryaku to seidorei (Osaka: To–ho– Shuppan 1997); Yun Cho ˘ ng-ok, ‘Choso ˘ n singmin cho ˘ ngch’aeku ˘ i ilhwan uloso ˘ Ilbon’gun wianbu,’ in Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae munje taech’aek hyo ˘ pu ˘ ihoe (The Korean Council for the Women Drafted for Sexual Slavery by Japan) (ed.), Ilbon’gun wianbu munjeu ˘ i chinsang (Seoul: Yo ˘ ksa Pip’yo ˘ ngsa, 1997), pp. 50–1; and Ustinia Dolgopol and Snehal Paranjape, Comfort Women: An Unfinished Ordea (Geneva: International Commission of Jurists, 1994), p. 78. Testimony of Ha So ˘ nyo ˘ , Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae yo ˘ n’guhoe, Kangjero kkullyo ˘ gan Choso ˘ nin kunwianbudu ˘ l vol. 1, p. 62. Gregor McLennan, Marxism and the Methodologies of History (London: Verso, 1981). – uso,’ p. 70. Nakamura, ‘Kentei: pasushita rekishi no o Sakamoto, ‘Rekishi kyo–kasho wa ikani kakarerubekika,’ p. 50, quoted in Yoshiko Nozaki, ‘The Comfort Women Controversy: History and Testimony,’ Japan Focus (posted on 29 July 2005), http://japanfocus.org/ article.asp?id=348 (accessed 4 August 2005); see also Sakamoto, Rekishi kyo–iku o kangaeru, pp. 62–88. Fujioka, ‘Ronso– kingendaishi kyo–iku no kaikaku,’ no. 21, pp. 112–3. Hayden White, Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973). Nozaki, ‘The Comfort Women Controversy’. Nara rekishi kenkyu–kai (Nara Research Association of History), Sengo rekishi to ‘jiyu– shugi shikan’ (Tokyo: Aoki Shoten 1997), pp. 17–18; Nagahara Keiji, ‘Jiyu– shugi shikan’ hihan (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2000), pp. 6–7.

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Yoshimi (ed.), Ju– gun ianfu shiryo–-shu– ; Yoshimi, Ju– gun ianfu; Yoshimi Yoshiaki and Hayashi Hirofumi (eds), Ky o–d o– kenkyu– Nihongun ianfu (Tokyo: – Otsuki Shoten, 1995); Yoshida Yutaka, ‘Heisoku Suru Nashonarizumu,’ in Sekai, (April, 1997), pp.74–82. Carol Gluck, ‘The Past in the Present’, in Andrew Gordon (ed.), Postwar Japan as History (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1993), p. 77. Daqing Yang, ‘The Challenges of the Nanjing Massacre: Reflections on Historical Inquiry’, in Joshua A. Fogel (ed.), The Nanjing Massacre in History and Historiography (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), p. 137. Fujioka, Jigyaku shikan no byo–ri, pp. 87, 130. Fujioka et al. (eds), Atarashii rekishi kyo–kasho, p. 6. Sakamoto, Rekishi kyo–iku o kangaeru, pp. 28–34. Fujioka, Jigyaku shikan no byo–ri, pp. 80–1. Ibid. Ibid. Kobayashi, Kyo–kasho ga oshienai jo–kyo–, p. 141, quoted in Tessa MorrisSuzuki and Peter Rimmer, ‘Virtual Memories: Japanese History Debates in Manga and Cyberspace’, in Asian Studies Review 26, 2 ( June 2002), p. 152. Nozaki, ‘The Comfort Women Controversy’. Sakamoto, Rekishi kyo–iku o kangaeru, pp. 45–7. Fujioka, Ojoku no kingendaishi; Kusaka, ‘Chonggun wianbu munjeu ˘ i pulgasau ˘ i’; Nakamura, ‘Kentei: Pasushita Rekishi no o–-uso’, pp. 62–73; and Kobayashi, Kyo–kasho ga oshienai jo–kyo–. Fujioka, Ojoku no kingendaishi, p. 39. Nakamura, ‘Kentei: pasushita rekishi no o–uso’, p. 70. – teki sekinin wa toenai’, pp. 322–5. Hata, ‘Ju–gun ianfu mondai de kuni no ho – Watanabe, Kakute Showashi wa yomigaeru, p. 188. Testimony of Yi Sunok, Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae yo ˘ n’guhoe, Kangjero kkullyo ˘gan Choso ˘ nin kunwianbudu ˘ l vol. 1, p. 120. Suzuki Yu–ko, Ju– gun ianfu naisen kekkon (Tokyo: Miraisha, 1992), p. 130. Shireibu, Daini-gun jo–kyo– gaiyo (General Situation of the Second Army), 10 December 1938, cited in Chung Chin Sung, ‘The Origin and Development of the Military Sexual Slavery Problem in Imperial Japan’, p. 229. Allied Translator and Interpreter Section—South West Pacific Area, ‘Research Report: Amenities in the Japanese Armed Forces’, no. 120 (16 February 1945). – gun ianfu hyakuto–ban henshu – iinkai, Ju– gun ianfu hyakuto–ban, p. 43, Ju 108. – nen’, in Kim Yang Jingja, ‘Zainichi Kankokujin Song Sin-do-san no nanaju Pu-ja and Yang Jing-ja (eds), Motto shiritai ianfu mondai; sei to minzoku no shiten kara (Tokyo: Akashi Shoten, 1995). Testimony of Bae Chok-gan, Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae yo ˘n’guhoe, Kangjero kkullyo ˘gan Choso ˘ nin kunwianbudu ˘ l vol. 2, p. 178.

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Memory in Politics and International Relations Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae yo ˘n’guhoe, Kangjero kkullyo ˘gan Choso ˘nin kunwianbudu ˘ l vol. 2, p. 132. Han’guk cho ˘ ngsindae yo ˘n’guhoe, Kangjero kkullyo ˘gan Choso ˘nin kunwianbudu ˘ l vol. 1, p. 46. Fujioka, Jigyaku shikan no byo–ri, p. 228. Jo Bindman, ‘Redefining Prostitution as Sex Work on the International Agenda’, Anti-Slavery International, 1997, http://www.walnet.org/csis/ papers/redefining.html#2b (accessed 9 June 2005). Yoshimi, Ju– gun ianfu, p. 222; Senda Kako–, Ju– gun ianfu (Tokyo: San’ichi Shobo–, 1978), p. 65. Sakamoto, Rekishi kyo–iku o kangaeru, pp. 39, 42–3. Rebecca Clifford, ‘Cleansing History, Cleansing Japan: Kobayashi Yoshinori’s Analects of War and Japan’s Revisionist Revival’, Nissan Occasional Paper Series 35, 2004, http://nissan.ox.ac.uk/nops/nops35.pdf (accessed 8 September 2005). See Ueno Chizuko, Nashonarizumu to jendâ (Tokyo: Sêdosha, 1998). – See Ogoshi Aiko, Feminizumu to kokka bo–ryoku (Tokyo: Sekai Shoin, 2004), pp. 78–91, 190–208. See Hayakawa Noriyo, ‘No–ryoku kyo–so– shugi no rekishikan no yukue’, in ‘Kyo–kasho ni shinshitsu to jiyu– o renrakukai (ed.), Tettei hihan ‘kokumin – no rekishi’ (Tokyo: Otsuki Shoten, 2000), pp. 92–102. VAWW-Net Japan (ed.), Koko made hidoi! ‘Tsukuru-kai’ rekishi·ko–min kyo–kasho (Tokyo: Akashi Shoten, 2001). Nishino Rumiko, ‘Josei besshi, dento–shugi, kokkashugi no Tsukuru-kai kyo–kasho’, in Nihon no senso– sekinin shiryo– sentâ (Center for Research and Documentation on Japan’s War Responsibility) (ed.), Senso– Sekinin Kenkyu– , no. 32 (Summer 2001), pp. 61–4. Fujioka, Ojoku no kingendaishi, p. 45; Hosaka, ‘Ju–gun ianfu mondai o goju–nen ato ni danzai suru na’, pp. 64–72; Kusaka, ‘Chonggun wianbu munjeu ˘i pulgasau ˘i’; Hata, ‘Waekoktoen nau ˘i nonji’. Fujioka, Jigyaku shikan no byo–ri, p. 82. Hosaka, ‘Ju–gun ianfu mondai o goju–nen ato ni danzai suru na’, pp. 66–7. Watanabe, Kakute Sho–washi wa yomigaeru, pp. 186–7. Mikiso Hane, Peasants, Rebels and Outcasts: The Underside of Modern Japan (New York: Pantheon Books, 1982), pp. 218–22. Suzuki Yu–ko, Ju– gun ianfu mondai to seib o–ryoku (Tokyo: Miraisha, 1993), p. 221–2. Suzuki Yu–ko, Feminizumu to Cho–sen (Tokyo: Akashi Shoten, 1994), p. 14. Yoshimi (ed.), Ju– gun ianfu shiryo–-shu– , p. 228. Ibid. p. 95. Wendy Hollway, ‘Gender Difference and the Production of Subjectivity’, in J. Henriques et al. (eds), Changing the Subject: Psychology, Social Regulation, and Subjectivity (London: Methuen, 1984), p. 251. Hosaka, ‘Ju–gun ianfu mondai o goju–nen ato ni danzai suru na’, p. 70. Ibid. pp. 65–6.

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The legalized prostitution was established during the Meiji Restoration and abolished in 1956. Fujimi Yuki, ‘The Licensed Prostitution System and the Prostitution Abolition Movement in Modern Japan’, in Positions 5, 1 (Spring 1997), pp. 137–8. Watanabe, Kakute Sho–washi wa yomigaeru, pp. 186–7. Nishio et al. (eds), Atarashii rekishi kyo–kasho, p. 6. Alun Munslow, Deconstructing History (London and New York: Routledge, 1997), p. 35 (emphasis added). Keith Jenkins, Re-thinking History (London and New York: Routledge, 1991), pp. 56–7. Dennis Hart, ‘Remembering the Nation: Construction of the March First Movement in North and South Korean History Textbooks’, in Review of Korean Studies 4, 1 (2001), p. 37. Fujioka, Jigyaku shikan no byo–ri, p. 78. Ibid., p. 297. Jörn Rüsen, ‘How to Overcome Ethnocentrism: Approaches to a Culture of Recognition by History in the Twenty-First Century’, in History and Theory 43, 4 (December 2004), p. 118. On the tribunal see VAWW-NET Japan (ed.), Sabakareta senji seibo–ryoku (Tokyo: Hakutakusha, 2001); Yayori Matsui, ‘Women’s International War Crimes Tribunal on Japan’s Military Sexual Slavery’, in East Asia: An International Quarterly, Winter 2001, pp. 119–42; Kim Pu-ja, ‘Global Civil Society Remarks History: “The Women’s International War Crimes Tribunal 2000” ’, in Position 9, 3 (2001); and Alexis Dudden, ‘ “We Came to Tell the Truth”: Reflection on the Tokyo Women’s Tribunal’, in Critical Asian Studies 33, 4 (2001), pp. 591–602. Tessa Morris-Suzuki, ‘Free Speech – Silenced Voices: The Japanese Media, the Comfort Women Tribunal, and the NHK Affair’, Japan Focus (13 August 2005), http://japanfocus.org/article.asp?id=365 (accessed 22 August 2005).

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4

Tokko– Zaidan: A Case Study of Institutional Japanese War Memorialization M.G. SHEFTALL

THE ELUSIVE SALVE: A VIABLE JAPANESE ALCHEMY OF DEFEAT REMEMBRANCE

T

he difficulty for a society to recover emotionally from the collective experience of defeat in war may be in large part proportional to its desperation to believe that its fundamental character and identity have not been irrevocably altered by the trauma.1 In the modern era, there is perhaps no society challenged more intensely in this sense than postAsia-Pacific-War Japan in the six decades since 1945. For the last six decades, Japanese society has engaged in a discourse to find what could be termed a workable formula for an alchemy of defeat remembrance – a coping process through which raw living memories of a defeat are transformed into emotionally palatable and, just as important, politically expedient iconic and mythic narratives. But unlike the post-war soul-searching and formally structured expiation of its former wartime ally and oft-cited comparative counterpart Germany, Japan’s primary emotional recovery issue – at least from its own perspective – has not been so much about coping with the guilt issues of its wartime conduct or its duplicity in sending a world to war as much as it has been about dealing with the cultural and even existential implications of its defeat. The emotional investment of the Japanese people in fighting the war of 1931–45 may have been the most profound of any industrialized nation in recent history. In a refrain often echoed in Japanese remembrance of the era, the nation staked everything (kuni no sonb o– o kaketa) on the war – its empire, its institutions, its history, its racial pride, its culture, and of course the lives of some eighty million Japanese and an

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additional twenty million ‘proxy Japanese’ colonial subjects. And while library shelves groan with explanations of why this grand national aspiration ended in failure, there has yet to appear an explanation of the meaning of the defeat that will satisfy a majority of Japanese. Illustrative of this lack of national consensus, a series of four opinion surveys on Japan’s war legacy conducted by public broadcast company NHK over the last two decades shows a stubbornly consistent figure of roughly 50% of respondents either declining to give an opinion on the issue or appearing to hold to some form of the pre-war/wartime era party line that Japan’s war was fought to ensure national survival – presumably to secure natural resources to protect itself and the rest of Asia against encroaching Western imperialism. These findings suggest that for tens of millions of Japanese, defeat in the war, considering the justness of the cause from their perspective, may be more regrettable than the fact of the war itself, while a roughly equivalent number of their compatriots would seem to prefer the comforting delusion of pretending that the war never happened at all.2 But rather than write off such responses to simple cases of sore losing and/or ego-protecting amnesia, it may behoove us to note, as Gavan McCormack does, that the thinking behind them may be symptomatic of a deep-prooted of fear that sincere attempts to address Japan’s war legacy objectively could cause irreparable damage to societal stability and the authority and prestige of the state’s institutions, or even destroy the culture itself.3 At policy-making levels of national discourse, this fear is manifest as a guiding principle among many politicians, bureaucrats and various ‘experts’ or ‘commentators’ who have the ear of these influential figures, the support of large interest groups (e.g. the Nippon Izoku Kai, the Japanese Association for Bereaved Families) and readerships of millions of armchair activists, all believing that neither Japanese national pride, nor the myths and traditions upon which it is based, can survive the crisis of conscience that would result if the Japanese state was to come clean once and for all to the rest of the world – and more important, to its own citizens – over its conduct, policies and aims of 1931–45. For adherents to this school of thought, the defining dynamic of the issue is a zero-sum game of critical selfexamination versus the protection of national identity. Parsed as a hypothetical question, the dilemma may be expressed thusly: ‘If we acknowledge that our war was fought on unjust or false pretenses, thus admitting that the millions of Japanese who perished in the war died in vain, misled by the nation’s leadership, can Japan ever be “Japan” again – a nation we can love and of which we can be proud?’ The likelihood that the aforementioned tens of millions of Japanese, including figures at the highest levels of government, would, with varying degrees of individual conviction, answer ‘No’ is key to understanding the ‘Yasukuni problem’, the fury fuelling the unending controversies over treatments of Asia-Pacific War material in Japanese

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school textbooks and a slew of other war remembrance issues of high priority for Japanese historical revisionists (who can be defined, for purposes of this paper, as advocates of a more positive interpretation of Japan’s cause and conduct in the Asia-Pacific War).4 This ‘My country, right or wrong’ psychology is certainly part of the reason that the lengthy list of transgressions committed in the pursuit of Japan’s war (or Asian liberation crusade, if you prefer) – the biological warfare research and human vivisections of Unit 731, baleful treatment of prisoners of war, the comfort women issue, forced labour of colonial subjects, the Nanking Massacre, etc., let alone the deaths of twenty million or so Asians destroyed as ‘collateral damage’ along the way – has never really evoked in Japan a soul-searching post-war catharsis to the degree the rest of the world has expected (and, in the cases of north-eastern Asian neighbours, demanded) from the former Axis Power. Moreover, both the passage of time and Japanese wagon-circling in the wake of withering criticism over historiographical issues from China and South Korea in recent years make the chances of any forthcoming dramatic display of collective Japanese contrition increasingly unlikely. Cultural uchi/soto socialization patterns and the parochial Weltanschauung they tend to frame and sustain may also facilitate the Japanese sense of emotional distance making this attitude possible, insofar that the above-listed wartime calamities, for the most part, befell foreigners (or in the case of Taiwanese and Koreans, ‘proxy’ Japanese) and occurred on foreign soil. Moreover, the significance or even the historicity itself of these events has been categorically denied by a large portion of the Japanese population, including educators and public policymakers, practically since the end of the war.5 Rather, if there is any bitterness among the defenders of Japan’s war goals (and a large segment of the Japanese general population) about injustices committed and suffered during the Asia-Pacific War – and there is plenty – these feelings are invariably focused not on the misery and destruction Japan caused other nations in the conflict, but on the misery, destruction and, lest we forget, humiliation the war caused Japan. If emphasis on Japanese victimization, then, is a potential framework for a viable Japanese war remembrance discourse, what better poster child for the same, one might argue, than the American firebombing of Japanese urban areas in 1944–45, climaxing with mushroom clouds over Hiroshima and Nagasaki? The enormous iconic power of those abominable horrors has comprised a gift that has been received by several generations of activists, commentators and ideologues of every hue in the post-war Japanese political spectrum with various agendas to push or axes to grind.6 However, the political/ideological expediency of this victimization iconography can come with a price many Japanese – perhaps, especially, males of the wartime generation – are unwilling to accept. Namely, exclusive focusing on victimization, given the intrinsic

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nature of said condition, can also put under unflattering scrutiny the impotence of the victim vis-à-vis the victimizers, with all the unwelcome attendant intimations of weakness, incompetence and submissiveness that status may entail. For Japanese with living memories of an undefeated Japan sure of its cultural superiority and divinely ordained invincibility, it is difficult to imagine a more ego-threatening train of thought. Moreover, emphasis on victimization can pose more immediate political threats: the indignation of ‘How could our enemies have done this to us?’ can all too easily lead to the self-excoriation of ‘How could we have allowed this to happen to ourselves?’, and it is clearly in reaction to the danger posed by this latter question that revisionist groups such as the Atarashii Rekishi Kyo–kasho o Tsukuru Kai (Society for the Making of New History Textbooks) and Nippon Kaigi (Japan Council) label as jigyaku shikan (masochistic history views) efforts to critically examine imperialist era Japan’s culpability for its own calamity and to incorporate discussion of the issues raised therein into the nation’s educational curricula.7 While Japanese of every political stripe regularly engage in passionate breast-beating for the benefit of both domestic and international audiences in addressing the first question, Japanese whose alchemy of defeat remembrance requires a modern mythology of unsullied national honour and an infallible and inviolable kokutai may not want the latter question answered, if even asked at all. A visit to the Yu–shu–kan Museum of Yasukuni Shrine – that Valhalla of Japanese martial pride, where scarcely a mention of Japanese cities in ashes (or, for that matter, of widespread Japanese civilian wartime suffering of any kind) is to be found – can reveal this dynamic far more eloquently than either space or the author’s ability allow it to be explained here. In this sense, the utility of victimization imagery for facilitating a viable alchemy of Asia-Pacific War remembrance is clearly limited – if not, in many aspects and from the perspective of many of the concerned parties, actually counterproductive. Revisionist approaches tend instead to emphasize Japanese wartime heroism and sacrifice, with the ultimate aim of achieving a popular consensus on the war’s legacy that would in turn allow for more hagiographic official policies on formal war remembrance. This goal has of course been a top-slot item in one form or another on the revisionist agenda since the ink on Japan’s surrender agreement was still drying, and it could be argued that Prime Minister Koizumi Jun’ichiro–’s visits to Yasukuni Shrine (2000–2006), aside from their political utility in pandering to the traditional LDP support base of its largely elderly and rural conservative constituency, have also in part comprised a sincere – if ham-handed – attempt to kickstart a process that will serve just this long term revisionist goal.8 But (and to the great credit of the Japanese people) the revisionist movement’s traditional Yasukuni-centric tack and concomitant central thesis that the ‘Great

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East Asian War’ was a war of Asian liberation are simply too politically odious and historiographically preposterous in the eyes of too many Japanese for this ideology to have any chance of ever generating a viable domestic consensus on the legacy of Japan’s war. The refusal of mainstream Japanese revisionism to concede this point and adjust course accordingly is a case not only of chauvinistic obstinacy, but also of simple bad tactics. A savvier (and perhaps somewhat more cynical) revisionism – which, if it in fact exists, has yet to have a presence discernible within the otherwise cacophonous din of the overall movement – might be better served through a three-faceted approach: 1) cast off once and for all the dead weight of the hopelessly untenable defence of Japanese wartime misadventurism in China and north-east Asia; 2) in a close parallel to the ‘Reischauer Line’ interpretation of the Asia-Pacific War, drive a historiographical wedge between Japanese continental imperialism of 1931–45 and Japan’s conflict with the United States and its Western allies, conceding the former as ill-advised and reprehensible aberration to be conveniently blamed on a sinister cabal of ‘militarists’ (ironically, the Tokyo Tribunal judgement would be useful here – and perhaps this was its purpose in the first place), while attempting to play up the latter as ‘justified self-defence’ of a unique culture protecting itself against a threat by overwhelmingly powerful and culturally alien foes; 3) acknowledge that Yasukuni Shrine, at least in its present ideological orientation with all of the attendant political and controversial baggage it entails, is more liability than asset for the revisionist movement, and opt instead for less politically vulnerable iconic symbolism around which a more adroit and popularly appealing hagiographic and ‘heroic’ war remembrance might form (of course, whether this would be acceptable or not to the rest of Asia is another matter entirely, but for the sake of argument, we can assume that any revisionist worth his or her salt could care less about this point). Promising potential iconographic material in regards to 3) might be found in intimate, humanistic treatments of the Asia-Pacific War dead – especially those who died in combat in the Pacific and Japan proper against American and other Western allied forces (i.e. Nanking pillagers need not apply) – more in the tragic hero mode traditionally favoured in Japanese lore9 than the absurd imagery of benevolent, continentliberating supermen that mainstream revisionism would have us accept. Towards this end, the historical figure of the kamikaze suicide attack pilot has excellent potential for being recruited as just such a symbol. But before we move on to this discussion – and for the benefit of readers whose jaws have just bounced off their chests – it may be pertinent here to provide some historical background information on the kamikaze phenomenon, and to explain the powerful emotional appeal of its legacy for modern day Japanese.

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ENTER THE KAMIKAZE By October 1944, Japan was three years into a savage war with America and the British Commonwealth nations that it had been losing badly for the last two. As the Allied juggernaut closed in for the kill, the Japanese high command made a last-ditch effort to stave off certain defeat by unleashing the first officially state-sanctioned suicide attack units in the history of warfare. Both the tactic and the personnel tasked with performing the missions are known to most of the world as the kamikaze or ‘divine wind’, but to Japanese they were and generally still are referred to as tokko–, an abbreviation of a wartime euphemism for suicide, or, more kindly, self-immolatory tactics that translates simply as ‘special attack’. The tokko– missions were carried out by young men – some idealistic true believers, others, like soldiers in any other war, more likely just swept along by the m ` erciless, hysterical momentum of the conflict and the vice-like peer pressure of military culture – who were told that regardless of the elusiveness of ultimate victory against the Allies, there could be no greater glory as Japanese fighting men than to sacrifice their lives in suicide attacks to defend the sacred soil of their homeland as a proud nation prepared to choose ‘the honourable death of 100 million’ – the ominously-if-poetically-termed ichioku gyokusai (one hundred million shattering jewels) – over the ignominy of surrender and foreign occupation. By war’s end, some 5,84310 of these young men – mostly pilots of bomb-laden, single-engined fighter planes either crashed into Allied warships or, far more often, shot down en route – had died in attacks that sank or damaged over 200 Allied ships and killed or wounded approximately 15,000 Allied servicemen.11 While the wartime exploits of the tokko– tinged Western and especially American stereotypes of Japanese Other-ness with an aspect of exotic fanaticism still lingering since the events of 1944–4512 – a cross-cultural (mis)perception not helped by the newest suicide attack threat the West now faces vis-à-vis Al Qaeda and its ilk – the tokko– legacy has developed quite differently in Japan’s post-war collective memory. More than sixty years after the last sortie was flown, the tokko– campaign remains a complicated and controversial topic in Japan, associated as it is with debate over the nation’s militarist past and the risks of future re-militarization. Rare lines of bolder discourse (that are anathema to the revisionists) even venture into soul-searching over the possible existence of deeplevel flaws in the socio-political infrastructure of the culture itself that created the circumstances under which such an organized, systematic and not only state-sanctioned but also popularly supported tragedy could occur in the first place.13 But from the perspective both of its lionizers and its critics – as well as of the relatively voiceless majority of Japanese whose views fall somewhere between these extremes – tokko– is a historical theme saturated with heartrending pathos and heady iconic potency with utility for

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portraying Japan’s war as a doomed-yet-valiant defensive struggle by a spiritual/traditional Asian society against a rapaciously acquisitive, spiritually barren but materially overwhelming West – a depiction helped to no end by the ready historical imagery of Westerners in armadas of gleaming silver airplanes firebombing cities full of Asian civilians in the end game phase of that struggle. Moreover, tokko– can also be seen in pride-saving counterpoint to the pathetic imagery of the bombed cities (and in the overarching context of Japan’s defeat as a whole) as a bold rejection of the passive victim role, therein reifying a libidinally cathected, idealized primal essence of Japanese masculinity.14 Viewed in this light, Japan’s seemingly anachronistic resorting to spiritual warfare in an industrialized twentieth century conflict – a phenomenon most dramatically manifest in the tokko– tactic – can serve less as evidence of strategic foolhardiness than as reassuring confirmation that this putative ‘Japanese spirit’ or yamato damashii has survived intact and unsullied into the modern era. Such emotionally laden and idealized simulacra have potentially paradigm-shifting utility in forming a crystallization point around which an alchemy for ego-protecting and emotionally gratifying AsiaPacific War defeat remembrance can coalesce. Used to such ends, tokko– imagery can: ● ● ● ●

●

●

emphasize Japanese martial prowess, but in a defensive rather than a more morally questionable offensive context; repair damage to Japanese (and particularly male) pride suffered from the defeat and subsequent Allied occupation; emphasize Japan’s war with the West – specifically with superpower America – as opposed to its victimization of other Asians; cast the war in a populist ‘by the people, for the people’ light by showcasing the deeds of the Japanese rank-and-file citizen-soldier rather than the activities of high level policymakers (imagery that can lay blame on a political elite for Japan’s calamity – payment for which is symbolized by the sacrifice of the tokko– – while simultaneously alleviating the state’s burden of responsibility by spreading duplicity for the tokko– concept as widely and evenly as possible in referring to the pilots as ‘volunteers’); arouse sympathy in generations of Japanese unfamiliar with the war, but more in a sense of gratitude and admiration for the sacrifices of its fighting men than of pity over their fate; be portrayed as embodying the finest aspects of an idealized national character (kokuminsei), particularly loyalty, bravery, purity of spirit and commitment to selfless sacrifice (messhi ho–ko–), implying a comforting community sense of historical continuity with a halcyon Japanese past.

Although aggrandizing the legacy of the tokko– for such purposes would appear to run the risk of also highlighting the horror and waste of

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human life entailed in the tactic, the revisionist (savvy or not) rejects out of hand this potential ideological hazard, confident – and probably not without reason – that his or her countrymen – or at least any revisionist would consider worthy of that distinction – are no more likely to subscribe to a disparaging view of the sacrifices of the brave but innocent young tokko– than a devout Shi’ite is likely to spray-paint graffiti on the Tomb of Ali. The historical figure of the tokko– pilot thus offers the tantalizing potential of being simultaneously dashing hero, sterling role model and victim of historical forces beyond his control (a qualification conveniently obfuscating the causality implications of Japan’s decision to wage the war in the first place). He is both lamb and lion, a figure upon whom – if the fate of the human beings whose bodies he exploded and whose flesh he sprayed with flaming aviation fuel can be dismissed as insignificant – little or no moral censure can be levied. Within the context and requirements of a milieu of Japanese defeat remembrance from which guilt feelings over the Asia-Pacific War are to be expunged, he is the perfect icon. THE SPECIAL ATTACK FORCES PEACE MEMORIAL ASSOCIATION – – (TOKKO ZAIDAN): A CASE STUDY IN TOKKO APOTHEOSIS Tokko– Heiwa Kannon Ho– san Kai One community of concerned parties working hard to make sure that the tokko– legacy is polished to a high sheen and ready to (once again) perform a nation-rallying iconic role is the Special Attack Forces Peace Memorial Association (Tokko– Zaidan),15 the most recent organizational permutation of a group formed over half a century ago by five retired Japanese admirals and generals: former Prime Minister (August-October 1945) and miyake prince, General Higashikuni Naruhiko (Imperial Military Academy Class of 1908); former Navy Minister and Chief of Staff, Admiral Oikawa Koshiro– (Imperial Naval Academy 1903); former Chief of Army Air Operations, General Kawabe Sho–zo– (IMA 1906); former commander of the Sixth Air Army, Lieutenant General Sugawara Michio– (IMA 1908); and former commander of the Third Air Fleet, Vice Admiral Teraoka Kinpei (INA 1912).16 Although Higashikuni and Oikawa were ensconced in what could be considered sinecure posts by the time the tokko– campaign reached its peak in the spring of 1945, the other three officers were directly responsible for ordering thousands of young men to their deaths at the head of army- and fleet-sized tokko– commands. Despite this onus – and the highly publicized precedent set by the suicides of many of their flag-ranked peers – none of these men chose to make the ultimate gesture of contrition upon their nation’s surrender. Rather than taking their own lives, as stricter interpretations of bushid o– (‘The Way of the Warrior’) would proscribe for men of their

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status in such circumstances, these former officers chose instead to bear their collective cross of survivor’s guilt by forming an association to publicly memorialize tokko– dead after the end of the GHQ Occupation of Japan made such activity legally possible.17 In addition to their backgrounds as high-ranking military officers, Higashikuni and the other four ex-generals and admirals were all devoted lay Buddhist acolytes,18 and it was in this capacity that the men’s paths crossed a few years after the war ended. In early 1952, Admiral Oikawa was informed by his respected spiritual mentor, Rinno– Temple monk and Taisho– University theology professor Sekiguchi Shindai, of the latter’s involvement through the Buddhist war memorial association Byakurensha in an enterprise to cast and sell 2/3-scale gilt bronze reproductions of the famous Yumechigai Kannon statue of Ho–ryu– Temple in Kyoto. The thematic choice was astute – Kannon being the Buddhist deity of mercy, and his/her Ho–ryu–ji yumechigai incarnation said to be able to transform nightmares (e.g. bad war memories) into good dreams, and it was felt that the icons would have a ready market for use in war memorial ceremonies, which – with the end of the Occupation, the subsequent relaxation of public and official attitudes to such activities, and the steady recovery of the nation’s economy – were showing signs of becoming popular once again.19 After hearing of Sekiguchi’s project, Oikawa broached the topic of the statuettes with Higashikuni, Kawabe, Sugawara and Teraoka, and all agreed that the icons had great potential as symbols around which a community for tokko– remembrance might be formed. The group then went about pooling and/or collecting contributions towards the one hundred thousand yen they would need to purchase two of the figures – one each for Army and Navy tokko– dead, respectively.20 Sekiguchi’s stature and influence helped secure a home for the statuettes at Tokyo’s prestigious Gokoku Temple, which among its other notable distinctions, was and still is host to a number of imperial family tombs. On 5 May 1952, a well-attended kaigen kuyo– ceremony was held at the temple to consecrate the Kannon statuettes with the souls of the army and navy tokko– dead, identified by name on casualty lists penned by Kawabe and Oikawa and placed inside the figures.21 The opening remarks of Higashikuni’s keynote speech for the occasion were reminiscent of the wording of the Gunjin Chokuyu (Imperial Rescript to Soldiers and Sailors) of some sixty years earlier: We should consider with deep reverence the idea that duty performed in the interests of the nation is heavier than a mountain, and that a death that has helped to lay the cornerstone of peace is lighter than a feather. We can say that the deeds we honour here today were acts of greatest earnestness and purity of heart performed with a sense of mercy and compassion. This was the heroic last image of the tokko– dead (kore tokubetsu ko–gekitaiin saigo no eishi nari), and it is in

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honour of their spirit that we consecrate these Kannon statuettes, imbuing them with their great mercy and compassion.22 After the ceremony, the statuettes were enshrined in the chu– reido– ( ) of the Gokokuji, where they were kept for storage and

Figure 4.1: Kannonsama statuettes, one each for navy (left figure) and army (right figure) tokko– pilot spirits. The bronze figures, based on the renowned Yumechigai Kannon of To–dai Temple in Kyoto, were cast in 1952. These statuettes are housed in the Tokko– Chapel at Setagaya Kannon Temple in Tokyo. A third figure from the same – Shrine at Chiran, Kagoshima casting is housed in the Tokko Prefecture, forming the initial crystallization point for the huge ‘tokko– tourism’ facilities that would eventually form there (Photo courtesy of Werner Kamppeter).

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ceremonial display in a special paulownia zushi cabinet custom-built by a Tokyo Tribunal-convicted war criminal then serving time in Sugamo Prison.23 Although Higashikuni, Oikawa and the other members of the newly self-named Tokko– Heiwa Kannon Ho–san Kai (Association to Venerate the Tokko– Peace Kannons) had just carried out a transubstantiation apotheosis spiritually conjoining several thousand human souls with one of the most important deities in the Buddhist pantheon, this theological accomplishment apparently did not merit special treatment for the group from the administrators of the Gokokuji. When financial difficulties within the Ho–san Kai’s parent Byakurensha organization worsened24 to the point where regular sharei (lit. ‘gratitude offering’) – Kannon statuettes payments for the temple’s hospitality for the Tokko could no longer be maintained, the group was told to find a new home for the icons.25 After a long period of heartbreaking rejections by various prestigious temples around the capital, during which time the statuettes were housed out of necessity in Admiral Oikawa’s and General Kawabe’s private residences, the Ho–san Kai was finally able to secure chapel space in 1955 for the icons at Setagaya Kannon, a Setagaya-ku matsuji branch temple of the prestigious Asakusa Senso–ji, where the statuettes remain to this day. With a stable base of operations thus secured, the Ho–san Kai nevertheless kept a tactfully low profile that – given the professional backgrounds of its principle members – is quite understandable in the contemporaneous historical context of a yet war-weary (and wary) Japan. Membership increase was gradual but steady, facilitated by word of mouth first within the community of Tokyo area tokko–-bereaved and, more significantly, from the standpoint of building a next-generation leadership base for the organization, through tightly-knit military and naval service academy alumni networks, particularly among graduates of the Army’s Imperial Military Academy. Throughout this period, activities were largely confined to the regular venue of modestly attended monthly prayer sessions at Setagaya and the larger annual Tokko– Heiwa Kannon Nenji Ho–yo– memorial ceremony held at the temple every September. One notable exception to the Ho–san Kai’s generally Setagaya Kannoncentric range of activity during its early years was the key generative role the group played in creating what has since developed into the almost Lourdes-like shrine complex for tokko– memorialization at Chiran, Kagoshima Prefecture. The location was chosen for special distinction by the Setagaya Kannon group as it had been a major tokko– staging point for the Sixth Air Army during the Okinawa Campaign, when 1,036 pilots perished in tokko– missions launched on Ho–san Kai founding member Lieutenant General Sugawara Michio–’s orders from this and other Kagoshima area airbases.26 Another qualifying distinction for this otherwise unremarkable little farming town was that it had been the setting of

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what was and has remained for post-war Japanese probably the most endearing and beloved episode in tokko– lore: the story of ‘tokko– no okaasan’ (‘mother of the tokk o–’) Torihama Tome and the young pilots she cared for as proprietor of a small restaurant and inn near Chiran airbase. – According to Setagaya Kannon abbot Ota Kensho–, who was both witness to and participant in the proceedings, Torihama – already a living legend at the time – was invited to visit Setagaya Kannon in the spring of 1955, during which time Sugawara proposed the establishment of a tokko– shrine in Chiran. Torihama was enthusiastic about the idea and moved on the project immediately, making several roundtrips over the next few months between Tokyo and her hometown to attend to the necessary consensus-building among various local Chiran movers and shakers and to coordinate financial contribution collection and other planning issues with the Ho–san Kai. Work proceeded apace, both physically and theologically; while masons built a small steel-reinforced concrete shrine at Chiran to contain a 54-cm tall statuette within its special paulownia zushi box, a buntai ( ) ceremony was held at Setagaya to bifurcate the souls already resident in the original Army Tokko– Kannon and usher the resultant soul-doubles into the new statuette in preparation for its journey to Kagoshima.27 On 28 September 1955, Buddhist priests consecrated the completed Chiran shrine and the new statuette was placed inside the structure.28 Two days later, the shrine’s first official ireisai memorial ceremony was held. Among the attendants were Torihama and other local notables, the Ho–san Kai members and their associates, and several Japan Self Defence Force cargo planeloads’ worth of former tokko– comrades and bereaved family members, mainly from the Kanto– region, who were flown down to Chiran for the occasion.29 The shrine and its environs have continued to evolve and expand since then, and now comprise the main attraction of what has developed into a bustling growth industry of ‘tokko– tourism’ for Chiran. The current centrepiece of the shrine complex, the oxymoronically named Peace Museum for Kamikaze Pilots, was constructed with local government funds and private donations in 1986.30 The museum now receives upwards of a million visitors a year31 – an increasing proportion of this number students on school trips – and if this trend continues, the site may soon rival Kyoto and Hiroshima as a favourite destination for the pre-graduation shu– gaku ryoko– trips of junior high schoolers. Although the Chiran authorities – possibly out of political concerns – now play down the filial obligation of their town-financed and town-operated tokko– memorial facilities to Setagaya Kannon and the Ho–san Kai, one wonders if they see the irony in the fact that their constituency enjoys both the name-value and the tax revenues it does today not only because of the tragedy that occurred in the town in 1945, but perhaps even more significantly, thanks to the guilt-ridden consciences of five old men in Tokyo a decade thence.

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Organizational Evolution of the Ho–san Kai In the fifty-odd years since Chiran began its gestation into a Mecca of tokko– hagiography, the Ho–san Kai has undergone similarly profound evolution. The association experienced a close call with institutional oblivion in the late 1970s, when Higashikuni and Sugawara, the last surviving founders and by then well into their dotage, began openly pondering the possibility of allowing the organization to fade away with the rapidly declining ranks of former high-ranking officers and Kanto area tokko– bereaved (mostly, at the time, mothers of dead tokko– pilots32) who formed its primary membership. This fate was averted, however, by a portentous concatenation of trends, events and personalities. One critical development was the assumption in 1978 of the post of gu– ji Chief Priest of Yasukuni Shrine by Imperial Naval Engineering Academy graduate, former Imperial Navy lieutenant commander and post-war Japan Ground Self Defence Forces officer Matsudaira Nagayoshi.33 Matsudaira, the first former professional military officer to hold the gu– ji post after the thirty-two year long and comparatively controversy-free tenure of predecessor Tsukuba Fujimaro, was a vehement critic during his lifetime of the so called ‘Tokyo Tribunal view of history’ (Tokyo saiban shikan), a close associate of Yasukuni support group Eirei ni Kotaeru Kai (‘Association to Honour the Noble Fallen’), and a headline-maker when he ordered the consecration (apparently against Emperor Hirohito’s wishes34) at Yasukuni of the souls of Japan’s Class A war criminals as one of his first official acts as Chief Priest. He was also a firm believer in the iconic value of the tokko– legacy in the context of Asia-Pacific War memorialization potential for post-war generations of Japanese, and this stance was instrumental in the continuing policy of the shrine’s Yu–shu–kan museum to give prominence to tokko– themes in its exhibits.35 The sentimental and political importance Matsudaira attached to the tokko– legacy was also, undoubtedly, from 1979 a key factor in the establishment of the annual Tokko–tai go–do– ireisai (Joint Memorial Ceremony for the Tokko– Personnel) held at Yasukuni Shrine every spring, an activity that breathed new vigour into the then-floundering Ho–san Kai by bringing it into closer contact (subsequently resulting in extensive organizational cross-pollination) with veterans’ associations boasting more vigorous and still professionally active memberships (the age of rankand-file Asia-Pacific War veterans at the time averaging fifty-five or so – i.e. kacho– or bucho– executive age, in a Japanese corporate context). But the increase in influence of these ‘new generation’ members – many with little or no wartime service connection to tokko– – also gave the group’s orientation a decidedly political spin far from the original intentions of its founders. And this spin has only increased in torque over the years as the group’s ideological platform has been unequivocally shackled to the controversy-embroiled positions of Yasukuni’s noisiest and most stubborn defenders.

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The most significant development during the late 1970s-early 1980s transition period was probably the infusion into the organization of new imperial family blood in the highly charismatic person of former miyake prince Takeda Tsuneyoshi (IMA 1930). Although Takeda was yet another ‘new generation’ member with no direct wartime connection to tokko–, he was a proven leader with executive experience as Chairman of the Japan Olympic Committee (1962–69) and member of the International Olympic Committee (1967–81),36 among a dizzying array of other functions in public service organizations. In the same year that he stepped down from his post with the IOC, Takeda assumed concurrent chairmanship of the Imperial Military Academy alumni association Kaiko–sha37 and the newly reformed Ho–san Kai, now renamed in reflection of the organization’s new ideological stance as the Tokko–tai Irei Kensho– Kai (Association to Honour and Venerate the Legacy of the Tokko–), which stated in its charter the following organizational aims: 1) to erect tokko– -themed memorials at prominent location(s) in the Tokyo area; 2) to conduct annual ireisai at Yasukuni Shrine; 3) to conduct research on the achievements and war record of the tokko– ; and 4) with the Setagaya Kannon tokko– chapel as its symbolic base, to facilitate and cooperate with tokko– ireisai activity around the country.38 This organizational revamping gave the association formerly known as the Ho–san Kai a new lease on life, but considering the already advanced age of this second generation of leadership, it can in retrospect be regarded mainly as a stopgap measure. Far more important for the future survival of the group than Takeda’s administrative policies were the added prestige of the imperial family association (greatly augmenting that already extant in the person of the somewhat hapless Higashikuni) and the peerless network of personal contacts the ex-prince brought to the organization. By far the most important of these personal contacts was Sejima Ryu–zo– (IMA 1931), Takeda’s wartime colleague when the two men had ‘shared a desk in the Planning Bureau of the Imperial General Headquarters (Daihon’ei)’,39 and the successor Takeda tapped for the Tokko–tai Irei Kensho– Kai chairmanship shortly before the ex-prince’s death in 1992. Post-war political kingmaker and corporate strategy mastermind Sejima, still alive at the age of ninety-five as of the writing of this paper, is a fascinating historical character who can lay unchallenged claim to being the last Japanese policymaker still living whose wartime decisions affected lives numbering in the tens and hundreds of thousands. As a brilliant army staff officer during the war, Sejima planned and oversaw the evacuation of Guadalcanal in early 1943, and in August 1945, as a staff officer with the Kwantung Army,40 Sejima was captured in Manchuria by the Red Army and subsequently endured eleven years of post-war internment in a Siberian gulag before finally returning to Japan in 1956 to begin his post-war career as executive and eventual president and chairman-of-the-board of the business enterprise now known as the Itochu– Corporation.41

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In this and other key roles, Sejima has been one of the most influential crafters of modern Japanese business strategy, as well as an eminence grise in conservative politics.42 In addition to countless other public and commercial leadership capacities, he has served as the chairman of the Japan Forum for Strategic Studies,43 and as an adviser to the president of NTT (the Nippon Telegraph and Telephone company).44 Sejima also dabbles in the application of Japanese soft power in his roles as chairman of Asia University, the Japan Art Association, and the Inamori Foundation (which sponsors the prestigious Kyoto Prize), and as chief lay acolyte of Ho–ryu– Temple in Kyoto.45 His primary accomplishment as Tokko–tai Irei Kensho– Kai chairman was probably his use of his awesome political clout and peerless personal contact network to secure a charter for the group from the Ministry of Health and Welfare46 as a zaidan h o–jin non-profit corporation in 1993, a status change that prompted an orga– tai Senbotsusha Irei Heiwa nizational name change to the current Tokko Kinen Kyo–kai (Tokko– Zaidan).47 Current Chairman Yamamoto Takuma (IMA 1945), who is also Chairman Emeritus of the Fujitsu Corporation, is overseeing the Tokko– Zaidan at a critical juncture in the organization’s history. In his stateof-the-organization address on 30 March 2005, on the occasion of the annual Yasukuni Go–do– Ireisai rites, he stated that the association has some 3,600 dues-paying members – numbers which are, for the time being, sufficient to maintain a Toranomon, Tokyo office and a small fulltime administrative staff.48 But while the majority of the Tokko– Zaidan’s roster still consists of war-generation members, their numbers are dropping quickly, and it is unrealistic to expect that their dominance will last much past the end of this decade. Accordingly, there has recently been much talk of passing on the torch to the next generation – and concrete steps towards this end are already taking place with assumption of various leadership posts by recently retired Japan Self Defence Force officers – but demographic realities forebode changes ahead for the organization in terms of its spirit and purpose. When the Zaidan membership is eventually limited, as it must be, to individuals unable to mourn the tokko– on a personal level as lost loved ones, then the group may be forced to cling to life by morphing from a memorial association into a primarily political organization. If this has not, in fact, already happened, it is possible to view the group’s recent recruiting efforts, focusing on young people with no personal connection to either tokko– or to the war, as indicating that plans are already being made to facilitate this change, which is apparently acknowledged as being inevitable and necessary if the organization is to survive. However, the large majority of these post-war generation members – especially those who have joined in recent years – are members on paper only, with many, if not most, recruited through Internet activity or the canvassing of museums (e.g. Yasukuni’s Yu–shu–kan) and other war memorial or war-related facilities with Tokko– Zaidan promotional literature.

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Figure 4.2: Wooden name palettes signifying imperial family patronage of the Tokko– Chapel at Setagaya – in this case from Hirohito’s (Emperor Sho–wa’s) younger brothers Prince Mikasa, Prince Takamatsu and Prince Chichibu. ‘Ohanadai’ (literally ‘flower money’) from the imperial throne continues to be donated to the chapel annually via the Imperial Household Agency (Kunaisho–) (Photo: courtesy Werner Kamppeter).

Few from among this ‘new generation’ membership ever attend the association’s monthly prayer services and roundtable discussions at Setagaya Kannon, and they probably comprise less than ten percent49 of the atten– dees at the group’s two major annual gatherings, the Tokko–tai Go–do Ireisai at Yasukuni Shrine (at which the late Emperor Hirohito’s youngest brother Prince Mikasa-no-miya has been a regular keynote speaker in recent years), and the Tokko– Heiwa Kannon Nenji Ho–yo– at Setagaya Kannon. Viewed in this light, the future of the Tokko– Zaidan would seem to be less than certain. The Theology of Tokko– Apotheosis As has been the case throughout the group’s fifty-odd years of existence, its core membership remains the small but loyal congregation of regulars – mostly superannuated former comrades of the dead and bereaved family members – who gather at Setagaya Kannon on the 18th of each month for prayer services. But contrary to the sombre atmosphere one might expect to characterize the activities of a group involved in memorializing – Zaidan’s rites, ceremonies and dead comrades or loved ones, the Tokko

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published literature – especially of the last two decades or so – display a distinctly upbeat and worshipful attitude of tataeru (veneration) towards the memory (or souls, if you will) of the tokko– dead. This is not to suggest that the group’s activities are lacking decorum appropriate in a Japanese cultural context to the memorialization of the dead, but rather that these activities are not so much expressions of sadness or grief as much as they are insistent celebrations of Japaneseness and displays of awed respect and gratitude toward the souls of tokko– pilots whom the Setagaya Kannon regulars consider to have achieved apotheosis as deities who now watch over and protect present day Japan. And as virtually any of these worshippers would put it, these deities do not like what they see. In the group’s literature there often appear defiantly polemic appraisals of the tokko– legacy as an antidote to the values and ways of a modern mainstream Japanese society of which most Tokko– Zaidan members disapprove, and which most members no doubt suspect would disapprove of the Tokko– Zaidan in turn if the group’s existence were better known among the general public. In a dedication speech as part of the 2002 Nenji Ho–yo– ceremony, tokko– survivor Yoshitake Toshio (IMA 1944) neatly encapsulated this stance: Japan has not fared [as] well [as ‘liberated’ Asia in the post-war era]. As a result of deliberate policies of the Allied forces that occupied our land after the war, the pride and identity of the Japanese race has undergone a long slide into decay. The beauty of Japanese traditions and pride in our history is disappearing from the hearts of our people, and our moral values have taken a worrying turn towards material greed, selfishness and rampant individualism. Disturbing signs of these trends are all around us. However, I believe that the spirit of the tokko– heroes can save us from this predicament, and the best way for us to honour and repay the debt to those heroes in heaven is to make every effort to regain this spirit. It is in the sincerest desire to make this possible, and to pay respect to the noble fallen, that we are gathered here today. On the grounds of Setagaya Kannon, near the small chapel where prayers for the tokko– deities are chanted once a month, there is a memorial stone faced with a bronze tablet carrying a tactfully worded inscrip– –, tion in both Japanese and English by Takeda Tsuneyoshi. As Ota Kensho second generation abbot of Setagaya Kannon, remarked to the author in February 2006, he and some other parishioners of the tokko– chapel have long had reservations about the overall subdued tone of this inscription, feeling that it does not honour the deeds of the tokko– passionately enough, and there have also been numerous objections to several of the phrases used within the passage. One such item is the English word ‘suicide’, the Japanese equivalent of which – jisatsu – has extremely negative and even cowardly connotations, and is thus considered absolutely

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taboo for use in descriptions or explanations of tokko– acceptable to Japanese who regard the tactic as having been an honourable deed performed by peerlessly brave fighting men. There is also objection from some quarters to use both in Takeda’s text and in some other tokko– memorialization contexts of the word senbotsusha, the standard phrase for ‘war dead’ in modern Japanese and used as such for official purposes by the Japanese government and in most media references. It is a safe semantic choice, considered more neutral than the politically charged eirei or ‘heroic spirit’ favoured by Yasukuni Shrine and other conservative groups, and it is precisely its ideological neutrality that explains the word’s use in the 1993 re-naming required of the organization by the Ministry of Health and Welfare to secure its non-profit incorporation charter in that year. – In Ota’s case, he feels that the term senbotsusha is inappropriately applied to tokko– pilots as it implies passivity in the circumstances of their death, as if to suggest that, as is the case with ‘normal’ soldiers, sailors or airmen who die in war, the tokko– pilots might have otherwise returned home safely to their loved ones after the fighting was over had fate not crossed their paths with an errant bullet, shrapnel shard or – pathogen. Rather, Ota holds that the tokko– pilots ‘defeated war itself’ – (senso o ikinuita) by seizing their own destiny, thus gaining spiritual immortality as heroes representative of the best of their generation – an – achievement sufficient, as Ota and other tokko– chapel regulars attest once a month with conviction completely devoid of irony or disingen– uousness, to achieve Buddhist godhead. Ota notes that this view was endorsed wholeheartedly by well-known author Yamaoka So–hachi, loyal Tokko– Kannon chapel parishioner in the last years of his life and wartime colleague of future Nobel Prize winner Kawabata Yasunari when the two were ‘embedded journalists’ under the employ of the Navy Ministry at the Kanoya tokko– base in southern Kagoshima Prefecture.50 Recalling a discussion on the theology of tokko– apotheosis – he once had with the gu– ji of Yasaka Shrine in Kyoto, Ota holds that the – rei (souls/spirits) of the tokko dead are not rei like those of normal human beings, or even eirei ‘heroic souls’, but rather, jinrei – divine or ‘god’ souls – thus ‘deserving of veneration by mere mortals like us’ (waga gotoki mono ga irei suru to iu koto wa okonomashii). A striking aspect of this and other theologies of tokko– apotheosis is the utter de-realization of the human suffering and grief the tokko– tactic exacted from the enemies against whom it was deployed, whose blood and pain would of course otherwise soil the pristine and sacred raiments of the young kamikaze gods.51 When any mention at all of what was happening ‘on the receiving end’ of the attacks is made, this takes the form of morally ambivalent parading of numbers of enemy ships purportedly sunk or damaged. In rare instances where the ‘human factor’ – of tokko– ’s effect on Japan’s foes is noted, for example, in Abbot Ota’s ref– erence to tokko ‘wreak[ing] havoc upon the enemy forces and fill[ing]

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the enemies’ hearts with dread’ in the prayer he wrote in the early 1970s for use at the monthly tokko– prayer services, the imagery of human suffering on the enemy’s part is parsed as war trophy, not offered as atonement. It is almost as if the tokko– attacks themselves occurred in a moral absolute vacuum devoid of any entangling ethical or causality factors, taking place only to provide a platform from which the pilots could ascend to their rightful positions as nation-protecting divinities by bringing fiery death down upon other young men. The ‘rosy-cheeked – young stalwarts’ of Ota’s tokko– prayer did not die, they became gods deserving of veneration and prayer; presumably, prayers for the human beings they killed are someone else’s concern. THE HALF-LIFE OF REMEMBRANCE In The Mourner’s Song, James Tatum writes ‘Sometimes war memorials are constructed too long after a war is over . . . [But t]hey can sometimes be built too soon.’52 If the Tokko– Zaidan can be considered a kind of living war memorial, one wonders where it would fit on Tatum’s temporal continuum. A more pressing concern from the perspective of the Zaidan’s superannuated membership, of course, might be ‘How long will it last?’ When the author asked Tokko– Kannon parishioner (and son of Ho–san Kai co-founder Sugawara Michio–) Fukabori Michiyoshi (INA 1945) this question, Fukabori went into a long and detailed description of the frequent and lavishly produced Russo-Japanese War memorial activities in the Tokyo area he used to watch as a child, ending the anecdote with a question of his own: ‘Where are all those ceremonies now?’ While there are obvious intimations of resignation and mortality in Fukabori’s anecdote, perhaps another interpretation is that victories are easier to forget than defeats. If this is true – and any American whose ancestors spent the Civil War and its aftermath in the Southern United States can tell you it is – then several more generations of Japanese yet to be born are fated to mull over the tokko– legacy on both a societal and personal level before the passage of time blanches the emotional intensity of the issue, relegating it to safely distant history. But in the meantime, as the Japanese attend to this task (and as time works its slow, dull but ultimately curative entropic magic), drawing from their findings and observations what patriotic reassurances or sobering lessons in selfexamination they will, they must never forget to ask ‘What motivated thousands of intelligent young men to turn themselves into willing human bombs, and what convinced an entire populace not only to accept but to actively support this sacrifice of the nation’s best and brightest?’ The worst thing researchers can do when helping current and future generations of Japanese answer this question will be to succumb to the temptation of viewing the problem through romanticizing Orientalist lenses, not only because these lenses distort, but moreover, because this

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is exactly what Japan’s revisionists (both of the obnoxious and ‘savvier’ variety) want – that is, they want the legacy of the tokko– honoured as a celebration of Japaneseness, to the detriment of its being objectively examined as social phenomenon and human tragedy. But rather than falling into this trap to approach tokko– as some rarefied Japanese curiosity, wreathed in silken brocade and ponderous Hagakure quotations,53 we must examine it as a phenomenon that was primarily possible within the overarching context of an ideology astutely manipulated by a magnificently appointed, cutting edge propaganda apparatus and with disturbing similarities to the ideologies of Japan’s allies during the Second World War. And as with all ideologies, the mid-twentieth century Japanese variety – and the tokko– phenomenon it produced – is perhaps best examined not at face value for the cause it claimed to champion, but rather, for what its followers were obligated to do in its name. NOTES 1

2

3

Alexander and Margarete Mitscherlich’s The Inability to Mourn (New York: Grove Press, 1975) is one of the most fascinating case studies of this phenomenon in print and is highly recommended to readers. For a first-person account of an encounter with this mindset, see pp. 3–16 in Brian Daizen Victoria’s Zen War Stories (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), with special attention to the author’s remarks at the bottom of p. 11. According to NHK opinion surveys (partial results of which can be found in Yoshida Yutaka, Nihonjin no senso–kan (Tokyo: Iwanami Gendai Bunko, 2005), p. 245), as late as the 1980s and 1990s, barely a quarter of Japanese believed that Japan was primarily responsible for the Asia-Pacific War and that the conflict could have otherwise been avoided, and only about half accept that Japanese imperialist policies in Asia and the Pacific in the early twentieth century were a significant factor leading to the outbreak of hostilities. A NHK survey from May 2000 (Sven Saaler, Politics, Memory and Public Opinion: The History Textbook Debate and Japanese Society (DIJ Monograph Series, vol. 39) (Munich: Iudicium, 2005), p. 139) shows that the approximately 50% of respondents who believe Japan’s war was one of aggression against Asian neighbours has gained barely a degree or two over results of a similar NHK survey conducted in 1982. It should be noted that a similar public opinion survey conducted by the Prime Minister’s office in 1955 showed considerable variation in stances on the issue according to respondents’ age, occupation, educational level and residential environment (i.e. urban vs. rural) (see Yoshida, p. 61). The NHK material does not provide a similar demographic breakdown in data. Gavan McCormack, ‘The Japanese Movement to “Correct” History’, in Mark Selden and Laura Hein (eds), Censoring History: Citizenship and Memory in Japan, Germany and the United States (Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe, 2000), p. 69.

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Memory in Politics and International Relations For an examination of this phenomenon at the grass-roots level, see Oguma Eiji and Ueno Yo–ko, Iyashi no nashonarizumu: Kusa no ne hoshu und o– no jissho– kenkyu– (Tokyo: Keio– Gijuku Daigaku Shuppankai, 2003). See John Nathan, Japan Unbound: A Volatile Nation’s Quest for Pride and Purpose (Boston and New York: Houghton Mifflin Company, 2004); and Ian Buruma, The Wages of Guilt: Memories of War in Germany and Japan (London: Phoenix, 1995). See James J. Orr, The Victim as Hero: Ideologies of Peace and National Identity in Postwar Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2001). See http://www.ne.jp/asahi/kyokasho/net21/siryou_jiukyokutusin9910. htm; John W. Nelson, ‘Signs of Recovery for Japanese Nationalism? The Citizen’s Committee for Reclaiming Cultural Identity through Textbook Reform’, Pacific Rim Report, No. 15, January 2001, http://www.pacificrim. usfca.edu/research/pacrimreport/pacrimreport15.html; See also McCormack, Aaron Gerow, ‘Consuming Asia, Consuming Japan: The New Neonationalist Revisionism in Japan’, and Nozaki Yoshiko and Inokuchi Hiromitsu, ‘Japanese Education, Nationalism and Ienaga Saburo–’s Textbook Lawsuits’ in Selden, Hein (eds), Censoring History, pp. 53–73, 74–95, and 96–126, respectively. Koizumi’s personal emotional investment in this issue should not be overlooked. His first cousin died as a kamikaze pilot at the age of twenty in 1945. See http://www.timesonline.co.uk/article/0,,3–1773883,00. html; http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Junichiro_Koizumi. Ivan Morris, The Nobility of Failure: Tragic Heroes in the History of Japan (New York: Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1975). This is the figure for casualties officially recognized as tokko– deaths by Yasukuni Shrine and by the Special Attack Memorial Association. This total does not include the over three thousand officers and sailors who perished on 7 April 1945 in the ‘surface Navy tokko– ’ (suijo– tokko– ) mission of the battleship Yamato attempted for the relief of the besieged Okinawa garrison. M. G. Sheftall, Blossoms in the Wind: Human Legacies of the Kamikaze (New York: NAL Caliber, 2005), p. 433. The Henshu– Techo– column of the 23 March 2006 edition of Yomiuri Shinbun comments – and not without a palpable measure of pride – on foreign news media references to Japan’s triumph in the 2006 World Baseball Classic as a ‘kamikaze’ victory. While Yomiuri’s editors parse the quote in the context of the original ‘kamikaze’ – the storms that destroyed Kublai Khan’s invasion fleets menacing Japan in 1274 and 1281, respectively – it seems more than likely that the foreign journalists in question were referring to the Asia-Pacific War suicide tactic. Fukabori Michiyoshi’s Tokko– no shinjutsu (Hara Shobo–, 2001) and Hosaka Masayasu’s Tokko– to Nihonjin (Tokyo: Ko–dansha, 2005) are notable recent books in this genre. Fukabori is the son of wartime tokko– Sixth Air Army commander Lieutenant General Sugawara Michio–, and journalist Hosaka is a widely published commentator on Japanese military and social issues.

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The concept of libidinal catharsis in the context of idealized self-imagery (in this case, an ethnocentric identity-reinforcing palimpsest of idealized masculinity) is cited here in the sense described in Mitscherlich, pp. 25–31, 35. The full Japanese name of the organization is Tokko–tai Senbotsusha Irei Heiwa Kinen Kyo–kai. A direct translation of this could be rendered ‘Association for Consoling the Spirits of Special Attack Forces Casualties and Offering Peace Prayers’. Service academy class year and last major wartime command information for this group is from Hata Ikuhiko, Nihon rikukaigun so– g o– jiten (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1991). See Kaih o– Tokko– , vols 1, 4, 17, 18 and 59 for primary source details on this period. These and other editions of the Tokko– Zaidan newsletter from 1984 through 2005 are viewable online in PDF format at http://www. tokkotai.or.jp/kikanshi/backnumber.html. During the Occupation, Higashikuni, aided by several other former generals, had even tried starting his own short-lived religion – the eponymous Higashikuni-kyo– – until the authorities forced him to close up shop. Sangy o– Keizai Shinbun, 25 June 1950. – Interview with Setagaya Kannon abbot Ota Kensho–, 11 February 2006; – – see also Kaiho Tokk o , vols 4 and 59. Ibid. Kaih o– Tokk o– , vol. 1. Ibid. – Ota interview. Asahi Shinbun, 18 March 1952. Some sources, e.g. a Sankei Shinbun article reprint in Kaiho– Tokko– , Vol. 4, hold that the group’s – and thus also the statuettes’ – expulsion from Gokokuji was politically motivated in that the temple’s monks feared the wrath of GHQ authorities on the watch for signs of resurgent Japanese militarism (especially religiously-affiliated militarism). However, this explanation does not mesh with the timing of the kaigen ceremony – held safely after the return of Japanese sovereignty – and the subsequent enshrining – of the Tokko– Kannon statuettes at the temple. Ota’s account of financial difficulties gives a much more convincing explanation for the incident. See Chinkon no kiroku (Chiran: Peace Museum for Kamikaze Pilots, noncommercial publication, 2004) for information on the evolution of tokko– memorial facilities in the town. There is only brief mention in this book of the Tokko– Heiwa Kannon Ho–san Kai/Setagaya Kannon connection in the creation of the original Chiran tokko– shrine. – Ota interview. Chinkon no kiroku, p. 9. Despite the official termination of the Ho–san Kai members’ respective military careers some ten years previously, the men still wielded formidable influence within the nascent Japanese Self Defence Forces – particularly its air arm.

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Memory in Politics and International Relations Chinkon no kiroku, p. 74. http://abcnews.go.com/Nightline/story?id=128514&page=2 As of 1990, the last tokko– mother still attending services at the Setagaya Kannon tokko– chapel was Kubo Tane (aged eighty-five at the time), whose son Motojiro– was killed as the result of a tokko– sortie against American forces in Okinawa, 2 April 1945. Asahi Shinbun, 24 September 1990. Akazawa Shiro–, Yasukuni mondai (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2005), p. 189. International Herald Tribune/Asahi Shinbun, 5 February 2004. Interview with Jinrai Butai Sen’yu– Kai (Thunder Gods Human Rocket Bomb Veterans’ Association) chairman Suzuki Hideo, 21 March 2006. Olympic Review, vol. 296, June 1992, p. 291. http://ja.wikipedia.org/wiki/; http://ja.wikipedia.org/ wiki/; http://www.geocities.co.jp/WallStreet/2687/siryo/siryo01. html. Kaiho– Tokko– , vol. 4. Kaih o– Tokko– , vol. 64. Sejima was sent to Manchuria to assume this post as the replacement for miyake Prince Takeda-no-miya (Takeda Tsuneyoshi, post-1947). Sejima Ryu–zo–, Ikusanga – Sejima Ryu–zo– kaiso– roku (Tokyo: Sankei Shinbunsha, 1996), p. 272. See Hosaka Masayasu, Sejima Ryu–zo– – Sanbo– no sh o–wa shi (Tokyo: Bungei Shunju, 1991). http://www.asahi-net.or.jp/~ny3k-kbys/contents/digi7.html http://www.jfss.gr.jp/en/Quarterly-Report-e-2005-july.html http://www.ntt.co.jp/news/news97e/970523.html Sejima, pp. 667–8. The name of this government body is currently ‘Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare’. Illustrative of the extent of Sejima’s clout was his securing from ‘Tokyo fin– ancier’ Okubo Takashi (who continues to serve on the Tokko– Zaidan’s board of directors) a one hundred million yen personal donation to the group to help it meet Ministry of Health and Welfare capital assets (shihon zaisan) requirements to qualify for zaidan h o–jin status. Kaih o– Tokko–, vol. 18. Tokko– Zaidan chairman Yamamoto Takuma state-of-the-organization address on 30 March 2005, given on the occasion of the Tokko–tai Go–do– Ireisai for that year. This is an estimation based on the author’s attendance at and observation of these rites over the last four years. Background information on Yamaoka’s and Kawabata’s sojourn at Kanoya with members of the jinrai (Divine Thunder) human rocket bomb unit can be found at the Yomiuri Online website at: http://kyushu.yomiuri.co.jp/magazine/monogatari/mono/mo_mo_041008.htm, and also in Kaigun Jinrai Butai (Tokyo: Kangun Jinrai Butai Sen’yu–kai, private publication, 1997), p. 52. Martin Regg Cohn, writing for The Toronto Star (‘Kamikaze Resurrection’, 6 August 2005), makes a similar observation on the stance of the Peace

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Museum for Kamikaze Pilots in Chiran. Moreover, this assessment can be applied to virtually all Japanese treatment of tokk o– thematic material in any medium, fictional or non-fictional. James Tatum, The Mourner’s Song: War and Remembrance from the Iliad to Vietnam (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2003), p. 30. This information is anecdotal, but deserves mention; Fukabori, who is an accomplished and widely published researcher on twentieth century Japanese military culture, noted during an interview with the author that Navy Minister (and staunch tokko– opponent) Admiral Yonai Mitsumasa thought the Hagakure was ‘an evil and dangerous book’ that had been abused by Army demagogues to indoctrinate generations of Army recruits and cadets with a ‘distorted bushid o– ’ on which many of the excesses and mistakes of Japan’s war effort could be blamed, and as such, he worked to keep it off of the curricula of the Naval Academy and other Imperial Navy officer training programs.

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Remembering the War Crimes Trial: The Tokyo Trial View of History YUKI TAKATORI

THE TOKYO WAR CRIMES TRIAL

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s many as sixty million people may have perished in the Second World War, most of them innocent civilians far from the battlefronts or prisoners of war. In the interwar years, the League of Nations, the embodiment of the lofty ideal of permanent world peace, had failed to hold the aggressor nations in check and had watched helplessly as the world was consumed in total war. Realizing how close they had come to defeat and subjugation, the leaders of the victorious nations urgently and conscientiously set out one more time to achieve the goal that the League of Nations had so disastrously fallen short of. It was as part of this attempt by the world leaders to restore sanity, and to affirm the moral values without which peace cannot endure, that two war crimes trials were held, one in Nuremberg and the other in Tokyo. The Tokyo War Crimes Trial, officially known as the International Military Tribunal for the Far East (IMTFE), was the longest war crimes trial following the Second World War, opening on 3 May 1946 and concluding on 12 November 1948.1 It put on trial twenty-eight Japanese wartime leaders on charges of (1) Crimes against Peace, (2) Conventional War Crimes, and (3) Crimes against Humanity. Except for two defendants who died during the proceedings and one who was declared ‘unfit to stand his trial and unable to defend himself’, all were convicted, including seven who received death sentences.2 The Trial generated disputes and raised questions still unsolved and unanswered nearly sixty years later. For instance, prior to the Nuremberg and Tokyo Trials, the term ‘war crimes’ was understood to

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Figure 5.1: Former War Ministry building (Ichigaya, Tokyo), the venue of the International Military Tribunal for the Far East. NWDNS-238-FE, National Archives and Records Administration, College Park, Md.

mean ‘violations of the laws of war’, such as the killing of civilian populations, the inhumane treatment of POWs or the use of poison gasses. Under this definition, individuals, combatants and non-combatants alike, could be held criminally responsible for breaking the rules governing conduct during a war, but not for starting a war, no matter how much such an act might offend the conscience of mankind. In Nuremberg and Tokyo, however, initiating and waging an aggressive war itself was considered a crime, specifically a ‘Crime against Peace’, for the first time in history.3 Furthermore, high-ranking government officials, national leaders, who would hitherto have been shielded by their status, were the natural targets of prosecution under the revised definition. The Allies hoped that by trying and punishing the former rulers of Germany and Japan (including even those who might claim to have no blood on their hands), and by revealing their folly and cruelty, they would ‘educate’ the people, causing them to reject all that the men who had led them represented and leaving an indelible impression on the consciousness of the defeated nations. While many Allied representatives felt apprehensive about these juridical ventures, determining the guilt or innocence of the designers of war in a court of law seemed to be the only option that would later stand the test of history as a demonstration of the ultimate triumph of morality and justice.

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Evaluations of the Tokyo Trial covered a wide spectrum even within SCAP (Supreme Commander for the Allied Powers),4 from prosecutor Solis Horwitz calling it ‘proceedings of utmost significance for . . . the elimination of war’, to General Charles Willoughby, General Douglas MacArthur’s chief of counter-intelligence, terming it ‘the worst hypocrisy in recorded history’.5 Among the Japanese people as well, a dichotomy of opinion, although of a different sort, has emerged as regards its historical significance. This paper will explore the nature of Japan’s memory of the Tokyo Trial, examining how the Japanese practice of inward-facing/outward-facing diplomacy has crucially shaped the public’s perception of the Trial’s meaning. REACTION TO THE TOKYO TRIAL In the immediate wake of defeat, a sense of resignation and nihilism prevailed among the Japanese, who accepted the charges and sentences imposed upon their ‘honest and trusted leaders to whom [their] fate had been entrusted’ as adequate, if not necessarily appropriate, punishment for the actions Japan had taken.6 A general acceptance of the court’s rulings seems evident when one examines the contrastive reporting of the Trial by Japanese newspapers before and after November 1948, when the judgement was read in open court; before, they had allotted more than half their total space to the court proceedings and to editorials, considerable coverage given that post-war shortages limited newspapers of the period to just a few pages of poor-quality newsprint, but after, once the fate of the prisoners was decided upon, the coverage quickly dwindled, focusing more on such peripheral issues as farewell poems composed by the defendants sentenced to death and the psychological states of their families. Follow-up articles and opinion columns began to reappear upon the filing of petitions by two of the death row convicts to the United States Supreme Court, but stories about accused war-time leaders vanished from both the domestic and foreign press as soon as the pleas were denied and the executions of the condemned seven were carried out in late December 1948, except for occasional retrospective accounts of behind-the-seen episodes. Amid this atmosphere of approval, however, seeds of resentment against the Allies’ unilateral justice were already sprouting, as seen in the reaction to the testimony of General To–jo– Hideki, prime minister of the so-called the ‘Pearl Harbor Cabinet’, who repeatedly stated on the witness stand that Japan was provoked into fighting a war of selfdefence under economic duress. To the dismay of officials in SCAP, To–jo–’s version of events struck a sympathetic chord with young generations as well as former servicemen. The censorship section of MacArthur’s office, alarmed by the welcome reception given by the Japanese press to To–jo–’s rehashing of wartime propaganda, had to temporarily suppress ‘editorially slanted stories commenting on the fact

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that most young Japanese . . . accepted General Tojo’s version’.7 What was doubly unfortunate for the Occupation authority was that the showcase cross-examination of To–jo– by Chief Prosecutor Joseph Keenan had gone awry, allowing the most infamous of the accused to portray himself as the emperor’s loyal subject and as a soldier-statesman serving a nation that resorted to arms to preserve its very existence. Since To–jo–’s statement came second to last, it helped his reputation to recover and the defence phase of the Tribunal to end on a positive note. If SCAP had wished to use this opportunity to arouse in the Japanese public a sense of war guilt and of the futility of militarism, then Keenan had scuttled the effort in one fell swoop. And, as if to signal the positive change in the former prime minister’s estimation among his countrymen, an Asahi Shinbun journalist noted cases of To–jo–, after his testimony, being referred to with the honorific suffix san ‘Mr or Ms’, something which had been unheard of during the early months of occupation. All of the foregoing did not bode well for the occupation powers, who had wished to use this opportunity to arouse in the Japanese public a sense of war guilt and of the futility of militarism. They did find some solace in the powerful effect that revelations of wanton slaughter, maiming, and humiliation of enemy soldiers and defenceless civilians, committed by members of their own Armed Forces, had upon citizenry.8 Like the masses, intellectuals were critical of the court proceedings and the judgement, but for an entirely different reason: by passing over the war responsibility of the emperor and the industrial conglomerates, the zaibatsu, they had not gone far enough. For instance, the historian Fujiwara Akira wrote about the omissions of the Tokyo Trial in A History of the Sho–wa Era (1955) (a million-copy bestseller that helped nurture an historical consciousness among Japanese readers of the post-war period), because of the editorial board’s dissatisfaction with the Tribunal’s failure to attach any guilt to the emperor and the industrialists. THE TOKYO TRIAL VIEW OF HISTORY As the years passed, and the Tokyo Trial continued to be a subject of debate and criticism, the objections would, in time, come from an altogether different portion of society. In the late 1970s, as the ‘Japanese Miracle’ of double-digit economic growth and ubiquitous made-inJapan merchandise was in full flower, politicians and economists began to assume an attitude of arrogance, born of success, and to gradually embrace the idea that Japan itself had been a wrongly-convicted victim of the Allies’ unilateral justice. There arose a growing resentment towards and reaction against what was labelled the ‘Tokyo Trial View of History’. The term ‘The Tokyo Trial View of History’ (Tokyo saiban shikan), originally ‘The Far East Trial View of History’ (Kyokuto– saiban shikan), was first used in 1977 by the historian Ito– Takashi in his Kindai Nihon Kenkyu–

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Nyu– mon (Introduction to a Study of Modern Japan), to denote the idea that everything Japan had done between 1928 and 1945 was bad, immoral and malign whereas everything the Allies had done was good, moral and benign. For right-wing politicians, it represented a falsified history of modern Japan, poisoning the minds of the Japanese to such an extent that it could have no other result than to convince them that their country was the pre-war world’s worst.9 From the very inception of their crusade, the revisionists sought (and continue to seek) to unburden their fellow countrymen of this (from their standpoint) distorted and masochistic notion. It was perhaps no coincidence that on 17 October 1978, when Japan was basking in economic prosperity, the Yasukuni Shrine decided to consecrate, without even consulting their families, the seven men who had been hanged as a result of the Tokyo Trial verdict, waiting until six months later to publicize the decision. A careful reading of the Tokyo Judgement, however, yields a quite different version of the ‘Tokyo Trial View of History’. According to the historian Arai Shin’ichi, nothing in the verdict endorses the position that Japan was fundamentally wicked and the Allies were at heart virtuous. Rather, the verdict was based upon the historical theory that pre-war Japan was dominated alternately by two groups: an extreme militarist clique composed of Army officers and right-wing politicians; and moderate political leadership that consisted of the emperor, his advisers, diplomats, economists and ex-premiers ( ju– shin). Their struggle for power ended in the defeat of the moderates, ineluctably leading to the attack on Pearl Harbor. The Tokyo Judgement relieved the moderates, including the emperor and the zaibatsu, of all responsibility for the war, and shifted the entire blame onto the hard-liners. If there is anything that should be called the ‘Tokyo Trial View of History’, Arai concludes quite persuasively, it is this positing of a clash between extremists and moderates, rather than a theory contrasting bad behaviour at a national level – Japan’s – with good – the Allies’.10 THE MAJORITY JUDGEMENT Assessment of the two versions of the ‘Tokyo Trial View of History’ cannot be possible without first examining the court’s judgement. What is now known as the Tokyo Judgement was drawn up by a majority of seven justices (representing Britain, Canada, China, New Zealand, the Philippines, the Soviet Union and the United States), with the four remaining justices (representing Australia, France, India and the Netherlands) filing a separate opinion.11 Within the majority, the judges from Britain (Lord W.D. Patrick), Canada (E. Stuart McDougall) and New Zealand (Erima H. Northcroft) were most actively engaged in the writing of the final judgement. McDougall took the initiative in streamlining the thirty-six conspiracy counts in the indictment to fifteen, and eventually to eight.12 He also drafted with Patrick those sections of the

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Figure 5.2: The justices – from left to right, front row: W.D. Patrick (Britain), M. Cramer (USA), W. Webb (Australia), M.J. Ao (China), I.M. Zaryanov (USSR). Back row: R. Pal (India), B.V.A. Röling (Netherlands), E.S. McDougall (Canada), H. Bernard (France), E. Northcroft (New Zealand), D. Jaranilla (Philippines). NWDNS-238-FE, National Archives and Records Administration, College Park, Md.

judgement that dealt with questions of the law; these were adopted almost verbatim before the summations by the defence and the prosecution had even come to a close.13 A summary of the conflict between the military and the government appears early in the court’s verdict, in the first chapter of Section B, which narrates the rise to dominance of the military in the government of Japan. Between 1928 and 1941, more than a dozen prime ministers formed cabinets, some of which lasted a little more than one hundred days. Throughout this period, a period of ‘political struggle which culminated in the supremacy of the military’, those cabinets that withheld cooperation with the Army or took up ‘antithetical policies’ ended up being overthrown. Of course, military domination could not have been achieved without assistance from civilian sympathizers in the government. In the court’s narrative, Prime Minister Hirota Ko–ki, who formed a cabinet from March 1936 until February 1937, is depicted as one of these civilian collaborators. The relentlessness with which the majority seven pursued the theory that puts Hirota and his cabinet in the centre

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of Japan’s conspiracy cannot escape the attention of even those who merely scan the text of the judgement, for he is singled out from other prime ministers of the era as the one most responsible for facilitating the Army’s rise to power and most committed to ‘economic and military expansion’.14 There is no consensus among historians as to Hirota’s role in the military’s ascendancy, but it is evident that the understanding of the majority justices on the Tokyo bench was that Japan’s domestic political situation between 1928 and 1941 was that of a power struggle that ‘ebbed and flowed’ between elected representatives of the people, the civilian ministers, and the emperor’s entourage on the one hand, and the military and their supporters on the other.15 The justices’ account takes a position that echoes the one held by Joseph Grew, US ambassador to Japan from 1932 to 1942; it also offers solid proof that Arai’s interpretation of the Tokyo Judgement is a sound one. One other notable feature of the Judgement is its treatment of Emperor Hirohito. Not only is there no separate section devoted to him, but there are precious few references to him at all. This is hardly surprising, since he was not a defendant and was therefore outside the court’s jurisdiction, the United States having taken pains to keep him out of court in the hope of following the path of least resistance in its occupation by protecting him and using his unequalled prestige and influence. Its aim fortuitously coincided with the Japanese government’s aim to prevent the prosecution of the embodiment of the nation. The defendants, Japanese defence lawyers, Japanese government officials and even the American prosecutors coordinated their efforts to achieve this goal; only the judges were kept completely ‘out of the loop’. Even so, the emperor’s profile in the Judgement is so startlingly low that one might almost suggest the judges were remiss in their evaluation (or rather, non-evaluation) of his part in events. After all, the Meiji Constitution promulgated in 1889 conferred on him the right of supreme command (to–suiken), without whose permission neither the Imperial Army nor Navy could deploy a single soldier.16 Unlike the power to make treaties or to legislate, which he exercised with the assistance of the cabinet, the command of the military was his alone. This meant that all matters related to military operations (not military administration), were independent of the power of the government or the cabinet.17 For instance, it was him who sanctioned without any advice whatsoever from the cabinet the plans to dispatch the Combined Fleet to Kohta Bahru and Hawaii in December 1941. It is quite puzzling, therefore, that he is completely out of the picture in Chapter VII of the Judgement, Pacific War, although there are three sections specifically related to war plans (which lay wholly within the authority of the Army and Navy General Staffs to devise, and entirely outside the government’s capacity to intervene): ‘Preparations Intensified’, ‘Continued

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Preparations for War’ and ‘Navy Order for Attack’. Nowhere in these sections was the emperor mentioned; instead, Admiral Yamamoto Isoroku was cited as the person who gave the green light to the ‘final draft of the Combined Fleet Operations Order’, which ‘provided for the execution of the advance to the South’.18 Strictly speaking, however, this order and all its particulars – the time for the commencement of hostilities, the places to be attacked, etc. – had to have been approved by the emperor; Yamamoto merely relayed them to his subordinates.19 It is obvious that the judges were ill-informed about the inner workings of the decision-making process in Japan under the system of the Meiji Constitution of 1889. No wonder: since the emperor had been given immunity and neither the prosecution nor the defence had played up his part in military operations, the bench’s ability to learn the facts, and to reach conclusions from them, was undermined by the withholding of certain evidence. However, granted that the evidence submitted by the prosecution was highly selective, not all of it was exculpatory. For example, E.H. Norman, head of the Canadian mission to Tokyo during the Occupation, stated in his observation on the court proceedings that one of the entries of the Kido diary clearly suggested that matters of war or peace lay ‘not in Kido’s hands but with the Emperor himself’, and that therefore it is up to future historians to ‘decide whether the Emperor was the mere puppet that some interpreters of the Japanese political scene before the war have maintained’.20 Thus, even if one takes into account that there was a limit to what judges could have known about the depth of the emperor’s involvement in war planning, it is nonetheless quite bizarre to read through the chapter on the Pacific War and never to see the name of the one person who was not only cognizant of the specifics of every plan but also decisively involved in the execution of each one.21 Be that as it may, what must be stressed here is that, if the revisionists, wishing to liberate the Japanese people from the yoke of the Tokyo Trial View of History, categorically deny the views set forth in the Judgement, then they must denounce as well the bench’s depiction (by omission) of the emperor as someone detached, disengaged from his obligation to command the military and, it follows, guilty of nonfeasance in performance of his constitutional duties. Finally, Norman remarked that, from a historian’s viewpoint, the chapters on the Sino-Japanese War (1937–45) constituted the most unsatisfactory part of the Judgement. According to him, the bench, relying for the most part on the evidence tendered by the prosecution for its portrayal of Sino-Japanese relations, had been unfairly biased in favour of the Chinese version of events; he suggests that, ‘for obvious political reasons, it was impossible’ for the court to inquire, for example, into the extent to which a Chinese pro-Japanese movement (if there was one) affected ‘Japanese authorities or groups in Japan which were not committed to all-out aggression’. After all, as Norman concludes,

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Figure 5.3: Emperor Hirohito shaking hands with a U.S. officer. RG-108: General MacArthur’s Honour Guard: Thomas Henderson collection, MacArthur Memorial, Norfolk, VA

Japan was ‘not only acting upon others but in some fashion was being acted upon’.22 Quite understandably, the political climate of the era made it impossible to dispassionately appraise China’s contemporary domestic situation, but, in recent years, it has come to light that there indeed was considerable pro-Japanese sentiment in North-eastern China (or Manchuria), and as a result, interest has emerged in taking a new look at the label of ‘puppet state’, given to Manchukuo, the state founded in the north-east of China upon Japanese initiative in 1932. For instance, Rana Mitter argues that collaboration with Japan existed at the provincial and local levels all over Manchuria even before 1931 (i.e. before the foundation of Manchukuo). Prasenjit Duara, another scholar of modern Chinese history and nationalism, ‘insists on the need to go beyond the interpretation of Manchukuo as merely a Japanese puppet state’.23 In these and other reassessments of the kingdom of ‘Henry’ Pu Yi, Emperor of Manchukuo who was instated as the head of newly created state, long-neglected positive aspects of this state are given due attention, e.g. ‘a land of opportunity for many Koreans’, a model for ‘state-formation and state policies’ in post-war North and South Korea, a provider of

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sanitation and health care, etc. There is even an ongoing debate (among non-Japanese scholars) as to whether labelling Japanese-sponsored local leaders in China as ‘puppets’ is not ‘a convenient way of dismissing the emerging national identities which they represented’.24 In sum, the final verdict of the Tokyo court has a mixed legacy: a good portion of its argument is of such soundness that it has become the foundation upon which the standard understanding of Japan’s pre-war actions had been built; but its treatment of some topics (e.g. the emperor and China) has become subject to criticism and revision. The revisionist argument against the Tokyo Judgement, despite its inconsistency, has shown an enormous capacity for survival in Japan, giving rise, in some quarters, to a profession of reverence for the convicted war criminals as loyal patriots and for the Constitution of the Empire of Japan as Asia’s first modern charter. There are several factors that have nurtured this lenient, even sympathetic attitude toward Japan’s pre-war policies, but perhaps the most decisive one is the dual face of Japanese diplomacy, which will be discussed in the next section. THE ART OF INWARD-FACING/OUTWARD-FACING DIPLOMACY The Japanese have persistently shown a reluctance to accept the Tokyo Judgement’s conclusion that Japan’s military measures, from the SinoJapanese War onward, were acts of aggression, and a tendency to downplay the Tokyo Trial’s significance, to dismiss the Trial as a whole and to dismiss the punishments meted out as but manifestations of ‘victors’ vengeance’. The difference in how the Trial is remembered in Japan and elsewhere owes much to Japan’s practice of what Yoshida Yutaka has called a ‘double standard of inward-facing/outward-facing diplomacy’,25 which, in incipient form, dates back to the war itself. A slogan much favoured and off trumpeted by the militarists was ‘Asia for Asians’: A denunciation of the usurpations of sovereignty by the Western imperial powers, and an advocation of Japan’s duty, as the most developed nation in the Far East at that time, to stand up and liberate its neighbours, it conveniently glossed over the reality that Japan itself was a colonial master, having forced Taiwan and Korea under its rule. Even though a case can be made that Japan was ‘far more helpful to development’ of its colonies than the European powers were to theirs, and that its subjects ‘achieved much higher educational levels and became acquainted with electricity, railways, banking and industrial products’,26 the fact still remains that it committed wrongful seizures of territory and that these resulted in impositions of language, religion and even personal names to an extent not found in European colonialism. Was Japan prepared to let go of its possessions after winning the war? It is quite doubtful: the credulousness of the Japanese people, their inability to discern the duplicity behind the lofty rhetoric, meant that domestic opposition to Japan’s own colonialism was virtually non-existent.

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The first post-war example of dual policies, one directed outward, internationally, and the other directed inward, domestically, can be seen in the translation of the Treaty of Peace with Japan, which was signed in San Francisco on 8 September 1951 by forty-eight nations and was the prelude to the end of the occupation of Japan in 1952. A reference to the decisions by the Tokyo court is made in Article 11: Article 11. Japan accepts the judgements of the International Military Tribunal for the Far East and of other Allied War Crimes Courts both within and outside Japan, and will carry out the sentences imposed thereby upon Japanese nationals imprisoned in Japan. There is no doubt that the word judgement is used here in the sense of ‘a determination by a court of law, a judicial decision’. In other words, the judgements Japan accepted included not only the ‘majority’ judgement (that is, its finding of facts, its verdicts and its sentences) but also the bench’s decisions to dismiss or sustain, accept or reject, various motions, objections and exhibits submitted throughout the proceedings.27 In the context given, therefore, the Japanese equivalent would have been the word hanketsu ‘judgement, ruling, judicial decision’.28 Unbeknownst to non-native speakers of Japanese, the Treaty Bureau of the Foreign Ministry chose the word saiban, which means primarily ‘trial, trial proceedings’ and only secondarily ‘judgement, decision’, and therefore is not compatible in typical or habitual usage with the verb judaku suru ‘to accept’. This awkward translation of Article 11 reduced its strength by blurring its true intention, opening the door to an interpretation slanted in Japan’s favour (e.g. Japan merely acknowledged that a trial took place and that there were seven death sentences pronounced by the court, etc.). By signing the Peace Treaty, Japan gave the appearance of a determination to uphold the verdict of the Tokyo court, while at the same time, by means of imprecise translation, it successfully obfuscated any admission to itself of its own war responsibility. The overall effect of this linguistic manipulation was to create a gap between what the world understood Japan to have accepted in the interest of maintaining international peace and security, and Japan’s lesser acknowledgement, internally, of its obligations. But there is reason to believe that even without the mistranslation the Peace Treaty would not have compelled Japan to come to terms with its past, for it contained inherent weaknesses, even seeds of potential failure, as a settlement. First and foremost, as Yoshida argues, despite the fact that the purpose of the Peace Treaty was to ‘settle questions still outstanding as a result of the existence of a state of war’29 which was waged with and initiated by Japan, it contained no direct mention of where war responsibility rested, except for the reference to the acceptance of the judgements of the Tokyo Trial in Article 11; nor did it include any articles prohibiting or restricting Japan’s rearmament, or any clauses

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making the democratization of Japan mandatory.30 What was even more detrimental (although geopolitically unavoidable) was that neither the People’s Republic of China – recognized by Britain in 1950 – nor the Republic of China on Taiwan – recognized by the United States – the countries most victimized by Japan’s aggression and colonial rule, were invited to be signatories to the Treaty. Finally, the Treaty had a quite charitable reparations clause, beginning with the following provision: Article 14a. It is recognized that Japan should pay reparations to the Allied Powers for the damage and suffering caused by it during the war. Nevertheless it is also recognized that the resources of Japan are not presently sufficient, if it is to maintain a viable economy, to make complete reparation for all such damage and suffering and at the same time meet its other obligations. Against this flawed settlement, the Asian nations who had suffered at the hands of Japan’s imperialism, could not speak loudly, for, involved as they often were in the final stages of struggle for independence or the early stages of state-formation, they were still powerless diplomatically and economically. Furthermore, the increased influence of the United States on the Far East, together with the diminished influence of Britain, gave Australia and New Zealand no choice but to go along with America’s policy on Japan, which was to embrace the former enemy as a firm anti-communist bulwark in East Asia.31 Nothing symbolizes and illustrates the swift evolution of that policy so well as the two reports on Japanese reparations, one submitted in 1946 to President Truman and the other in 1948 to the Secretary of the Army. The former report, compiled before the Cold War began to cast a shadow over the prospect of the post-Second World War cooperation, recommended that the Allied Powers ‘should take no actions to assist Japan in maintaining a standard of living higher than that of neighbouring Asiatic countries injured by Japanese aggression’, advising the removal of plants and the elimination, in some cases, of entire industries ‘in such a manner that Japan will no longer be able to control the economic life of neighbouring countries’. The report also reminded the President that the overall aim of the Allies ought to be the rehabilitation and strengthening of East Asia as a whole, so that Japan could not once again assume control or leadership there. However, in the latter report, filed when the tensions were already leading inexorably to a breakdown in relations between the USSR and its wartime partners, harsh prescriptions for post-war Japan were replaced by warnings that the removal of productive facilities would be injurious to the world economy.32 Step by step, therefore, the inescapable desirability of ensuring a stable and stalwart ally engendered a leniency on full display in the Peace Treaty. Having witnessed how Japan’s status changed to suit the exigencies of America’s national security, William Macmahon Ball, the Australian

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representative on the Allied Council for Japan, bitterly commented, ‘Seldom can a defeated nation have had such an important role allotted to it so soon after its defeat.’33 The lack of vindictiveness displayed by the victorious nations produced in Japan a belief that all was forgiven and forgotten. This belief has proven to be delusory, for every time a cabinet member or highranking politician is severely criticized for uttering comments downplaying the crimes committed by Japan in the past or approving of its colonial rule, the Japanese are reminded that their Asia neighbours find it difficult to forgive or forget. Yet, Japan still engages in inward-facing/outward-facing diplomacy, as instanced by the text of the resolution marking the sixtieth anniversary of the end of the Second World War, adopted by the Lower House of the Diet in August 2005. Conspicuous by their absence in the resolution were the words ‘aggression’ and ‘colonial rule’, deleted after rightwing politicians strongly objected to them. However, the two terms do appear in an English press release issued by the Embassy of Japan in the United States that reiterated Japan’s commitment to international peace and stability.34 AN OPTION NOT CHOSEN: A TRIAL OF THE JAPANESE, BY THE JAPANESE It is clear that Japan’s Janus-faced policy has allowed questions of war responsibility to remain unanswered, has discouraged the nation from squarely confronting and fully understanding the war crimes it committed (despite the wisdom of doing so and the benefits that would accrue therefrom), and has kept alive, through the post-war period, a profound sense of victimhood. However, it is fair to point out that if the Japanese have felt, and still feel, themselves victimized because of the way their leaders were treated at the Trial, they have on this point, to some extent, a valid argument to make. As has been shown, the Trial was rife with problems in its legal foundations, its procedures and its findings of facts. The attitude of the president of the Tribunal, Sir William Webb, toward counsel for the defence was, in the eyes of many observers, harsh, rude and insulting throughout.35 And as there appears to have been no rigid standard for sentencing, it naturally has given rise to the suspicion that punishments were imposed capriciously. Some critics of the Trial go even further, declaring that, as an instrument of power, not justice, it produced nothing but ‘politicized histories’,36 and that its paramount purpose was to indoctrinate the Japanese with the belief that the great pain and humiliation Japan suffered during and after the war was well deserved. The Japanese insistence on seeing themselves as victims of injustice went unchallenged for a few decades after the verdict was announced, owing to the unstable political, social and economic conditions in Asia. In the case of Germany, its post-war reconstruction would not have

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been possible without the cooperation, and rapidly rebuilding markets, of the countries it had conquered (or had sought to). Under the circumstances, it was quite natural that an admission of guilt would become a high priority in its post-war agenda. By contrast, unstinting and unsolicited economic assistance from the US, virtually the sole occupation force, obviated the necessity for Japan to pursue friendly relations with its former conquests in order to assure its revival. Furthermore, for long after the war, many Asian nations suffered under oppressive dictatorial regimes, which discouraged or prohibited their subjects from speaking out for their right to seek redress. Japan conveniently interpreted the silence of the vox populi to mean that that voice did not wish to speak. In hindsight, what the Allies could have done that might have forestalled accusations of ‘victors’ justice’ in the future was to nominate a Japanese judge and prosecutor, an option that was actually contemplated by the United States, on the grounds that, according to Article 2 of the IMTFE Charter, members of the Tribunal were to be appointed ‘from the names submitted by the Signatories to the Instrument of Surrender’, and that Japan itself was one of the signatories. As expected, however, the idea of the Japanese government joining with the Allies in bringing charges against Japanese war criminals was, owing to the sentiments prevalent in the immediate post-war period, totally unacceptable to the other participating nations. The United Kingdom, for one, considered it to be ‘most undesirable’, because the US proposal would give the impression that ‘Japan is an innocent and, in fact, a wronged party.’37 Even though the US scenario was not played out at the Trial, there would have been ample opportunity after the signing of the Peace Treaty for the Japanese to convene criminal trials for the prosecution of war criminals in the lesser category. Such domestic trials by the Japanese themselves would have discredited once and for all the claim of ‘victors’ justice’. In Germany, the main Nuremberg Trial (The International Military Tribunal) was followed not only by twelve US military tribunals (and comparable trials held by the other occupying powers) whose purpose was to try lower-ranking members of the Nazi apparatus, but also by domestic trials dealing with Auschwitz, Majdanek and all kinds of war crimes. In Japan, unfortunately, fear of further exposure of the corruption that had sent deep roots into the political and economic spheres induced the government to quash any attempt to convene follow-up domestic trials.38 Nor did public opinion call for such an initiative, with the whole nation satisfied that the renunciation of war written into Japan’s new ‘Peace Constitution’ cancelled out all past sins. CONCLUSION Certainly, the popular conviction that the Trial was nothing but a political showcase, used by the Allies to quench their thirst for revenge, is not totally unfounded. However, to dismiss the Tribunal as merely an

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exercise of malice, yielding no useful historical lessons or juridical precedents, would be to throw the baby out with the bath water. After all, as E.H. Norman pointed out, the documents submitted and testimonies given would become a goldmine of information for the study of modern Japanese history.39 As for the legal soundness of the Trial, while it is not in dispute that there were applications of ex post facto law, neither is it in doubt that the Tokyo Judgement, together with its European counterpart, the Nuremberg Judgement, compensated for this defect by serving as a landmark in the evolution of international jurisprudence that firmly established the legal basis, the precedent, for that which had hitherto been impossible: punishing individuals who had directed the actions, or acted in the name of their country. Kaino– Michitaka, a defence lawyer who represented General Suzuki Teiichi, wrote several years after the Trial that what is important is not to enquire if it was conducted in accordance with existing laws but to ask whether (1) there had emerged, by its conclusion, the conditions, domestically and internationally, for its acceptance as a reasonable, rational judicial process, or (2) whether its carrying out engendered an absurd and incongruous state of affairs in international jurisprudence.40 In conclusion, it would be fitting to quote remarks made by the historian Kitaoka Shin’ichi at the closing of the Tokyo War Crimes Symposium in 1996: It was not an easy task to restore peace among nations that fought a devastating war and sustained heavy casualties. To reconstruct peace and trust among these war-torn nations, the punishment had to be administered on behalf of a cause which would have the power to persuade not only the victors but also the vanquished. Otherwise, the trial could not hope to lay the foundation for a permanent international order. Seen from this viewpoint, the Tokyo Trial may be best understood as a colossal event in international politics that aimed at carrying out a dramatic change from war to peace. And it is in this aspect of the Tokyo War Crimes Trial that one can find its utmost significance.41 NOTES Research for this paper was supported in part by the Georgia State University Summer Research Grant 2005. Valuable comments and suggestions were made for the earlier versions of this manuscript by Awaya Kentaro–, Douglas Reynolds, Sugita Yoneyuki and Yoshida Yutaka. I am also grateful to Sven Saaler, who maintained close communication with me regarding the revision. Finally, I am indebted to Mark Katz and Kramer Peterson, who did the editing for me with great dispatch and competence.

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Remembering the War Crimes Trial 1

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The Tokyo Trial was in session much longer (417 days), subpoenaed more witnesses (419), and accepted more affidavits (779) than the Nuremberg Trial. International Military Tribunal for the Far East (IMTFE), ‘Judgement,’ in R. John Pritchard and Sonia Zaide (eds), The Tokyo War Crimes Trial, vol. 20 (NewYork: Garland Publishing, 1948), p. 48425; About the circumstances surrounding the death of one of them, Nagano Osami, see John Ginn, Sugamo Prison ( Jefferson, N.C.: McFarland, 1992), p. 25. Strictly speaking, however, Article 227 of the Treaty of Versailles preceded the Nuremberg and Tokyo Charters in spelling out the responsibility for a ‘supreme offence against international morality and the sanctity of treaties’ (i.e. aggression). The notion of a ‘Crime against Humanity’, a term coined by Russian Foreign Minister Sergei Sazonov during the First World War, too had already found expression in nascent form in the formal British, French and Russian condemnation, in May 1915, of the Ottoman Empire for its massacre of the Armenians. See Gary Bass, Stay the Hand of Vengeance (Princeton University Press, 2000), pp. 114–17. In this paper, the term ‘SCAP’ refers to General Douglas MacArthur and his administrative organization. Solis Horwitz, ‘The Tokyo Trial’, in International Conciliation 465 (1950), p. 475; Letter from B.V.A Röling to Arnold Brackman, 20 Sept 1982, Arnold C. Brackman Papers, Howard Gotlieb Archival Research Centre, Boston University. IMTFE, ‘Judgement,’ pp. 48410–12; John Brownlee, ‘The Tokyo Trial Fifty Years Later,’ in: Hugh Millward and James Morrison (eds), Japan at Century’s End (Halifax: Fernwood, 1997), p. 16. ‘Japanese Believe Tojo’s Plea Sound’, The New York Times, 30 December 1947. Though it is important to note the remark made by the author Yasuoka Sho–taro– that even complete, real-time coverage of the Rape of Nanjing might have been seen at the time it was occurring as nothing more than depictions of enemy corpses piled high, positive outcomes of the war meant to cause jubilation rather than nausea. Yasuoka Sho–taro–, Boku no Sho–washi (Tokyo: Shincho– Bunko, 2005), p. 73. Ian Buruma, Wages of Guilt (New York: Farrar Straus Giroux, 1994), p. 161. Arai Shin’ichi, Gendaishi ni okeru Ajia (Tokyo: Aoki Shoten, 1977). One of the majority justices, the Filipino judge, submitted a concurring opinion. Higurashi Yoshinobu, Tokyo saiban no kokusai kankei (Tokyo: Mokutakusha, 2002), p. 429. Memorandum to All Members, 18 March 1948, Arnold C. Brackman Papers, Howard Gotlieb Archival Research Centre, Boston University. IMTFE, ‘Judgement’ (1948), pp. 48512(a)–49007. Ibid. p. 48514. Article 11 of the Constitution of the Empire of Japan.

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Memory in Politics and International Relations Herbert Bix, Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan (New York: Harper Collins, 2000), pp. 154–5; Inoue Kiyoshi, Tenno– no senso– sekinin (Tokyo: Gendai Hyo–ronsha, 1975), pp. 9–10. IMTFE, ‘Judgement’, pp. 49497A–8, 49522–4, 49548–9. On page 49,522 of the Judgement used the phrase, ‘because of the practice governing the relationship between the War Ministry and the General Staff’. Actually, there was nothing that governed the relationship between these two organs except for the emperor as they were independently dominated by him. E.H. Norman, ‘Observation on the Trial of War Criminals in Japan,’ in External Affairs 1.2 (1949), p. 18. Yamada Akira even goes so far as to imply that the emperor was as expansionist as the Army, but less obviously so; Yamada Akira, Sho–wa Tenno– no gunji shiso– to senryaku (Asakura Shobo–, 2002), pp. 354–5. Ibid. p. 19 (emphasis in the orginal). Sandra Wilson, ‘Bridging the Gaps: New Views of Japanese Colonialism, – no danso– o kakyo– suru mono’), in 1931–45’ ( Japanese title: ‘Rekishikenkyu – Nenp o Nihon Gendaishi, vol. 10 (2005), pp. 211–28, here pp. 214–19; Rana Mitter, ‘Evil Empire? Competing Constructions of Japanese Imperialism in Manchuria, 1928–1937’, in Narangoa Li and Robert Cribb (eds), Imperial Japan and National Identities in Asia, 1895–1945 (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003); Prasenjit Duara, Sovereignty and Authenticity (Lanham and Oxford: Rowman & Littlefield, 2003). Suk-Jung Han, ‘Imitating the Colonizers: The Legacy of the Disciplining State from Manchukuo to South Korea’, in Narangoa Li and Robert Cribb (eds), Imperial Japan and National Identities in Asia, 1895–1945 (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003), p. 14. Yoshida Yutaka, Nihonjin no senso–-kan (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2005), pp. 85–115. Ezra Vogel, ‘The 21st Century with an Eye to the Past’, in Harvard Asia Pacific Review, vol. 4.2 (2000). For instance, on page 48,451 of the majority judgement, there is a phrase ‘the judgement of the Tribunal of the 17th of May 1946’, which refers to the bench’s decision to dismiss the defence motion regarding jurisdiction. I am grateful to Professor Gabriel Wilner of the University of Georgia Law School for clarification of this term. Preface to Treaty of Peace with Japan, 8 September 1951. Yoshida Yutaka, Gendai rekishigaku to senso– sekinin (Tokyo: Aoki Shoten, 1997), pp. 171–2. See also Stanley Metzger, ‘The Liberal Japanese Peace Treaty’, in Cornell Law Quarterly 37 (1952). Edwin W. Pauley, Report on Japanese Reparations, 1946; Overseas Consultant, Inc., Report on Industrial Reparations Survey of Japan, 1948. Sugita Yoneyuki, Pitfall or Panacea? The Irony of U.S. Power in Occupied Japan, 1945–1952 (London and New York: Routledge, 2003), pp. 29–47;

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Meirion and Susie Harries, Sheathing the Sword (New York: Macmillan, 1987), p. 194. Japan: Path of 60 Years as a Nation Striving for Peace, Embassy of Japan, 18 July 2005. John Appleman, Military Tribunals and International Crimes (Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1954), pp. 243–6. Buruma, Wages of Guilt, p. 166. Telegram from the Secretary of State for Dominion Affairs, London. 7 March 1946. RG 25/Volume 2641/File 4060-C-40/Part 2. National Archives of Canada; Awaya Kentaro– et. al, Senso– sekinin, sengo sekinin, (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha, 1994), pp. 81–4. Kaino– Michitaka, ‘Senso– saiban no ho–ritsu riron’, in Rekishi Hy o–ron 3.6 (1948), pp. 22–3. Norman, E. H. ‘Observation on the Trial of War Criminals in Japan’, pp. 15–16. – Michitaka, ‘Tokyo saiban, sono go’, in Shiso– ( June 1953), p. 23; Kaino – – , Tokyo saiban-ron (Tokyo: O Awaya Kentaro tsuki Shoten, 1989), pp. 276–8. Igarashi Takeshi and Kitaoka Shin’ichi (eds), Tokyo saiban to wa nan datta no ka? (Tokyo: Tsukiji Shokan, 1997), p. 238 (author’s translation).

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6

Historical Memory and Shiba Ryo–taro–: Remembering Russia, Creating Japan ALEXANDER BUKH

INTRODUCTION

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his chapter explores the historical narrative on Japan and Russia in the works of the novelist Shiba Ryo–taro–, whose writings have had unrivalled influence on the development of contemporary Japan’s historical narrative. Historical narrative has a broader meaning than ‘history’ – it is a particular understanding of the national past, which emphasizes certain events over others, but also provides interpretations and evaluations of those events. Historical narrative plays a vital role in the construction of national memory.1 Unlike the memory of individuals, the collective memory of a nation is rarely based on direct experience of the whole population or even a large part of it. There can be no doubt that national memory is related to certain events and experiences of certain individuals or groups that occurred in the past. However, in order for these events to become genuinely national, i.e. shared by a large part of the national community and related to the present, these events are recreated and reinterpreted through museums, monuments, works of art, but also through historical narratives, which are present in texts such as school textbooks, historical novels and memoirs. Collective memory of the national past is an integral part of the national present, or of the present national identity. A particular construction of the past provides a link between the present and the future and creates a certain cognitive lens through which the nation is imagined by the members of the present national community.2 The role of poets, writers and artists in the construction of national memory (and hence, the national identity) and as producers of narratives

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that are likely to evoke nostalgic feelings, has been an integral part of the general discussion of nationalism.3 As Edward Said has demonstrated in his celebrated Orientalism and Culture and Imperialism,4 literature plays an important role in the formation and reproduction of the identity discourse and can be an integral part of ‘historical memory’. ‘Literature’ has always been related to other kinds of discourses, some of which were used to define national identity and engaged in the process of writing the ‘nation’ against other nations and forms of imagined communities.5 This paper argues that Shiba’s literary accounts of Russian history and Russo-Japanese relations, just like other academic works on Russian national character that emerged in Japan in the 1980s and 1990s, have created a hierarchical relationship between the two national identities. Through internalization of the Western ‘othering’ discourse6 on Russia, which depicted her as abnormal and inferior to the ‘normal West’, Shiba has attempted to create a place for Japan within the realm of ‘universal normalcy’. – Shiba, born in Osaka in 1923 as Fukuda Tei’ichi, majored in Mongolian – studies at the Osaka University of Foreign Languages and served in an Imperial Army tank division in Manchuria during the last two years of the war. After the war he worked for a few years as a newspaper reporter, while also writing fiction. After receiving the prestigious Naoki Prize in literature for his novel Owl’s Castle in 1961, he retired from his job at the daily newspaper Sankei Shinbun and became a full-time novelist. From then on, Shiba devoted himself to writing historical novels (rekishi sho–setsu) and became probably the most widely read Japanese writer of the historical novel genre till the present day. His works, including historical novels, essays, travel writings and conversations are still widely read. As of 2005, the 600 books, which carry Shiba’s name as their author or co-author, have sold over one hundred and eighty million copies.7 Shiba has written on a variety of subjects but in one way or another, all of his works were related to Japan’s national past or present. Even when Shiba was writing about a different country, the actual narrative has been about Japan.8 Shiba’s essays have been published (and re-published) in the most popular magazines and two of his historical novels, one related to the Russo-Japanese War 1904–05 and the other to the Meiji Restoration (Meiji ishin) of 1868, are all-time bestsellers.9 In 1999, one of them, entitled The Cloud on Top of the Hill, which deals with the history of the Russo-Japanese War 1904–05, was chosen by the readers of the popular magazine Bungei Shunjû as the most valuable book to be left for the future from all the books written in the twentieth century and was chosen to be the best historical book on Japan by the ‘representatives of the intelligentsia’.10 Shiba’s works have become a source of inspiration to many politicians and important public figures, and have been quoted in Diet policy speeches by at least two Prime Ministers.11

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It would be no exaggeration to argue that Shiba’s view of Japan’s history is shared by a large part of the population, especially those that reached maturity during the 1970s and 1980s, when Shiba’s popularity was at its peak. As Japanese school history textbooks present little more than a limited number of dry facts, it can be plausibly argued that Shiba’s books have become one of the main sources of historical knowledge and historical consciousness12 – in spite of occasional calls by himself and of other writers to consider his works as literary fiction.13 Many Japanese would also concur with the characterization of Shiba as a ‘leader of civilization’ that was bestowed upon him by another prominent writer.14 For the last two decades, Shiba has been the ultimate point of reference in numerous public discussions related to Japan’s national past, present and future, and his influence cuts across political affiliations. Shiba’s ideas and perceptions of Japan’s history have been juxtaposed with those of the celebrated Maruyama Masao, as the ‘rescuer’ of Japanese history from the negative and critical view of the latter. However, Shiba cannot be classified as a conservative in the conventional meaning of the term in the Japanese context, as his views on the period in Japan’s history between the Russo-Japanese War and the defeat in the Pacific War 1945 were highly critical.15 Surprisingly, in spite of the obvious influence of Shiba’s writings on Japanese society, his works have so far been denied the scholarly attention they warrant from both domestic and international scholarship.16 Probably the length of Shiba’s novels (for example, The Cloud on Top of the Hill consists of eight volumes) and the absence of English translations of his most important works17 have contributed to this lack of attention. At the same time, the search for the sophisticated and exotic, and the rigid inter-disciplinary border delimitations that leave literature beyond the reach of political and historical inquiry, have probably been the most important factors that have kept Shiba and his works in the waiting room of the broadly defined discipline of Japanese studies. SHIBA’S ‘HISTORY’ A much more famous and internationally acclaimed master of the historical novel, Leo Tolstoy, denied the possibility of scientifically rational inquiry into history and the ability of individuals to fully understand the course of events.18 Unlike Tolstoy, Shiba has firmly believed in the objective historical inquiry, which, if not tainted by any ideological biases, can achieve the goal of retrieving the truth. Shiba has persistently criticized the usage of various ideological ‘tools’ in understanding Japanese history, and was promoting what he called a ‘hand digging enquiry’ into history, meaning an objective search for history as it was, unaffected by any pre-conceived ideas. He explicitly rejected the validity of such subjective and value laden terms as ‘justice’ and prefers the objective ‘realism’ or search for objective facts.19

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For Shiba, ‘ideology’ has been an anathema, which he equated with alcohol, as it provides nothing more than illusions to those who indulge in it.20 Ideology has been seen as the source of illusions not only in historical inquiry, but also in politics. Shiba has argued that the Japanese state has abandoned political realism, which developed in the Edo period (1603–1867) and gained momentum in the aftermath of the Meiji Restoration of 1868. The departure occurred in the aftermath of the Russo-Japanese War and the replacement of realism with dogmatic ideology was seen by Shiba as the main reason for the disastrous adventures of Japanese militarism and subsequent defeat in the Pacific War.21 Ironically, like Maruyama, who has engaged in an extensive critique of Japan’s historical development, Shiba, the ‘rescuer’ of Japanese history, has also idealized the ‘West’, mainly for its adherence to realism. Unlike the Japanese, Shiba once noted, the Europeans have had the realism implanted in them since ancient Greece and this has been one of the main reasons for Western success.22 Neither Shiba nor Maruyama, both of whom reflect negatively on the era of Japan’s militarism, have ever bothered to engage the question of whether one should interpret the disastrous European wars of the twentieth century (or one could easily expand the scope to the last two millennia) as a departure from the ‘original form’ (explained below) or as an integral part of the ‘European rationality’. Shiba has never provided a clear definition of the term ‘original form’ (genkei), which he used quite often in his writings as applied to a nation. However, it can be derived from his numerous speeches and essays on the topic that the ‘original form’ stands for a certain set of national characteristics that were acquired at the time of the initial ‘nation building’ that throughout the subsequent history have continuously shaped and influenced the social, political and economic aspects of the respective nations.23 Shiba’s ‘original form’ bears a striking resemblance to Maruyama’s basso ostinato or the continuous body of attitudes and values firmly rooted in the Japanese society and persistently influencing its development. However, unlike the critical Maruyama, who perceived the era of war, fascism and militarism as a logical continuation of Japanese history, Shiba has criticized the same period as a deviation from the ‘normal’ course. Shiba has admired the scientific method and objectivity, which he has found in Edo (1603–1867) and Meiji (1868–1912) Japan and compared these periods favourably to the ‘egocentric’ Sho–wa era, during which the Japanese have become too ‘Germanized’.24 Shiba argued that the Meiji Restoration (or Meiji Renovation), unlike the French or the Russian revolutions that benefited a certain class, created a totally egalitarian society through a process during which all the previously existing classes have gone through a painful process of readjustment. All this happened in order to create a modern nation-state and to prevent Japan from turning into a colony.25 However, this process has

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been destroyed by the dogmatism of the Sho–wa era (1926–89) and led to the shameful defeat in the Pacific War in 1945. Notwithstanding his admiration of the West, Shiba has dedicated himself to Japan’s history and culture. He has been fascinated with the unique and continuous way of Japan’s historical path, which has never been governed by any ideology, be it Buddhism, Confucianism or Marxism.26 According to Shiba, all these dogmatic ideologies came from outside of Japan and never managed to penetrate the society, remaining only on the surface in the form of philosophical inquiry or ‘writings’ (shomotsu).27 For Shiba, the true Japan has always been ruled by political realism (in the context of the state meaning non-ideological assessment of national interests and state’s power) and most of his works are dedicated to uncovering this cultural thread. ‘Realism’ had been an obsession for Shiba. As mentioned above, at times, Shiba has referred to his writings as literary fiction. However, he has also perceived himself28 and, more importantly, has been perceived by numerous others to be an impartial observer. While adding some ‘flowers’ to the narrative, Shiba is really looking at history from the position of an objective observer.29 Donald Keene, one of the leading Western specialists on Japanese literature, has also commented that Shiba’s writings are based on proper historical facts.30 While at times commentators conceded that some historical facts might be omitted or changed, Shiba’s narrative was generally perceived as not tainted by any ideology but shaped purely by aesthetics.31 One of the leading Japanese scholars on Russia has described Shiba’s approach to history in general and to Russia in particular, as being characterized by ‘political realism’, defined as a search for truth without any ideological or emotional biases.32 It can be argued that this perception of Shiba’s writings is widely shared by the general audience as well. The list of comments on Shiba’s writings on Russia on the Japanese website of Amazon.com and Yahoo Japan reveals that all the commentators approach his works as a ‘proper’ historical narrative, but not fiction.33 THE TEXTS AND THE ARGUMENT This section examines the historical narrative in Shiba’s writings on Russia, drawing mainly on the collection of essays titled On Russia – The Original Form of the North34 originally published in 1986 and for which he received the prestigious Yomiuri Prize for Literature the following year. This collection of essays, as Shiba himself states in the Introduction is the crystallization of his perception of Russia that has developed over the years, while writing the popular The Cloud on Top of the Hill and The Open Sea of Rape Blossoms.35 This chapter also draws on other articles and interviews published by Shiba during his life and after his death in books and popular journals where some of the relevant arguments are further developed and clarified.

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As it will be shown below, Shiba’s writings engage in a creation of a hierarchical binary relationship between Japan and Russia. In spite of claims for a unique national identity and a uniquely Japanese perception of Russia, the discourse is constructed by using the dichotomies, perceptions and values that have been an integral part of the Western ‘policy of othering’ and have been an integral part of the Western discourse on the Russian ‘other’.36 In this sense, Shiba’s identity discourse is rather similar to the construction of the Asian values debate which emerged in the 1990s. As one of the leading Japanese scholars observed, the proponents of distinctly Asian values actually use the same concepts that represent the ‘Western intellectual hegemony’ and construct Asian uniqueness through an argument ‘tainted by the spell of Orientalism’.37 This interpretation contradicts the popular claim that the various ambiguities and contradictions that are often visible in Japan’s identity discourse are the result of the fusion of the ‘Eastern’ and the ‘Western’ elements. As will be shown below, these contradictions do not stem from the ambiguous nature of Japan’s identity. Here they are interpreted as the result of applying the Western ‘othering’ discourse to the ‘self’ and the ‘other’ to a nation that has developed in completely different historical and geopolitical circumstances. Furthermore, it is applied to a nation, which has been (and still is) ‘othered’ in the Western discourse using the same techniques. However, the result is a hierarchical construction of the self and the other, in which the self represents the universal and the superior. Another important argument made in this chapter, is that the discourse on Russia is not just an ‘othering’ discourse regarding an external other or, as often claimed, simply an objective reflection on the history of numerous conflicts between the two nations.38 Shiba’s narrative ‘rescues’ Japan from the shadows of its negative history and provides a reassurance to the domestic audience about the peaceful and superior nature of the Japanese nation. Here this task is achieved not only through the othering of Russia, but also through a suppression of discourse on another important other in the construction of the Japanese nation – the native inhabitants of Northern Japan, the Ainu. SHIBA’S RUSSIA AND JAPAN Constructing Japan’s Universalism Like one of the prominent academics, Hakamada Shigeki, who appeals to the culturally relative basis of social inquiry and to the uniquely Japanese understanding of Russia which complements the Western view,39 Shiba also emphasizes the difference in perceptions of Russia as seen from Europe and as seen from Asia, where he locates his own (Japanese) perceptions. He does not contradict the European view but believes that both of the views complement each other, and combined,

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should provide the complete picture, constituting the whole body of truth.40 In general, the construction of the discourse in On Russia – The Original Form of the North is rather simple. Most of the book is a series of descriptions of the Russian conquest of Siberia, Russian exploitation of the local population and resources, and Russian attempts to establish trade relations with Japan with some reference to the Russians suffering under the Mongol ‘yoke’ and much more under their own rulers. These descriptions are occasionally interrupted with what Shiba has called ‘idle talk’ interventions. The interventions provide snapshots of Edo Japan (1603–1867) as a tool of comparison of Russian history with the state of affairs in Japan in the parallel period. By using this technique, Shiba smartly exploits his position as an amateur and ‘not a professional historian’41 to provide the reader with contrasting comparisons of the Japanese ‘self’ and the Russian ‘other’. The ‘snapshots’ of Edo Japan are mostly positive in the normative sense. For Shiba, Edo Japan, while not being built on the principle of a ‘social contract’ but rather through a policy of ‘taming the human beasts’, still represents the uniquely positive society where stability and peace have prevailed.42 A passage that talks about the needle and lacquer ware trade between the Ainu, natives of Kamchatka, the Kurile Islands and Hokkaido–, and the Japanese seems to be the best example of this strategy. At first reading it seems to be a random thought rather out of place in the narrative. However, this passage intervenes into a story of conquests, greed and oppression that characterized the Russian relations with the natives, and provides a striking contrast by emphasizing the peaceful nature of Japan’s historical interactions with the Ainu.43 Another juxtaposition of the two nations, done through an indirect comparison of both nations’ navies is structured in a similar way. Shiba discusses the Russo-American Company in a very detailed fashion, he describes the non-professional nature of the sailors and the cruel conditions that they worked under.44 This description is preceded by a narrative on the Japanese merchant navy of the same period, and mostly devoted to describing the positive role it has played in the economy of Edo Japan.45 Jingoism and expansionism are presented as the main national characteristics of Russia. The historical continuity between tsarist Russia and the USSR is affirmed by emphasizing the persistently expansionist nature of the Russian nation46 and the similarities of her leaders such as Stalin, Lenin and Ivan the Terrible, all of whom believed in the supreme value of military power in providing security for Russia.47 Like the conservative academic writings on Russian national character48 Shiba also notes a continuous Russian perception that any domestic or international problem can be solved by military force.49 The origins of these national characteristics are traced to the Mongolian influence on the formation of the Russian state and nation in

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the sixteenth century.50 Here, Shiba’s narrative repeats the socio-medical discourse of differentiation or the normal/pathological dichotomy, which has constituted one of the main modes of constructing difference in the Western discourse on the ‘self’ and the ‘other’.51 Russia is depicted as exhibiting a pathological deviation from normalcy. Hence the ‘abnormal fear’ of foreign invasion, the ‘pathological suspicion’ of other states and the potential ‘lust of conquest and an abnormal belief’ in military force, are noted by Shiba to be the cultural genes that constitute Russia and emerged as a result of the rule of (the Mongolian) Kipchak Khan and the prolonged Russian subordination to this rule.52 Contrasted with Russia’s pathologies, Japan, according to Shiba, also has a ‘culturally genetic’ fear of Russia. However, in the case of Japan, this ‘illness’ is historically justified as it has originated from the actual experience of the cruel and mercantile policies of the Russo-American Company towards its own workers and the natives.53 The main Russian interest in Japan (and China) that has been consistent since the seventeenth century up to the present day is the supply of food provisions that has been needed in order to ease the development of Siberia. Shiba explains the lack of interest in Japanese and Chinese territory solely by the inability of imperial Russia to engage in military conquests in such distant places. The reason for ‘clinging’ to and ‘abducting’ Siberia was the easiness of conquering a land with small, scattered and non-unified communities of natives. Shiba sees the same policy of using the weakness of the locals in Russian expansion to the West as well.54 Unlike Russian’s ruthless and cynical expansionism, militarism and pathological fear of invasion, Japan’s ‘original form’, which has survived until the present day, is a somewhat childish ‘pacifism’. Just like Edo Japan which had no arms and required all foreign ships to submit their gunpowder, contemporary Japan shares a similar attitude to nuclear weapons.55 Edo Japan is portrayed as an exquisite and sophisticated ‘maritime civilization’ in which the gap between the poor and the rich was much smaller than in neighbouring China, India and other Asian countries.56 Furthermore, Shiba notes that the mercantilist economy of the Edo period was not only an advanced economic system but also influenced the development of objective and advanced scientific thinking. As proof Shiba brings the example of Kudo– Heisuke (1734–1800), the first Japanese scholar who wrote on Russia and who is classified by Shiba the typical scientist of the second half of the Edo period. The superior nature of this society, based on a mercantilist economy further emphasized by the societal ability to evaluate ‘things’ and knowledge, based not only on the subjective perception but also through a comparative analysis.57 The belief in the supreme value of commerce is also visible in Shiba’s argument that establishing trade relations with the Russian Far East in the eighteenth century would have helped to avoid in the future

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the mutually suspicious and complicated situations between Russia on the one side and Edo Japan (actually Matsumae fiefdom) on the other.58 The Japanese medieval economy is portrayed by Shiba as basically functioning through a market mechanism with a complex distribution network that enabled commodities from various parts of Japan to circulate all through the country and the society having an almost universal literacy rate. Shiba explains that as the result of a market economy the society of Edo Japan was dominated by humanism, rationalism and rejection of religious authority. In Shiba’s discourse, these concepts are not products of the Enlightenment and imported from the West during the period of modernization, but inherently Japanese values, an integral part of the Japanese ‘original form’. Unfortunately, the victory in the Russo-Japanese War 1904–05 resulted in the ‘original form’ being disfigured and transformed into the monstrous ‘Japanese modernity’ which is a ‘not Japan’ (Nihon de wa nai). This period of deviation from Japan’s normality, during the period of forty years between the Russo-Japanese War and the defeat in the Pacific War 1945 is considered as the ‘occupation of Japan by the military’.59 Here Shiba again saves the national history from criticism by shifting the responsibility for these years from ‘Japan’ as a nation to the military, considered to be outside of the normal ‘Japan’. In spite of claims for a unique Japanese view of Russia, Shiba’s construction of Russia and Japan, in its creation of Japan’s normality, replicates the ‘traditional’ European identity discourse on Russia. This discourse has continued to dominate the European discourse in one form or another until at least the twentieth century60 and is still present in a number of Western writings on post-Soviet Russia.61 Ironically, Marx and Engels – whose ideology Shiba, along with other Japanese cultural determinists, loathed and vigorously denied its applicability to Japan62 – also shared the perception of Russia as an economically and socially backward ‘barbarous power’.63 The construction of Russia in Shiba’s discourse repeats almost pedantically this construction including the doubts regarding the Russian ability to depart from its barbaric state and to achieve civilization through internalizing the values of the European (universal, in the case of Japan) civilization. Furthermore, the Enlightenment based dichotomy of Russia as composed of ‘body and nature’ compared to the European ‘mind and civilization’64 is also repeated with Japan replacing Europe as the civilized, the rational and the cultural. Obviously, an application of the Western ‘othering’ discourse to a nation, which herself has been subject to Western practices of difference and which historically and geographically has been located outside of it, is bound to result in tensions and contradictions within the construct. Shiba, who strives to create Japan’s unique superiority on any occasion, is forced into self-contradictions when he conducts his ‘hand digging’ search for European Enlightenment in Japan’s history. On one

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hand, as has been shown above, the reader is presented with a medieval Japanese society that was egalitarian, mercantile, scientifically advanced and had a functioning market economy. At the same time, elsewhere, Shiba admits that modernity was introduced to Japan during the years after the Meiji Restoration in the second half of the nineteenth century65 and by this renders meaningless the implied modernity of pre-Meiji Japan. The Asian Japan Another element Shiba frequently borrows from European discourse on Russia is the notion of race and the dichotomy civilization vs. barbarism. The conception of Russia as the ‘barbarian Asian’ occupies an important place in Western discourse66 and has also been used in the Japanese academic depiction of Russian national character, where, wisely enough, the question of whether or not Japan should be considered to be an Asian nation is avoided by limiting the narrative to Russia.67 As in the Western discourse on Russia, Shiba also traces not only the abnormal fear of foreign invasion, but also the pathological suspicion of other states and potential lust of conquest and the belief in the supreme value of military force to be the ‘cultural genes’ left by the rule of the Mongols.68 However, a few pages further in the text and elsewhere, the Asian/Mongol other becomes conflated with the Japanese ‘self’, now serving the purpose of constructing Japan’s superiority. Shiba shows admiration to the ‘magnificent’ culture of the natives of Siberia69 and for their bravery in fighting the Russian colonizers.70 This is not an admiration of the ‘other’ or of a noble savage, as Shiba creates a conflation of this civilization with Japan through identifying it as the ‘civilizational ancestor’ of the Japanese, by providing a description of similar religious rites71 and similar physical features.72 Shiba describes the Asian superiority over Russia with a barely hidden pride, by emphasizing that only 10,000 Mongols (who looked like ‘us’) ruled the entire, vast Russian territory.73 Shiba continues to deepen the identification of the Japanese ‘self’ with the Mongols, by noting that the Japanese facial features are similar to those of the Kipchak (Batu) Khan aristocracy – the former conquerors and rulers of Russia. He goes even further in his attempt to present the persistent superiority of the ‘self’ and observes that even the rulers of modern Russia look like the Asian ‘us’, as seen in examples of Stalin (who was of course, of Georgian origin) and the former Prime Minister of Russian Viktor Chernomyrdin.74 The West as the Standard of Normalcy The ‘West’ is continuously present in Shiba’s discourse, not only as the silent supplier of the tools for the construction of the discourse, but also as the explicit yardstick for measuring the level of civilization. Russian

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history, juxtaposed with the West, is placed within the realm of universal inferiority. Shiba notes that at the time Europe was experiencing the ‘blooming’ of the Renaissance, in Russia, the Mongols were destroying urban culture. He also emphasizes that even if the ideas of the Renaissance would have reached Russia, it would have been impossible for them to adopt such a ‘mature system of thought’.75 While continuously stressing the unique nature of Japan’s civilization, Japan is allocated a place within the Western course of development and modernization. For example, it is noted that while Russia has suffered under the Mongolian yoke, both Japan and the West have undergone important socio-cultural developments that ‘prepared’ them for modernity.76 Russia, on the other hand, is negatively contrasted with the West. Russia’s system of serfdom is described as of a more cruel nature than its European equivalent. Russia’s pre-revolutionary socio-political structure, consisting only of the tsar and the serfs, is depicted as way more simplistic than the ‘complex’ Western one.77 Russia’s ‘youthfulness’ as a nation is perceived to be one of the reasons for its ferocious roughness and is contrasted with ‘old nations’ like France. There, notes Shiba, the original barbarian spirit tends to be diluted.78 Probably for the same reason, the relative ‘oldness’ of Japan as a nation is emphasized throughout the book. The only instance where Russia is located within the West is in the negative context of European colonialism and the Russian conquest of Siberia. The significance of Yermak, the conqueror of Siberia, is compared to Columbus79 and the colonization of Siberia is compared to European colonialism in the fifteenth to seventeenth centuries.80 The process of Russian modernization/Westernization that started in the eighteenth century is positively evaluated and Shiba respectfully notes the Europeanization of the high culture.81 At the same time, he is quick to remind the reader that this process involved only the Russian aristocracy, while ninety per cent of the population continued to carry the ‘original form’ of the ‘barbarian nomads’.82 As in the case of Japan, whose possible alterations of the superior ‘original form’ are denied by placing the negativity solely in the military, Russian mobility as a nation is denied by locating the ‘modernization’ only in the small minority of the aristocracy. Occasionally Russian and Japanese similarities are underlined in order to emphasize the hierarchical difference. For example, Shiba notes that in the sixteenth century in both Japan and in Russia the process of national unification took place. Furthermore, the usage of cannon fire and the new strategy to defeat horse riding warriors was used for the first time almost simultaneously both by the Russians in their campaign against the Siberian Khan and in Japan by Oda Nobunaga.83 However, here the similarity gives way to difference. While in Russia the ‘unification’ gave birth to the dictatorship of Ivan the Terrible, in Japan the previously mentioned ‘exquisite and sophisticated’ Edo period began. Two

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centuries later, when Russia was still heavily influenced by the barbarian style of the nomads, Edo period Japan had already embraced the modern ‘principles of commerce’.84 One could suggest that the hierarchical dichotomies and the practices of difference that we tend to associate with Enlightenment and further Western developments have simultaneously and independently developed also in Japan. However, a glimpse into the ‘othering’ discourse that existed in pre-Meji Japan, i.e. before the exposure to and the incorporation of Western paradigms of modernity, shows this proposition to be wrong. While the creation of hierarchical differences between the ‘self’ and the ‘other’ has existed, the dichotomies employed were of a completely different nature. The pre-Meiji discourse on the Ainu serves as a good example of ‘premodern’ policies of othering. The ‘Japanese’ (more precisely, wajin) superiority over the ‘barbarism’ of Ainu, the natives of what is now northern Japan, was based on the framework provided by the Chinese worldview of normality. The hierarchical nature of the construction of the self and the other is similar to the European discourse in stipulating the civilized and the barbarian. However, the discourse has relied on such factors as the existence of a common written language and the moral superiority of the Japanese derived from their adherence to Confucianism. Furthermore, different customs of eating (for example eating birds and meat meant barbarism), dressing (for example, the fact that Ainu tied their garments on the left side), hairstyles, the custom of wearing earrings and no knowledge of the five grains (rice, millet, barley, wheat and soybeans) by the Ainu were instrumentalized to construct Japanese superiority.85 The Ainu As already mentioned, in the context of the Ainu, the narration of the Japanese ‘self’ vis-à-vis the Russian ‘other’ based on the European model serves another important role in the construction of national identity in contemporary Japan. In contemporary Japan’s dominant discourse on her past, the term ‘Japan’s colonialism’ is used only in the context of Asian colonies acquired after the Sino-Japanese War 1894–95. The earlier expansion to the North (and the South) is viewed as ‘pioneering’, ‘development’ and ‘enlightenment’ of the native Ainu and their land. Japan’s expansion to the North is presented as a process of a ‘daring and challenging development of inherent territory’.86 Just as in Shiba’s writings, the Edo period Japanese (wajin) and the Ainu are portrayed as having peaceful trade relations that gradually evolved into ‘development policies’, which resulted in the ‘rise of living standards of the Ainu’. This is contrasted with the Russian expeditions to the Kurile Islands, that ‘suppressed the resistance of the Ainu’ and ‘exploited’ them starting from the beginning of the eighteenth century.87

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There is no doubt that the fact that most of the Ainu have been assimilated into Japanese society and do not constitute a vocal minority anymore today plays a large role in this construction of this kind of discourse. More important is the foundation for Japan’s continuous claim to the Northern Territories that until the mid-nineteenth century were mainly inhibited by Ainu and were occupied by the Soviet Union in the last days of the war in the Pacific. As the notion of ‘inherent Japanese territory’ serves as the main moral and legal argument,88 discourse involving the Ainu as the original inhabitants can severely undermine the validity of the Japanese argument. Hence Shiba’s discourse does more than just save Japan from the negative narrative on its national characteristics that resulted from Japan’s twentieth century experience. The already mentioned passages in Shiba’s writing on the peaceful trade of the medieval Japanese with the Ainu (with Edo Japan presented as having all the basic features of modern society as opposed to the Russian violent and oppressive conquest of Siberia) serve a dual purpose. Besides the hierarchical construction of the normal Japan, they also provide historical support to the dominant discourse on Japan’s enlightened expansion to the north and suppress dissonant voices of a different instance of Japan’s colonialism, conducted well before the four decades of the temporal deviation from the ‘original form’ – namely in the early Meiji period. Critical historical scholarship has indeed revealed that the interactions between the Japanese (wajin) and the Ainu before and during the Edo period were not as peaceful and purely commercial, and there has been a long history of violence, subjugation, exploitation and resistance.89 The ‘enlightened’ Meiji reforms have resulted in the Ainu lands being administered as a proper colony, in spite of the various laws, whose purpose was supposed to be the protection of the native people.90 The results of the rapid ‘development’ and ‘modernization’ of Northern Japan that started during the Meiji era in a way resembles the European settlements in Latin America and Australia. The gradual expropriation of the land, the destruction of the traditional way of living as well as the introduction of diseases such as tuberculosis, for which the natives lacked immunity, and the alcohol that was brought by the Japanese, have had almost genocidal effects on the population, reducing its numbers greatly and making the Ainu a minority in their own land.91 However, this narrative of Japanese history remains restricted to academia and rarely appears in the broader public discourse. In a rare critique of the ‘inherent territory’ paradigm, Kayano Shigeru, the first Japanese Member of the Diet of Ainu origin, stated that the Northern Territories have been Ainu territory and that now two strong states, Russia and Japan, are debating the future of the islands ‘over the heads’ of the ‘original owners’.92 Not surprisingly this argument has been ignored by other Diet members and can hardly hope to find its way into the broad public discourse, since, apart from critical academics, the lobby of the Ainu in parliamentary affairs is very small. The number of residents of Hokkaido–

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(where most of the Ainu reside) that identified themselves as Ainu in an official population survey has been recorded at 23,000 (as of 1993) – around 0.5% of the island’s population.93 CONCLUSION Once, in a talk regarding his perceptions of Russia, Shiba explicitly stated that because he does not adhere to any ideology, he does not have any prejudice or preconceptions related to Russia.94 Shiba’s explicit efforts to adhere to objective ‘realism’ and impartiality are quite visible in the narrative examined here. He expresses understanding of the imagined patriotic feelings Soviet teenagers must have when they see the map of Siberian conquests.95 He also shows understanding and admiration for one of the Russian naval explorers, Krusenstern.96 After a very unfavourable description of the sailors of the Russo-American Company, he attempts to avoid generalizations by concluding that this perception cannot be applied to the Russian navy in general.97 Shiba also positively evaluates the Russian policy of ‘enlightenment’ towards the ethnic minorities in Siberia conducted through building schools in the newly acquired territories. On this rare occasion, Russia is juxtaposed with China, Japan, and Asia as a superior and an enlightened nation.98 At the same time, Shiba believed in the importance of comparison and relativity when discussing historical events.99 In his pursuit of establishing a relative place for Japan’s history within the universal modernity, he has probably engaged in a universal practice of creating a hierarchical difference between the Japanese ‘self’ and the Russian ‘other’. There is no doubt that Shiba’s narrative was a product of its time. It is interesting to note the way ‘objective history’ and Russian ‘original form’, which are the focus of Shiba’s narrative, have been interpreted and absorbed by other Japanese writers. The narrative on the Russian threat composed by the medieval intellectual Kudo– Heisuke in the 1780s, whom Shiba admires and quotes as the first scientific account of the Russian threat, has been interpreted in a rather different way from the one Shiba does. Kudo–, in his description of the Russian conquest of Siberia, writes that Russians were requested to intervene in the local war by one of the Siberian leaders and their intervention has brought law and order to Siberia. Furthermore, he notes the locals were so pleased with it that they asked to be annexed to Russia.100 Hence the threat from Russia has been seen not as a military one but as a cultural one, and one that is based on its superior level of civilization. This reading of Kudo–’s narrative is supported by the recommendations found in the report of an ‘inquiry commission’ sent by the Shogunate in 1798 to the northern frontiers of Japan and areas inhibited by Ainu (present day Hokkaido–). The investigation resulted in the area being taken away from the control of the Matsumae fiefdom and put under the direct rule of the Tokugawa Shogunate in order to execute

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a more effective control over the area. One of the reasons listed was that the Russian’s amicable treatment of the natives, as contrasted with the cruelty of Matsumae, had led to a growth of an appreciation of Russia among the ‘stupid natives’ and their desire to ‘become nationals of the other country’.101 Hence, unlike in Shiba’s account, it is plausible to reckon that originally Russia was perceived in Japan not as a threat from ‘nomad barbarians’ but as one posed by a more advanced civilization. The perception of Russia in the immediate years after Japan’s defeat in the Pacific War also provides an interesting glimpse on how Russian ‘original form’ was seen in Japan, which had just been defeated and occupied by the US. Journalist Maruyama Masao (not the celebrated scholar by the same name) spent over fifteen years in the Soviet Union as a reporter for Asahi Shinbun from 1932 until 1947. His stay almost overlapped with the Fifteen Years War (another common term for the war Japan fought in Asia, referring to the period 1931–45), which resulted in Japan’s total defeat. In a book published in 1948, after his return to a devastated Japan, he summarized his perceptions and impressions of Russia. It is interesting to note how the history and the national character of one of the main Allies look different to a Japanese belonging to a defeated and humiliated nation that failed in its attempt to assimilate the colonized people and to create a colonial empire. In many ways the narrative is similar to the one discussed here as it takes the West (Europe) as a standard, but it goes beyond the dichotomies of civilization/barbarism and normal/abnormal. One of the reasons for this could be the difficulty of locating the defeated Japanese ‘self’ in the realm of universal normality and to ascribe abnormality to Soviet Russia, one of the victorious Allies. Like Shiba and other writers, Maruyama locates the origins of Russian national characteristics in geopolitical and historical factors. He also notes the relative shallowness of the European influence on Russia and perceives the Russian nation as combining both Asian and European elements. However, comparing Russia with other more Westernized Slavic nations (like the Czechs and the Poles) that achieved ‘cultural development’ earlier than Russia, he notes admiringly that it was only Russia that was able to build a powerful state.102 Maruyama admires Russia’s rapid increase in population, Russian flexibility and adaptability to any environment and their high level of endurance. Russia’s successful colonization of the ‘primitive peoples of Asia’ (the natives of Siberia) is also traced to its skilful adaptability through which Russians managed to ‘Russify’ and internalize the natives. He also notes the ‘dual personality’ of Russians that has emerged from this fusion of Europe and Asia, but along with fatalism he notes the Russian friendliness and carelessness, sociability and communalism as the positive ‘Asian features’ of the Russian character.103 The creation of the Russian ‘other’ in immediate post-war Japan could not proceed through the conflation of the Japanese ‘self’ with the West,

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as it was Japan that has been the ‘other’ for the Western nations and the dichotomies of the Cold War structure were still in an embryonic state. Hence, Maruyama manages to avoid the hierarchical dichotomous construction of the universal ‘self’ and, while still using the paradigms of progress, civilization and modernization, engages in a much less totalizing discourse. However, Shiba in his quest for rescuing Japan from the negative qualities attributed to its national character and whose cognitive framework has been shaped by the rapid economic growth on one side and the Cold War on the other has been incapable or unwilling to address these possible variations of his ‘objective realism’. While aspiring to find a unique ‘original form’ of Japan and a uniquely Japanese understanding of Russia, there is very little uniqueness in the perceptions, ideas, structure and functions of Shiba’s narrative. The ‘unique’ ideas of the continuity of the nation, the search for this ‘original form’ that evolves around hierarchical construction of the self vis-à-vis other nations and dominated by dichotomies such as civilized/barbarian, peaceful/jingoistic, free/unfree, West/East among others, have continuously been present in one form or another in the discourses of European national identities.104 Shiba’s narrative divides the world into ‘us’ and ‘them’ and produces a hierarchical construction of Japan vis-à-vis Russia, at the same time engaging in normative prescriptions that are consistent with the ‘original forms’ of the two nations. Also, through the homogenization of the ‘Japanese nation’, it conceals the fractures and divisions within ‘Japan’ (in this context, the existence and the history of colonization of the Ainu) and the need to face the negative aspects of Japan’s past. Shiba’s construction of Japan and Russia has been an integral part of the political discourse on bilateral relations during the Cold War, when the ‘threat from the North’ and the ‘stolen territories’ have been the main concepts that defined Japan’s interactions with the Soviet Union. The Cold War ended more than a decade ago and Japan’s interactions with post-communist Russia have become more complex and diversified. However, as a result of the lack of considerable progress in the territorial dispute between the two countries, sparse contact between the two peoples and lack of alternative discourses to the one that creates the hierarchical difference between Japan and Russia, the identity construction examined here, is the one that still dominates the broad perceptions of the Japanese national ‘self’ and the Russian ‘other’. NOTES 1

2

Prizel, I., National Identity and Foreign Policy: Nationalism and Leadership in Poland, Russia, and Ukraine (Cambridge University Press, 1998), p. 14. Barnett, M., ‘The Israeli Identity and Peace Process’, in Shibley Telhami and Michael Barnett (eds), Identity and Foreign Policy in the Middle East (Ithaca: Cornell Univ. Press 2002), p. 6.

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Kaiser 2001 quoted in Ozkirmili U., Contemporary Debates on Nationalism (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), p. 180. Said, E. W., Orientalism (New York: Pantheon Books, 1978) and Culture and Imperialism (New York: A. A. Knopf, 1993). Hadfield A., Literature, Politics and National Identity (Cambridge University Press, 1994), p. 1. Neumann I., Uses of the Other. ‘The East’ in European Identity Formation (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1998). Asahi Shinbun, 12 February 2005, morning edition. Sekikawa, N. and T. Funabiki, ‘Shiba Ryo–taro no “katachi” o kangaeru’, in Bungei Shunju– , February 2006, pp. 104–14. The novels mentioned are Saka no ue no kumo (The Cloud on Top of the Hill) and Ry o–ma ga yuku (The Path of Ryo–ma). Information provided by the publishing house Bungei Shunju– to the author by e-mail on 22 March 2005. Chu– o– Ko–ron, February 2004, p. 61. Shiba was quoted by present Prime Minister Koizumi Jun’ichiro– in the conclusion of his General Policy Speech to the Diet (Asahi Shinbun, 26 September 2003) and by the late former Prime Minister Obuchi Keizo– in his Policy Speech (Asahi Shinbun, 28 January 2000). For citations of Shiba by Diet members see the Diet Library database of Diet extrapolations. My search has resulted in 145 hits between 1992 and 2004. The names included Members of Parliament, political commentators and scholars that have appeared in front of various Diet committees. See the Diet database at http://kokkai.ndl.go.jp/ NHK Shuppan (ed.), Shiba Ry o–tar o– ni tsuite (Tokyo: NHK Shuppan, 1998), p. 17. Matsumoto K., Shiba Ry o–tar o– (Tokyo: Ozawa Shoten, 1996), pp. 22–36. Sekikawa, N., Shiba Ry o–tar o– no ‘katachi’ (Tokyo: Bungei Shunju–, 2003), p. 64. Ishihara, H. and D. Nasu, Maruyama shikan kara Shiba shikan made, in Shokun!, 2002/2, pp. 242–59. There is a number of works on Shiba in Japanese, but in general they contain very little critical assessment. For example see Matsumoto, Shiba Ry o–tar o– and Sekikawa, Shiba Ry o–tar o– no ‘katachi’. Some of Shiba’s works, like a collection of short samurai stories titled Drunk as a Lord, the novel depicting the life of the last Tokugawa shogun titled the Last Shogun and Shiba’s perception of Ku–kai, the founder of the Shingon school of Budhism titled Kukai the Universal have been translated to English. Also, it is interesting to note that his most popular novel Ry o–ma ga yuku (The Path of Ryo–ma) has been translated into Korean, notwithstanding its length. Berlin, I., The Hedgehog and the Fox (London: Phoenix, 1999). Sekikawa, N., Shiba Ry o–taro– no ‘katachi,’ pp. 14–15. Shiba R., Rekishi no naka no Nihon (Tokyo: Chu–o– Ko–ronsha, 1976), pp. 111–14.

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Shiba R., Higashi to nishi (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha 1995), pp. 9–10. Ibid. p. 60. For example see Shu–kan Asahi, 10 August 1998, pp. 84–113 and 15 February 1999, pp. 52–3. Shiba, R., ‘Doitsu e no keisha,’ in Kono kuni no katachi, vol. 3 (Tokyo: Bungei Shunju–, 1992), pp. 20–1. Shiba, R., Kono kuni no katachi, vol. 1 (Tokyo: Bungei Shunju–, 2003) pp. 84–95. Most of the references made by Shiba refer to the nationalist ideology of Mito school and Marxism, but also to Buddhism. His definition of ‘ideology’ (shiso–) seems to refer to the broadly defined ideology as a system of thought that claims to explain the world and to prescribe proper behaviour. At the same time in his discussion of ‘original form’, Shiba positively examines religion (in case of China-Confucianism) as a tool used intentionally to ‘tame’ the people, i.e. to unify them and to restrain their natural barbarianism with a certain moral code (Shu– kan Asahi, 8 October 1998). Shiba, R., Kono kuni no katachi (1), pp. 9–20. For example see Shu– kan Asahi, 15 February 1999. Nakamura, M., Shiba Ry o–taro–, in Uchida Kenzo– et al. (eds), Genron wa Nihon o ugokasu (Tokyo: Ko–dansha, 1986), pp. 279–306. – Keene, D., ‘Rekishi to bungaku,’ in Osaka Gaikokugo Daigaku/Sankei Shinbunsha (eds), Nihon bunka e no manazashi. Shiba Ryo–taro– kinen ko–enkai yori (Tokyo: Kawade Shobo– Shinsha, 2004), pp. 87–97. Matsumoto K, Shiba Ryo–taro–, pp. 37–39. Professor Numano in Shiba, R., O Rossii (Moscow: MIK, 1999), pp. 8–9. Fukui Yu–zo–’s article in Chu– o– Ko–ron (1 February 1998, pp. 61–72) is one of the rare attempts to question the factual validity, the interpretations and the broad impact of Shiba’s work, focusing on Shiba’s description of the battle for Port Arthur in The Cloud on Top of the Hill. Shiba, R., Roshia ni tsuite-hoppo– no genkei (Tokyo: Bungei Shunju–, 2002, 16th ed. [first ed. 1986]). My translation of Nanohana no oki. Neumann I., Uses of the Other. Inoue, T., ‘Critical Perspectives on the “Asian Values” Debate’, in J. R. Bauer and D. A. Bell (eds), The East Asian Challenge for Human Rights (Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 27–60. Burton quoted in Kimura H., ‘Politics and Economics in Russo-Japanese Relations’, in T. Hopf (ed.), Understandings of Russian Foreign Policy (Pennsylvania State University Press, 1999), pp. 211–50. Hakamada, S., ‘Soren shakai no kenkyu–’, in H. Kimura (ed.), Sobietto Kenkyu– (Tokyo: Kyo–ikusha, 1985), pp. 309–43. Shiba R., in Shu– kan Asahi, 15 February 1999, p. 54. Shiba, R., Higashi to nishi, p. 77. Shiba, R., Rekishi no naka no Nihon, p. 108. Shiba R. Roshia ni tsuite, p.74.

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Ibid., pp. 114–19. Ibid., pp. 100–102. Ibid., pp. 10–11. Ibid., p. 54. For example see Ito, K., ‘Continuity in the Pattern of Russo-Soviet External Behaviour’, in K. Niiseki (ed.), The Soviet Union in Transition (London: Japan Institute of Intenational Affairs/Avebury, 1987), pp. 130–46, Kimura, H., Distant Neighbors: Japanese-Russian Relations under Brezhnev and Andropov, vol. 1 (New York: M. E. Sharpe 2000). Shiba R., Roshia ni tsuite p. 199. Ibid., p. 22. Campbell, D., Writing Security: United States Foreign Policy and the Politics of Identity (Manchester University Press, 1992), pp. 92–101. Shiba R., Roshia ni tsuite, pp. 25–6; emphasis added. Ibid., p. 142. Ibid., pp. 80–1. Ibid., p. 160. Ibid., pp. 44–6. Ibid., p. 84. Ibdi., p. 91. Sekikawa, N., Shiba Ryo–taro– no ‘katachi,’ pp. 16–18. Neumann I., Uses of the Other, pp. 65–112. For example, Foglesong, D. and G. M. Hahn, Ten Myths About Russia: Understanding and Dealing with Russia’s Complexity and Ambiguity (Centro Argentino de Estudios Internacionales, 2005). For example in Shu– kan Asahi 103/35, 1998, p. 44. Neumann I., Uses of the Other. pp. 96–7. Ibid, p. 80. Shiba, R. and H. Inoue, Kokka, shu– kyo–, Nihonjin (Tokyo: Ko–dansha, 2004), p. 44. Neumann I., The Uses of the Other, pp. 89–90. For example, H. Kimura, Soren to Roshiajin (Tokyo: So–yo–sha, 1980), pp. 56–67. Shiba R., On Russia, pp. 25–6. Shu– kan Asahi, 15 February 1999, p. 56. Shiba R., On Russia, pp. 125–9. Ibid., p. 180 and in Shu– kan Asahi, 15 February 1999, p. 56. Ibid., p. 49. Ibid., p. 23. Ibid., p. 58. Ibid., p. 24–5. Ibid., p. 22 and in Shu– kan Asahi, 7 August 1998, pp. 56–8. Ibid., pp. 31–4. Ibid., p. 12. Ibid., p. 66. Ibid., p. 30.

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87 88

89

90

91 92

93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100

101 102 103 104

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Ibid., pp. 162–70. Ibid., pp. 170–1. Ibid., p. 49, 57. Ibid., pp. 138–9. Siddle, R., Race, Resistance and the Ainu of Japan (London and New York: Routledge, 1996), pp. 28–42. For example, see the Hopp o–ryo–do (The Northern Territories) published by the Chijima Renmei 2003, p. 35 and Nemuro City Office pamphlet regarding the Northern Territories, 2003. Ibid., pp. 68–85. See, for example, the website of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (www.mofa.go.jp) for Japan’s official position. For example, Siddle, R., Race, Resistance and the Ainu of Japan and Emori, S., Ainu no rekishi-Hokkaid o– no hitobito (Tokyo: Sanseido–, 1987). Akami, T., Nation, State, Empire and War: Problems of Liberalism in Modern Japanese History and Beyond, in Japanese Studies, 25/2, 2005, p. 11. Emori, S., Ainu no rekishi-Hokkaido– no hitobito, pp. 124–5. House of Councilors, Committee on Okinawa and Northern Territories, 2 December 1997. See the Diet database at http://kokkai.ndl.go.jp/ See the homepage of Hokkaido– prefecture, www.pref.hokkaido.jp. In Shu– kan Asahi, 15 February 1999. Shiba R., Roshia ni tsuite, pp. 71–2. Ibid., p. 133. Ibid., p. 119. Ibid., pp. 231–2. Shiba in Shu– kan Asahi, 15 February 1999, pp. 96–8. Akitsuki, T., ‘Edo jdai ni okeru Nihonjin no Roshia-kan’, in Yasui, R. (ed.), Nihon to Roshia (Tokyo: Waseda University, 1987), p. 3. Ibid., p. 8. Maruyama, M., Soveeto no insho– (Tokyo: Hata Shoten, 1948), pp. 6–7. Ibid., pp.10–18. Neumann I., The Uses of the Other, p. 103.

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7

Developing Memories: Alumni Newsletters in Japanese Development Assistance ANNETTE SKOVSTED HANSEN

INTRODUCTION

A

lumni newsletters shape new and old memories as they refer to a new shared past of development assistance and introduce older shared pasts of war, selectively. Some 300,000 alumni of courses financed by Japanese development assistance receive a quarterly newsletter. They have all attended courses in Japan for from two weeks to three years between 1955 and 2006 on topics relevant to development in their home countries in Asia, Africa, Europe and Latin America. Memories of their stay in Japan form a new shared memory in contrast to the diversity of memories of previous encounters between their home countries and Japan. Memories of war in Asia played a significant role in the conceptualization and initial implementation of development assistance as part of Japanese diplomacy in the 1950s and 1960s, and partly explain the primarily Asian focus of Japanese development assistance. War reparations to Asian neighbours preceded Japanese Official Development Assistance (ODA) and Japanese diplomats explained reparations and – to a lesser degree – ODA as repentance for war crimes. The invitation of trainees and fellows from developing countries to participate in courses held in donor countries was a central feature of development assistance – in the 1950s and 1960s referred to as technical assistance – within multilateral as well as bilateral programmes. In 1954, Japan joined the Colombo Plan established in 1951 as a collective intergovernmental effort toward economic and social development of member countries in the Asia-Pacific region with human resources development as the primary focus. Through the Colombo Plan, Japan

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began an official technical assistance programme by financing courses in Japan for Asians including participants from former Japanese colonies. The focus of this chapter lies in alumni newsletters as memory developers. The chapter explores how newsletters for alumni from training courses in Japan presented and contributed to developing memories in the post-war period. The newsletters are edited by Japanese staff and therefore, even though many of the articles are written by alumni, the Japanese editors have selected the memories being presented. The memories referred to in the newsletters fall into two groups. One consists of the new personal memories of the alumni’s own stay in Japan after the war and two are the references to war. The references to war focus on devastation as a contrast to post-war Japanese economic success and to Japan’s aim to work for world peace. By analysing how alumni newsletters for trainees and fellows who had spent time in Japan recounted war experiences, the chapter considers when and how war resurfaced and negated Japanese efforts to introduce new shared pasts in the name of development assistance. A VARIETY OF SHARED PASTS The home countries of the alumni share very different pasts with Japan. Some countries were Japanese colonies in the first half of the twentieth Century. These include Korea, the Philippines, Burma (Myanmar), and Singapore – others were geographically close to the Japanese Empire, such as India – and other countries were far away, such as Zambia and countries in Central and South America. In spite of the distance, Japanese people, predominantly farmers, but also teachers and other professionals, emigrated to Peru, Chile and Brazil from the late nineteenth and throughout the twentieth century, but in Africa prior to the independence of most African countries in the 1960s Japan played a very small role. In Asia, memories of war, however, were strong. In memories of war in Asia, the Japanese played a dual role as liberator from European colonization and as colonizer. The variations over this dual role in conjunction with other factors such as the influence of the Cold War in Asia has led to very different post-war interpretations of Japan in popular memory in the Asian countries.1 Common for much of Asia, however, was the initial expectation that Japanese expansion would contribute to the liberation of Asia from European dominance and to Asian ‘co-prosperity’. However, Japan’s invasions offered no – or only temporary and partial – satisfaction of the expectations.2 Different pasts means that the course participants have different memories to strengthen or override. From the diverse pasts of liberation, aggression and migration, post-war Japan attempted to generate one new common past of generous Japanese development assistance.

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Memory in Politics and International Relations DEVELOPING NEW MEMORIES

Since 1955, Japanese development assistance financed the creation of one new shared past by funding training courses in Japan. Reflecting the complexity of the Japanese development assistance system, where many ministries have been involved,3 the courses have been hosted and funded by two key ministries, the Ministry of International Trade and Industry (MITI), since 2001 Ministry of Economy, Trade and Industry (METI), and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs (MOFA). These two ministries sponsor the Association of Overseas Technical Scholarships (AOTS) and the Japanese International Cooperation Agency (JICA), respectively. Both AOTS, established in 1959, and JICA from 1974, preceded by the Overseas Technical Cooperation Agency (OTCA) established in 1962, have engaged in training activities by funding courses and course participants during their stay in Japan. The Foreign Ministry has offered courses since 1955, when the first sixteen participants came through the Colombo Plan, and AOTS provided a dormitory for students and trainees in a variety of private sector programmes. The stated objectives of the courses are wider cooperation, recognition and export. According to the foreword of the pamphlet Technical training in Japan originally published in 1965 by the Japanese Overseas Technical Cooperation Agency (OTCA): The prime objective of these training activities [organized by the Japanese government] is to contribute to the improvement, in a wide variety of technical fields, of such knowledge and skill as are required for promoting the economic and social development of the countries of participants. However, these activities are also aimed at deepening the already friendly relationships between the countries and Japan, through the participants’ first-hand personal understanding of our country.4 The courses set the stage for personal encounters between Japanese and other peoples in order to create the foundation for friendly diplomatic relations and a receptive export market. In 1972, in an evaluation of various training courses by the Japanese Overseas Technical Cooperation Agency, the head of the technical cooperation division of the economic cooperation department of the Foreign Ministry, Yanagi Ken’ichi, emphasized how this programme to receive individual trainees did not stop at simply transferring Japanese technology, but promoted reciprocal friendly relations between these countries through the contact between individuals. This was significant, because it encouraged wider cooperation between their countries. According to the annual report of the International Trade and Industry Research Board, the role of the courses ensured that ‘[. . .] besides fostering friend-

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ships and friendly relations from the personal contacts with the trainees who come to Japan, the recognition of our industrial technology is widened, the export of domestically produced machines, technical cooperation, [. . .].’5 Participation in courses generates memories for all involved, including the overseas participants, who are expected to return home after the conclusion of their course work and remember Japan fondly enough to prefer to buy Japanese products. NEWSLETTERS The course alumni, who number more than 300,000 as of 2006, receive newsletters from Japan several times a year. The newsletter to AOTS alumni, entitled Kenshu– [Training] was first published in 1959 and JICA’s alumni newsletter Kenshu– in [Trainee] was first published in 1965 and was renamed JICA Network in 1998. Many participants had experienced a new Japan and remembered and referred to memories of Japanese generosity, technological advancement, and iconic culture in readers’ columns and letters-to-the-editor. The newsletters function as reminders to the alumni of their stay in Japan, introduce new Japanese technological developments and various aspects of Japanese culture, and provide alumni and staff a forum and occasion for remembering the new personal memories of a generous Japan – different from wartime Japan. Both alumni and newsletter editors have reflected on the role of the newsletters. In the reader’s column letters, ex-participants refer to how the newsletters bring back memories and contribute to sustained friendship. Camilo B. Balthazar from the Philippines wrote ‘reading the Kenshu– in brings back nostalgic memories of unforgettable adventures in beautiful Japan’.6 Similarly, Gaston Zamora Chumacero from Bolivia wrote ‘I’m really happy and grateful to you for sending me the periodical publication of Kenshu– in. The receipt of this periodical has indeed brought me back to all the pleasant memories of the wonderful time I’ve spent in your magnificent country on the occasion of the Seminar about Highway Construction in 1976.’7 Similar examples can be found throughout the reader’s columns.8 Also the editors express satisfaction with the memories sustained by the newsletters. In his 1973 editorial, Kazu Kunimata wrote ‘It is our great pleasure to know that this publication, which has reached its 29th issue, has served as the modest forum for exchanging opinions and renewing friendship between the ex-participants and OTCA.’9 The Vice President of JICA wrote in the editorial to the fiftieth issue of Kenshu– in nine years later in 1982 that ‘we believe the journal has contributed greatly to strengthening the close ties of friendship between JICA and ex-participants’.10 The pen-pal corners, alumni interviews and lettersto-the-editors offered the alumni a platform for meeting across national boundaries and course cohorts.

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The titles of the letters to the editor reflected the new memories Japan sought to engender. K.P. Narayanan from India wrote ‘Highlighted Memories About the Beautiful Country’,11 Verapong Podimuang from Thailand wrote ‘Memory of Japan and Her Fine People’, Tin Htwe from then Burma wrote ‘My Pleasure to Recount Memories’,12 Adelo I. Derilo from Mexico wrote ‘Japan – a Treasured Memory’,13 Bashir Ahmad Awan from Pakistan ‘A Nostalgic Memorial Part of My Life in “Land of the Rising Sun” ’,14 and John Baptist Muwonge from Uganda wrote ‘Those Happy Memories of Japan’,15 The newsletter editors carefully chose to publish views from representatives of various shared pasts with Japan – including writers from Africa, Asia and Latin America. The new memories of friendship and beauty served to negate previous memories of Japan as the enemy in the wars of the first half of the twentieth century. However, memories of war resurface periodically. JICA Network runs a series of articles on visitors to Japan from other countries and among them was an article about a Korean teacher’s first visit to Japan where she stayed two nights with a Japanese family. Park says she was never very interested in Japanese culture or Japanese people. She never had a desire to learn Japanese. She assumes she was preoccupied with a negative image of Japan because of stories about Japanese soldiers during the Second World War that were taught in school. . . . Park says she was lucky to have the opportunity to come to Japan and stay with her Japanese host family. Now she thinks she wants to know more about Japan and the Japanese.16 The editor seemed to use Park’s experience to supply the readers with a concrete example of how the past has been replaced by a present and a future that Asian victims of the Japanese war can only access if they give Japan a chance to show its new face. Nevertheless, memories of war play an important role in inter-Asian politics, and the newsletters have included references to the Fifteen Years War.17 OLD MEMORIES RESURFACING War is remembered in various letters and articles in the newsletters. The question of war invites the question: Memories of which war? The Second World War would be the short answer, but this obfuscates the way the Pacific War came to overrule memories of different simultaneous Japanese war engagements in Asia and to determine how postwar Japan remembered war. In the Japanese context, the Second World War refers to two interlinked, but also distinct wars: The Second SinoJapanese War begun in 1937, but which has been linked to the Japanese attack on Manchuria in 1931 – and inspired the alternative name of ‘Fifteen Years War’ – and the Pacific War initiated with the Japanese

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attack on the United States of America at Pearl Harbor in December 1941. Both wars ended with Japan’s surrender on 2 September 1945. The devastations in Japan and the atomic bombs in the popular understanding of the Japanese defeat in the Pacific War contributed to a division of Japanese war responsibility between the Japanese military, which was isolated as the aggressor, and the Japanese people identified as victims of war. This way the memories of the Pacific War could take precedence over memories of aggression in the Asian war theatres.18 The newsletters present memories of devastation of the Japanese isles and of the atomic bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. These memories of devastation seem to serve two functions: one, they imply that Japan was a victim of the (Pacific) war and therefore had suffered for its aggression in Asia and has embarked on a new and better beginning and, secondly, they serve as a contrast to the subsequent economic growth of Japan to tell the story of the miraculous success of the Japanese economy. NEW BEGINNINGS Memories of new beginnings in Japan include images of democracy, world peace and rapid economic growth. Contributors present the defeat in 1945 as the introduction of a new Japan exemplified by democracy and peace. ‘[. . .] in 1945 when the Second World War ended [. . .] Japan was reborn as a democracy’.19 In the September 1972 issue of Kenshu– , William Londoño Ortiz from Colombia wrote ‘Although Japan is a nation of war-like traditions, the people do not forget the holocaust of the Second World War and today businessmen as well as common people pronounce with fervour peace and brotherhood among all the nations of the world in conferences and in conversations.’20 The message is clear, the Japanese people have learned from their past mistakes to the benefit of all other nations and peoples. Both Japanese and overseas contributors to the newsletter use the atomic bombs as symbols of Japanese victimhood of war, ignoring any distinction between the Pacific War, the Second World War and the Fifteen Years War in the Asian theatre. In Kenshu–’s series of interviews with trainees, Swarna de Rosario from Sri Lanka, then Ceylon, was interviewed for the September 1971 issue. The introduction to the article reads: ‘Hiroshima City was exposed to an atomic bomb for the first time in the history of mankind.’ De Rosario comments that ‘Added to the sudden explosions of volcanoes and frequent earthquakes, Japan became the victim of the most powerful destroying element that man ever created, the atomic bomb.’21 JICA and AOTS staff and the course participants contributed to the development of personal memories of Japanese support for personal and national economic development, as well as memories of a friendly, culturally and economically rich Japan. Besides designing courses and extracurricular activities, publishing newsletters, and composing articles, as well as inviting and selecting course participants, the

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Japanese staff wrote articles about Hiroshima and Nagasaki and invited course participants to museums commemorating the atomic bombs and these articles and visits inspired alumni to remember Japanese defeat rather than aggression. Furthermore, a third war – the Cold War – offered a context where the victims of the atomic bombs were constantly relevant to a present fear of the potential for an atomic war. An ongoing series on different areas in Japan included an article on the national park of the Ogasawara Islands with a section entitled ‘A Tragic History’. The section begins with mention of the US military administration of the islands from 1945 to 1968. The reference to the Pacific War is explicit on page two of the article: [. . .] The battle for Iwo Jima that took place in February and March of 1945 proved to be the fiercest battle fought in the Pacific theatre. During the fighting, the Japanese army lost 19,900 men. It is said that only 1,033 Japanese soldiers survived the battle and returned to the mainland. The American forces wanted to take the island and pummelled it with thousands of shells; so many in fact that the damage it caused changed the shape of the island. These days the islands float peacefully in the sea as if nothing had ever happened, though the battle raged only half a century ago. How do the battle-scarred rocks on the islands feel about the lasting peacefulness of their surroundings?22 These paragraphs are followed by sections describing the richness of the flora, fauna and sea life in the area, which makes the area an attractive resort today. There is no mention of Japan as aggressor – only as victim of the American soldiers. The article tells the story of how the islands have overcome the devastations of the war, devastations inflicted by the US forces. Some of the accounts from Hiroshima emphasize Japanese efforts to ensure world peace. The deaths by atomic bombs and the nonaggression Article 9 of the Japanese Constitution form the basis for the presentation of the key role of Japan in securing world peace. Nine months before the alumni meeting, in the January 1973 issue of Kenshu– , Raymund Alvarado M. from Mexico wrote: In Hiroshima, we visited a place which reminded the Japanese of bitter memories of the Second World War. [. . .] The Japanese constructed the [Peace Memorial] Museum to warn new generations of the danger of a nuclear war, the danger which still hangs over the human race. At the exit we found a book in which visitors were to leave their signatures and their opinions about the Museum. There were some good opinions, but also unbelievable ones which still expressed resentment against the Japanese: ‘Remember Pearl Harbor!’23

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Alvarado found it unnecessary and an affront to keep remembering Japanese aggression in light of the work of Japan for world peace since 1945. In the new millennium, JICA Network still includes articles that portray Hiroshima as a symbol of Japanese work for world peace. In March 2002, JICA Network featured an article about the Peace Dome in Hiroshima, which served as a reminder of Japan as the victim of atomic bombs and of the need for all to maintain a commitment to world peace. The author of the article emphasized human suffering and human targets of the bomb by mentioning the staff and patients at the hospital, over which the bomb exploded and the woman or man sitting on the steps of a bank waiting for it to open, when she or he disappeared in the heat from the bomb and left a shadow on the brick steps to remain until today. The combination of human suffering and Japanese world peace efforts is central to the article where the description of the human face of ‘The Moment After’ is followed by the statement ‘The Atomic Bomb Dome is a place where millions of visitors from all over the world renew their commitment to lasting world peace.’24 The author here presents Japanese commitment to peace as a result of their experience as victims, ignoring Ortiz’s link to lessons learned from own actions. Other contributions draw attention to the devastation of the Japanese isles as a contrast to what is often referred to as Japan’s subsequent miraculous economic development. In 1976, Shaik Kadir from Singapore wrote: At exactly 8.15 on the morning of Wednesday, 6 August 1945, the American B-29 bomber dropped a nuclear device over Hiroshima. Immediately, the terrible red ball of fire that fell lifted a massive cloud in the form of a mushroom, destroying living and non-living things in its havoc. An estimated 200,000 human beings perished. The fateful day can be termed as the ‘nearest thing to doomsday.’ [. . .] Today, like the bamboo that survived the atomic bomb the Japanese have emerged from that pitiful downfall to be leaders in all major commercial and technical fields, gearing the nation to a leading economic and industrial power.25 Kadir depicts the Japanese ability to rise to the top in spite of an embarrassing and disgraceful past situation. The story of devastation in contrast to subsequent growth still survives today. In July 2001, JICA Network, had an entry in the column ‘My Favourite Things About Japan’ by an Albanian alumni who wrote in response to the question ‘What impressed you the most?’ ‘I’ll never forget the photos I saw at the atomic bomb museums in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The two cities were devastated and the residents suffered for many years after. Out of those ruins this country has become the second

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most powerful economic giant in the world. I think that proves this country has a huge potential in human resources.’26 The Albanian presents the human suffering and capacity to survive as evidence of Japan’s potential as a model for others. Here Japanese aggression is not mentioned and it is difficult to determine to what extent the silence speaks louder than words to the readers or whether in fact aggression has been forgotten. The interpretation of Japan as victim of its own military during the Second World War and the Pacific War in particular stem partly from the rulings of the International Military Tribunal for the Far East popularly known as the Tokyo War Crimes Trials. Another key factor was the fact that no other country was the target of atomic bombs – the symbol of the Cold War, which was the war, during which the interpretations of Japan’s role during the Fifteen Years War were formulated. Japan as victim is part of the story, but not the whole story especially not in the Asian theatre of war. PAST AGGRESSION Concrete economic strain in 1972 and 1973 resulted in a number of references to an earlier shared past of Japanese ‘evil’, which appeared in the newsletter Kenshu–. Inspired by an anti-Japanese boycott in much of Asia in 1972, references to memories of Japanese aggression in Asia appeared in AOTS Kenshu– newsletter for a number of years. Part of the reason why the third alumni conference became explicit about the war experiences of Japanese aggression was an Asian boycott of Japanese products in 1972 inspired by a student movement in Thailand. In 1972, the fact that Japanese companies seemed to benefit more economically and politically from the training and courses than the alumni and their countries so that the co-prosperity of Japan and the rest of Asia – as in the early 1940s were more to the benefit of Japan than the other countries, economically and politically – inspired a boycott of Japanese products in many Asian countries. At the Asian International Student Conference held in Bangkok in November 1972 a declaration on Japan marked the beginning of the antiJapanese movement joined by many Asian nations. This was followed by the oil restrictions by Arabs for Japan, and violent anti-Japanese protests met Prime Minister Tanaka on his visits first to Thailand and subsequently to other nations in South-east Asia in early 1974. In his editorial in the September 1973 issue of Kenshu– , Hozumi Goichi, Chief Director of Association for Overseas Technical Scholarship, wrote about the recent boycott of Japanese products in Thailand – without mentioning Thailand by name. The editorial was entitled ‘Discrepancy Between Two Countries’. The country and Japan have enjoyed friendly relations, and many students and trainees have come to Japan to study. After they go home, these students and trainees work in numerous Japanese

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enterprises. [. . .] They are not only paid far less than the Japanese employees working in the same places, but also they are hardly ever promoted in the companies. The products, which are finished there, are sold by Japanese, and not by the people of that country. Moreover, the trade between Japan and the country is one-sided, and Japan is only really enthusiastic about selling things to the country. Japan is not willing to buy things from her. [. . .] Under such circumstances, such feelings [displeasure and opposition] towards Japan finally grew into a boycott movement against Japanese goods, which was organized mainly by the students of that country. Dissatisfaction with the economic expansion of Japan into Asian countries is spreading all over Asia.27 Among the grievances directly relevant to the alumni were contracts binding alumni to work for the same Japanese company for three to five years after their return under a 100 million yen penalty. AOTS’ Kenshu– first published references to memories of aggression in December 1973 in reports from the third conference of Asia Bunka Kaikan Do–so–kai [Asia Culture Hall Alumni Meeting (ABK, whose primary function is as a dormitory sponsored by AOTS)] held in Tokyo, 26 September to 3 October 1973. The conference included a symposium on ‘Japan’s Economic Expansion and its Influence on Do–so–kai Member Countries’. In his editorial, the chief director of AOTS, Hozumi Goichi, quoted an Asian delegate for having made the following statement at the conference: ‘We were surprised at the luxury of the Japanese. Luxury is something that does not stop growing. In order to satisfy their growing desires, the Japanese Self Defence Forces might invade Asia again. The Japanese deny its possibility, but at the least it is clear that the Japanese become ‘economic animal’ to a greater extent.’28 This perception of a concrete future Japanese military threat relates the memories of past aggression to the future and ignores claims of new beginnings of democracy and peace. According to many conference delegates the lack of Japanese reflections over past impacts in Asia had had implications for how Japanese interacted with Asian neighbours – the Japanese bewilderment at the Asian boycott and Asian scepticism vis-à-vis the Japanese use of the term ‘co-prosperity’ bore witness to the lack of Japanese reflection. Terms such as ‘troubles for Asia’, ‘invasion into’ and ‘past evil deeds’ constituted concrete references to Japanese aggression. In the article entitled ‘What is ABK Do–so–kai?’ the reader is introduced to the history of the alumni association. The Asia Bunka Kaikan was founded in June 1960 in response to strong requests from the foreign students studying in Japan. [. . .]. The Japanese staff working in the Kaikan should be more considerate and modest towards the people from the South, especially

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towards Asian neighbours to whom Japan has caused a lot of troubles for many years in the past.29 Here the author referred directly to the ‘trouble’ caused by Japan in Asia during the Fifteen-Year-War. In the editorial on the history of the ABK Do–so–kai in Kenshu– in December 1973, Hozumi wrote: Despite the fact that this Do–so–kai [alumni organizations] was established for the people of the South, some Japanese suggested, in the early stage of its organization, that the Do–so–kai be incorporated as one of the sub-organizations of the Association for Overseas Technical Scholarship. This suggestion was immediately rejected by the students and trainees as they said ‘The idea of making the Do–so–kai one of the sub-organizations of any association in Japan, who once invaded Asia, is nothing but a humiliation to us. It is obvious that the Do–so–kai as such will be rejected by any nation of the South. The Do–so–kai should be an independent organization as it was organized through the mutual friendship and on the basis of independence and equality.’30 In Hozumi’s interpretation, the mutual friendship had replaced humiliation, but the memories of invasion could easily be rekindled. Apart from plenary sessions, the symposium took place in four working groups organized according to geographical criteria so that the first two groups consisted primarily of Asians. The second working group of the symposium consisted of a Japanese chairman, Professor Shibagaki Kazuo, a Japanese adviser, Naohide Isano, and nine members, two from Korea, two from Indonesia, two from Thailand, one from Singapore and one from Taipei, China, as well as a special participant from Thailand. The group discussed the issue of ‘Human relationships between Japanese and local people’ and included the following comment in the minutes: ‘The human relationships between Japanese and local people are very bad and reasons are as follows: The local people have not forgotten the past evil deeds of the Japanese. However, Japanese people have forgotten them.’31 The issue of forgetting is here prominent and inexcusable. A special delegate to the ABK alumni meeting from India, Savitri Vishwanathan, referred to the Japanese war experience as a matter of common knowledge, when she described the confusion of the Japanese representatives in Japanese companies in developing countries in the 1970s, when other Asians blamed them for egoistic behaviour, ‘[t]his reminds us of the bewilderment, which many of the Japanese armed forces personnel felt when they faced trial as war criminals in the International Military Tribunal for the Far East. They were only doing their duty!’32 By this example, Vishwanathan ensured that the Japanese and other delegates knew that the war thirty years earlier was still relevant and present to the contemporary issue of development assistance.

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The Japanese may have forgotten and tried to make others forget, but Asia remembered. DISAPPOINTED PROMISES – A NEW ATTEMPT AT ‘CO-PROSPERITY’ Japanese amnesia extended beyond war atrocities to business practices favouring Japan in 1973, almost thirty years after the end of the Second World War. At the same time as the ODA was conceptualized as a break with the past, it drew heavily on the imagery of the Greater East Asia CoProsperity Sphere of the early 1940s. Because Japan fought the fifteenyear-war in Asia in the name of expansion, liberation, commerce and inter-Asian open door policy for trade in raw materials, technology and markets, many of the references to co-prosperity in the post-war era remind other Asians of their disappointment in the Japanese promises of Asian co-prosperity in the 1940s. Much post-war rhetoric on development assistance included the term prosperity – a term also widely used in many Asian countries, however, the term co-prosperity had connotations with implications of the fifteen-year-war, where the Japanese Prime Minister in 1940 declared the goal of Japanese empire to be a Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere. On 3 October 1973 in Tokyo, the Asia Bunka Kaikan Do–so–kai Delegates issued a ‘Statement on Japan’s Economic Expansion and Its influence on Do–so–kai Member Countries’ with the following passage: South-east Asian countries, where the Japanese economic involvement is greatest, have already begun to entertain serious apprehensions about the fundamentals of Japan’s economic relations, which so far have centred around the pursuit of ever-greater profits in utter disregard to other values. It is often wondered whether the noble objective of co-prosperity would ever find its rightful place in the mind of modern Japan.33 The second working group of the symposium for the third AOTS Alumni Conference commented that Japanese economic cooperation was not cooperation, because the Japanese thought only of short-term profit and did not reinvest in local social work.34 Hozumi used the term ‘co-prosperity’ both before and after the issuance of the statement. Prior to the formulation of the conference statement, Hozumi gave his presidential address in September 1973 and emphasized that ‘ABK Do–so–kai is striving to promote everlasting friendship with member countries based on the principles of independence and equality and on the advancement of our profound belief in the mutual benefits of coexistence and co-prosperity.’35 A year later in the December 1974 issue of Kenshu– , Hozumi’s editorial ‘What I Think’ was a summary of his impressions from the Third Conference of Asia Bunka Kaikan Do–so–kai held the previous year:

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[. . .] The opinions expressed may be summed up that Japan should correct its attitude of contempt for and aggression in Asia and the South and make endeavours with ‘sincerity’ for ‘co-prosperity’ of all nations. The Japanese have spoken the words ‘equality’ and ‘co-prosperity’ continuously ever since the Meiji era. The Prime Ministers of the past had said the ‘co-prosperity’ with Asia without fail. The leaders in the finance and business circles advocated the policy for the ‘realization of welfare society’ in Asia and a greater part of the people have said that ‘Asia is one’ with the feeling of a joint responsibility. But in actuality ‘co-prosperity’ is an affair far away. Contempt for Asia and profit monopoly by the Japanese people had not changed before and after the war. Following the pattern of Western nations and the contempt for Asia have become a part of the Japanese constitution. For the Asian people, beautiful Japanese words when spoken instantly strike the ears as flattering lies.36 The word ‘co-prosperity’ was tainted; however, in spite of his own reflections, Hozumi still used the term in 1974. Hozumi’s proposed solution to the scepticism of the Asian neighbours was ‘[i]n the first place, we must become one with the Asians and live with the Asians. Secondly, by changing the present attitude to desire for selfish exploitation we should follow the path to co-prosperity.’37 He reused the term claiming sincerity. In 1977, in the opening address ‘Spirit of Do–so–kai’ held on 24 March 1977 at the Fourth Conference of the delegates of the Asia Bunka Kaikan Do–so–kai, Hozumi’s presidential speech included reflections on his own war experiences: I myself have seen what kind of things Japan has done to Asia in the past. For example, those who called for independence in Korea and Taiwan were almost oppressed to death. [. . .] The Japanese people have despised the Asians as human beings. The Japanese people have done so much evil to them. Even though we did object to that, we as the Japanese could never escape that responsibility. Therefore, we should never regard ourselves to be equal to them. We should reflect modestly and sincerely despite and evil we did to Asia and make sincere efforts to realize the independence and prosperity of the countries of Asia and in the south.38 In relation to this, Hozumi made concrete promises on behalf of the ABK alumni association. In 1977, the boycott and subsequent complaints led Hozumi to announce that AOTS had done its best to inform all Japanese companies about the fact that they were not to write contracts which penalized alumni for leaving the Japanese companies that

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had selected them for training. If they still did, ‘Even if the trainee in your country should sign the contract, he is still free to leave the company if he wishes so. He needs not pay compensation for the violation of the “contract”. It is we of the ABK Do–so–kai and AOTS that will assume the responsibility for that.’39 The resurfacing of memories of aggression coincided with concrete contemporary economic grievances in the 1970s and led to at least one concrete – if isolated – step to ensure their amelioration. CONCLUSION The alumni newsletters have largely successfully inspired and sustained new memories of a generous Japan, which promotes development. The new memories form a common past for all alumni in contrast to the previous diversity in the pasts, which their home countries shared with Japan. The new memories are of Japan as a generous donor and a beautiful, culturally, as well as economically, rich country with a very friendly population. Memories of war resurface primarily as memories of Japanese devastation and victims of the atomic bombs, and function as a comparison to subsequent economic success and work for world peace. The contributions to the newsletters in support of the newshared memories came from Asian and non-Asian alumni alike, which strengthened the impression that the old memories of war aggression were the exception rather than the rule. The newsletters tailored old memories of war to gloss over Japanese aggression. However, the use of the term ‘co-prosperity’ in the context of Japanese development assistance brought memories of Japanese aggression and empire to the fore. For example, the Japanese economic exploitation in the private sector in many countries in Asia inspired a boycott of Japanese products initiated in Thailand in the early 1970s. Subsequently, a series of references to Japanese aggression and exploitation during the war appeared from 1973 to 1977 in the AOTS Kenshu–, the newsletter published by the Japanese Ministry, MITI, representing private sector interests. The challenges to the new memories seemed to lie in the mistrust of Japanese sincerity when they used the word ‘co-prosperity,’ because of the memories of exploitation and unfulfilled promises of a Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere of the 1940s and the blatant favouratism of Japanese interests in economic cooperation of the 1960s and 1970s. The references to memories of Japanese aggression briefly reconnected the past to the present and future. NOTES 1

2

Li Narangoa and Robert Cribb (eds), Imperial Japan and National Identities in Asia, 1895–1945 (London and New York: RoutledgeCurzon, 2002). Ibid.

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4

5

6 7 8

9 10 11 12 13 14 15

16

17

18 19 20

21 22 23

24 25

26 27

28

29

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David Arase, Buying Power: The Political Economy of Japan’s Foreign Aid (Boulder, CO: Lynne Rienner, 1995); David Arase (ed.), Japan’s Foreign Aid: Old Continuities and New Directions (London: Routledge, 2005); Alan Rix, Japan’s Foreign Aid Challenge: Policy Reform and Aid Leadership (London: Routledge, 1993); Robert M. Orr Jr., The Emergence of Japan’s Foreign Aid Power (New York: Columbia University Press, 1990). Overseas Technical Cooperation Agency (OTCA), Technical Training in Japan (OTCA, 1965), p. 1. Tsu–sho–sangyo– Cho–sakai, Keizai kyo–ryoku no genjo– to mondaiten (Tokyo: Tsu–sho–sangyo– Cho–sakai, 1960), p. 211. Kenshu– in, No. 37 (1976), p. 13. Kenshu– in, No. 46 (1980), p. 14. For example: Kenshu– in, No. 46 (1980), p. 14; No. 50 (1982), p. 1; No. 68 (1991), p. 33; No. 76 (1996), p. 34. Kenshu– in, No. 29 (1973), p. 1. Kenshu– in, No. 50 (1982), p. 1. Kenshu– in, No. 29 (1973), p. 15. Kenshu– in, No. 30 (1974), p. 14. Kenshu– in, No. 37 (1976), p. 14. Kenshu–in, No. 40 (1977), p. 19. Kenshu– in, No. 41 (1978), p. 23. Similar examples in Kenshu– in, No. 33 (1975), p. 25; No. 34 (1975), p. 25; No. 35 (1975), p. 13 and many more. ‘Second Home: Things in Common’, JICA Network Vol. 13 (October 2001), p. 27. Carol Gluck, ‘The Past in the Present’, in Andrew Gordon (ed.), Postwar Japan as History (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993), p. 83. Ibid. Kenshu– in, No. 29 (1973), p. 2. William Londoño Ortiz, ‘Japan: Nation of Progress and Contrast’, in Kenshu– : Trainees Journal, Vol. 42 ( January 1972), p. 34. Kenshu– : Trainees Journal, Vol. 41 (1971), pp. 37–8. Kenshu– in, No. 70 (1993), pp. 24–6. Raymund Alvarado M., ‘First Step in Japan’, in Kenshu– : Trainees Journal, Vol. 46 ( January 1973), p. 42. ‘The Moment After’, JICA Network, No. 15 (March 2002), pp. 28–9. Shaik Kadir, ‘A Glimpse of Japan Today’, Kenshu– in, No. 36 (1976), p. 12. ‘My Favorite Things About Japan,’ JICA Network, Vol. 12 ( July 2001), p. 24. Hozumi Goichi, ‘Discrepancy Between Two Countries’, in Kenshu– : Trainees Journal, Vol. 49 (September 1973), p. 2. Hozumi Goichi, ‘Small Country on Sands’, AOTS Kenshu– , Vol. 51, (March 1974), p. 2. Hozumi Goichi, ‘What is the ABK Do–so–kai?’, in Kenshu– : Trainees Journal, Vol. 50 (December 1973) p. 2. Ibid., p. 3.

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33

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35

36

37

38

39

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‘The Outline of the Symposium “Japan’s Economic Expansion and its Influence on Do–so–kai Member Countries” ’, in Kenshu– : Trainees Journal, Vol. 50 (December 1973), pp. 38–9. Savitri Vishwanathan, ‘Some Reflections on the Symposium’, AOTS Kenshu– , Vol. 50 (December 1973), p. 47. ‘Statement on “Japan’s Economic Expansion and Its Influence on Do–so–kai Member Countries” ’, AOTS Kenshu–, Vol. 50 (December 1973), p. 44. ‘The Outline of the Symposium “Japan’s Economic Expansion and its Influence on Do–so–kai Member Countries” ’, in Kenshu– : Trainees Journal, Vol. 50 (December 1973), pp. 38–9. Hozumi Goichi, ‘Address of the President’, AOTS Kenshu– , Vol. 50 (December 1973), pp. 4–5. Hozumi Goichi, ‘What I Think’, in Kenshu– : Trainees Journal, Vol. 54 (December 1974), pp. 1–2. Hozumi Goichi, ‘Small Country on Sands’, AOTS Kenshu– , Vol. 51 (March 1974), p. 3. Hozumi Goichi, ‘Spirit of Do–so–kai’, AOTS Kenshu– , Vol. 65 (September 1977), p. 4. AOTS Kenshu– , Vol. 65 (September 1977), p. 3.

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PART 2

Institutions of Memory: Memorials, Museums, National Heroes

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8

Remodelling Public Space: the Fate of War Monuments, 1945–48 MICHAEL LUCKEN

INTRODUCTION

T

he American occupation (1945–52) was a dramatic period in Japan’s history, but the way we look at it is often unbalanced. Some consider that it changed everything; others believe that, Japanese culture being so strong, it was not as important as might be thought. In the nonacademic discourse on Japan, it is hard to find an accurate and balanced analysis of that point. We need therefore to keep working on the history of this period to develop a deeper understanding. If, as people say in German or French, there is a ‘duty of memory’, there is necessarily a ‘duty of history’. Many aspects of American cultural policy during the Occupation are well known. We already possess a clear picture of the measures taken to control the press, or to censor novels and movies. Several scholars have analysed the place of theatre, and particularly kabuki. Recently the question of war paintings (senso–ga) has also been carefully discussed. Nevertheless, some points are still obscure. We lack for instance both quantitative and qualitative data on the ‘conversion’ (tenko–) of intellectual elites after 1945, or about day-to-day contacts between American officers and local cultural associations, something that would be the prolongation of what Kitagawa Kenzo– did in The Start of Post-war (Sengo no shuppatsu).1 In the same way, the fate of commemorative statues and monuments to those fallen in the war is not very clear, although it is an important matter that is connected to some very sensitive religious and cultural problems, starting with the ongoing discussions about the Yasukuni Shrine (Yasukuni jinja). This article aims at exploring the

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post-war fate of pre-war commemorative sites and monuments and at contributing to a better understanding of contemporary discussions. THE FRAMEWORK SET BY THE OCCUPATION At the beginning of the Occupation, one of the first tasks of the Supreme Command of the Allied Powers (SCAP) in the cultural field was the abro– as state religion, an objective that was planned in gation of shinto Washington well before the end of the war. It is mainly the Religions Division of the Civil Information and Education section (hereafter CIE) that had the responsibility for the application of this programme. Between late October and early December 1945, William K. Bunce, chief – which of the Religions Division, submitted several drafts on state shinto suggested the adoption of a whole set of measures whose goal was to sever the state from religion.2 After being debated with some Japanese specialists, like Anesaki Masaharu, and discussed at top level within the SCAP administration, CIE’s proposals were formalized in a directive sent to the Japanese government that forbade most of the practices related to state shinto–. At the same time, the Emperor was required to openly reaffirm his ‘humanity’, which he did on 1 January 1946. The Directive for the Disestablishment of State Shinto– , signed by Col. Allen, was transmitted to the Japanese authorities on 15 December 1945. As written in the document (art. 2a): The purpose of this directive is to separate religion from the state to prevent misuse of religion for political ends, and to put all religions, faiths and creeds upon exactly the same legal basis, entitled to precisely the same opportunities and protection. It forbids affiliation with the government and the propagation and dissemination of – but militaristic and ultra-nationalistic ideology not only to shinto to the followers of all religions, faiths, sects, creeds or philosophies.3 It clearly expresses the main orientation of the American project. Most of all, it lays the basis of the separation of state and religion (seikyo– bunri) which was confirmed in Article 20 of the new Constitution, stating that: ‘Freedom of religion is guaranteed to all. No religious organization shall receive any privileges from the state, nor exercise any political authority. 2) No person shall be compelled to take part in any religious acts, celebration, rite or practice. 3) The state and its organs shall refrain from religious education or any other religious activity.’ However, if the American directive actually expresses clearly the principles to be observed and lists most of the behaviours to be banished, it says little about the existing objects and monuments. Only two passages make specific mention of them. The first is clear: ‘God-shelves (kamidana) and all other physical symbols of state shinto–, in any office, school institution, organization or structure supported wholly or in part

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by public funds are prohibited and will be removed immediately.’ The main targets are the miniature shinto– altars and shrines that had spread out in all public offices at the beginning of the war. They were to be removed quickly, but apart from that, as shinto– rituals do not rely on icons, only a few gohei or paper strips were threatened by such a measure. According to the letter of the American document, ikebana, no–, sumo–, gagaku, none of the art forms that helped shinto– propaganda during the war are concerned. As Faubion Bowers, who served as a censor of Japanese theatre during the Occupation says, ‘No one cared about no– because it was so antique people didn’t understand it.’4 Even though some kabuki plays like Chu–shingura (The Forty-Seven Samurai) were harshly repressed, and classical pieces of literature like the Kojiki eventually censored, many art forms that had been used to enhance the spirit of state shinto– lay outside of the field of application of the American document. The second passage is more problematic. Concerning the expressions that are to be banished, it states: ‘The use in official writings of the terms “Greater East Asia War”, “The Whole World Under One Roof”, and all other terms whose connotation in Japanese is inextricably connected with state shinto–, militarism and ultra-nationalism is prohibited and will cease immediately.’ The field covered by this last disposition is at once broad and vague. It puts into the same basket state shinto–, militarism and ultra-nationalism as if they were superposable realities. Furthermore, it only specifically quotes two expressions to be banished ‘Greater East Asia War’ (Daito–a senso–) and ‘The Whole World Under One Roof’ (hakko– ichiu). If the latter clearly refers to the imperial wartime rhetoric, the first one, after all, was much more tempered and factual than others, like ‘sacred war’ (seisen) for instance.5 Furthermore, since these terms were not defined in detail, the application of this directive became problematic. In addition, it only concerned texts yet unwritten and did not apply to existing inscriptions. If one sticks to the letter of the directive, most of the towers, stelae, plaques and commemorative panels erected during the war were not in question. This was an uncertainty that the Japanese authorities had to deal with. Nevertheless, it might appear that American policy towards Japanese war monuments was somehow unclear, in fact, when we look closely at CIE’s archives, we realize that it was taken very seriously.6 All through the period that runs from May 1946 to early 1948, American and Japanese staff of the Religions Division kept the situation under surveillance, requiring further information concerning the nature or the meaning of monuments, or demanding reports on the progress of the removal process.7 They also were concerned about the impact of such a policy on the local population. Thus, if the Americans planned the general policy and asked the Japanese administration to deal with most of the real job, they kept an eye on how their policy was implemented and, as we shall see further, did not hesitate to intervene when necessary.

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Institutions of Memory: Memorials, Museums, National Heroes THE GOVERNMENT DECREES

Actually, the Japanese authorities could not, indeed, have been surprised by the American demands. After all, Japan had taken similar measures in Korea in order to combat the emergence of nationalism. In particular, in 1943–44 the army had destroyed several stone monuments to the memory of heroes of Korean history such as Yi Song-gye, who fought against the Japanese raiders (wako–) in the fourteenth century, or Samyong, a Buddhist monk who preached resistance against Hideyoshi’s attempt to invade the peninsula. To see the occupier attacking monuments that stimulated patriotism was — and still is — the normal course of events. The first Japanese ministerial directives concerning the question of funeral ceremonies and commemorative monuments date from November 1946, which coincides with the promulgation of the new Constitution. These directives transcribed into applicable measures the general aims specified by Americans in the directive of December 1945. The first, dated 1 November 1946, was simultaneously issued by the chief cabinet secretaries (jikan) of the Interior and Education ministers to the local governors (chiho– cho–kan). Articles 4 and 5 state the following: In future in no event will there be erected bronze statues or commemorative monuments for soldiers who died in combat, whether it be in the form of a tower (chu–rei-to–) or stela (chu–kon-hi); the same applies for all militarists and extreme nationalists. Should any such constructions be under way, they must be stopped at once. Concerning what already exists, it will be handled as follows: a. What is located inside schools or school precincts will be removed. b. What is located inside or outside official buildings, or within public grounds, will be removed if they have been obviously erected to propagate militaristic or extreme nationalistic ideas. The above measures do not aim at forbidding the construction of private stelae or graves by families of dead soldiers. It is permissible to erect and maintain commemorative monuments or bronze statues dedicated to civilian benefactors and martyrs.8 However, because article b was too vague, local authorities had difficulty in determining whether a monument was propagating ‘militaristic or extreme nationalistic ideas’, a second directive was issued on 27 November. Signed by the director of the Bureau for National Security of the Home Ministry, it clarifies the following points: 1. Monuments located inside schools, school precincts or any affiliated places will be removed. 2. Monuments located inside or outside official buildings, or within public grounds, will be removed if they have been obviously

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erected to propagate militaristic or ultra-nationalistic doctrines, such as: The Emperor of Japan is superior to the heads of other states because of ancestry, descent or special origin. The Japanese people are superior to other peoples because of ancestry, descent or special origin. The islands of Japan are superior to other lands because of special origin.9 All that abuses the people or glorifies the use of military power as a way to solve conflicts between nations, and thus favours the outburst of an aggressive war. In principle it is not necessary to remove simple war memorials or other monuments commemorating the Russo-Japanese war when there is nothing special about them. 3. The remains placed inside the towers (chu–rei-to–) needing to be removed will be held as follows: When families are clearly identified, they will be restituted to families. In any other case, they will be buried in a common grave. 4. The persons in charge of the removals are: The administrator or the owner of the monument The administrator or the owner of the ground where the monument is located The mayor of the municipality where the monument is located 5. If families join their efforts to erect a gravestone, they are required to keep it simple since a luxurious or spectacular construction could appear as an apology of war. 6. Families erecting new gravestones are allowed to have it engraved with information such as the arm of service, the rank, the name of the soldier and that of the place where he fell.10 There was, therefore, by the end of 1946, a detailed legal framework within which local authorities had to handle commemorative monuments erected before and during the war. Except schools from which any monument with political or religious significance had to be removed, only those which were openly militarist or ultra-nationalist had to be removed, but monuments related to the Russo-Japanese War could ‘as a principle’ (gensoku toshite) remain in place. At a first glance, these measures may seem to be the exact translation of the 1945 American directive. Nevertheless we can detect a distinct reorientation when comparing these documents. Although the directive of CIE was targeting first of all ‘state shinto–’, the expression ‘kokka shinto–’ does not appear anywhere in the Japanese texts. The decrees of the Japanese government rather focus on ‘militarists’ and ‘ultra-nationalists’, even though, as the hesitation in the words suggests, (i.e. ‘extreme nationalistic’ [kyokutan na kokkashugi] on 1 November 1945, ‘ultra-nationalistic’ [cho– kokkashugi] on 27 November), these concepts were anything but

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clear. This evolution is meaningful. It shows the latitude allowed to the Japanese authorities at a time when SCAP was reinterpreting its doctrine concerning the imperial institution. AT GROUND LEVEL: THE CASE OF SCHOOLS It was in school precincts that the change was most obvious. The symbols of the militaristic period were hunted down, starting with the ho–anden, which were either destroyed or moved outside. The ho–anden were tiny pavilions that contained a copy of the 1890 Imperial Edict on Education, the national flag and the photograph of the imperial couple (goshin’ei).11 This place was highly respected and its goal was to transmit to children the feeling of being part of a nation. We should make clear that since Meiji the official portraits represented the emperor dressed with a Western military uniform, which signifies that he is the holder of temporal power. The first ho–anden had been built in 1891, but they were only widely spread by the late 1920s.12 That is why although some were in wood with a sharp roof like shinto– shrines, many of them were merely made of concrete. Most of the ho–anden were removed during the summer of 1946, which means before the previously quoted decrees. They had been treated separately from other monuments, and CIE’s local officers followed this matter up carefully. Despite this special treatment, some of them — very few — remained where they were, abandoned, while more often they were displaced and reinstalled elsewhere, in temples or shrines for instance, where they were given a new function, which shows how local authorities tried in some cases to resist or to adapt the government directives. In Yokkaichi for instance, a town located south of Nagoya, which had been strongly hit in June 1945 by American bombardments, no less that four ho–anden have been preserved after being removed from schoolyards. One of them, which was relocated within the precincts of the local Jo–do shinshu– temple, the Seigen-ji, is used nowadays as a reliquary (no–kotsudo–) in which has been enshrined the list of the men and women registered in the temple and who died during the war (Fig. 8.1). In schools, there were also many stelae dedicated to the war dead, and more specially to those of the Russo-Japanese War, but often they had been erected only late in the 1910s or the 1920s. The government had tried since 1905 to regulate the construction of these monuments, that were sometimes called ‘local Yasukunis’ (mura no Yasukuni or machi no Yasukuni), on the basis of ‘one monument per municipality’ (shicho–son uchi ni ikkasho).13 They usually were basic upright stones engraved with a central inscription like ‘chu–konhi’ or ‘stela to the loyal souls’, an expression that was to become the general denomination of these monuments. At the bottom, or behind the stone, could be inscribed the names of the dead soldiers of the community, but often no names were given. Many of these stelae have been erected by local veterans’

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Figure 8.1: Ho–anden in Yokkaichi

associations (sen’yu–-kai) on behalf of the Imperial Veterans’ Association (Teikoku Zaigo– Gunjinkai), established in 1910 and dismantled in 1945. In such a case, the municipality or the local shinto– shrine would provide the land, but the population largely supported the building of the monument itself. In the town of Tama, which at the beginning of the twentieth century was not the large suburban area it is now, a stela was erected in 1923–2514 to commemorate the fourteen fellow citizens who died in the wars or military operations that the country had undertaken since the late nineteenth century, including the Sino-Japanese War of 1894–95. This 3.5 metres high stone monument, which bears a rare epigraph ‘sho–chu–hi’ or ‘Stela to the glory of the faithful’, was erected along the edge of the playground of the primary school. But it was financed through fund-raising among the eleven Buddhist temples ( jiin) of the town and the 770 registered families. All of the eleven temples and 648 (or 84%) of the families gave a contribution for its realization. The average donation was 4.5 yen per family for an average income comprised then between 50 and 70 yen/month. Overall, 2,731 yen were collected allowing the construction of a monument that cost 2,104 yen.15 Most of these monuments were removed during the summer of 1947. Usually they were relocated elsewhere. But it seems that, in some cases,

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they could have been destroyed or buried at the very place where they were previously standing. Nevertheless, there are also examples of stelae that remained inside schools. In fact, if we look at American archives, the CIE maintained the pressure until spring 1948. After that date, the question of monuments seems no longer to be a preoccupation. As William Woodard from the Religions Division reports: ‘It was desirable to remove any impression that the Occupation was opposed to the appropriate commemoration of the war dead.’16 Consequently, the monuments that had not been removed by mid-1948 were to stay as long as a new headmaster or a new mayor was not there to require its removal. For instance the monument in Tama primary school was only removed in the late 1950s. However, finally almost all the stelae have now been removed from the schools. This is an important point. It shows that not only during the Occupation but also in the following years, these monuments were perceived as having either a religious or a political significance. They were not ‘secularized’ (sezokuka) monuments as argued by the Supreme Court in the 1987 Minoo trial. Otherwise why would people have got rid of them?17 Furthermore, in a very exceptional case such as in Hiroshima’s third middle school where a ‘tower for the relief of souls’ (ireito–) was erected as soon as August 1946,18 at the very beginning of the Occupation, nobody seems to have complained, not only because it was Hiroshima, but also because it was obviously neither political nor religious. Finally, a large number of the statues of Ninomiya Sontoku (1787–1856), better known as Kinjiro–, was demolished.19 Kinjiro–, who symbolizes eagerness for knowledge and dedication to work, was commonly represented as a child, walking, a bundle of wood on his back and a book in his hands.20 Although Kinjiro–’s story was popularized during the second half of the Meiji period, he was particularly revered during the war and his example eventually exported to the colonies and other Japanese occupied territories. Shashin shu–ho–, the illustrated magazine of the Cabinet propaganda section, reports that in 1944 a statue of Kinjiro– was inaugurated in Jakarta so that the young Indonesians would become, like their fellow Japanese, ‘hard-working good kids’ (benkyo– no yoi kodomo).21 However, Ninomiya Sontoku himself was obviously a great man and pedagogue, who untiringly fought to improve the peasant’s condition. This is why, once the war had ended, the fate of his portraits depended entirely upon the judgement of the local authorities: they were destroyed where they were considered to propagate militaristic values, but preserved when they were judged to represent a universal ideal of courage and intelligence. At the end, it is very hard to tell how many have been demolished during the Occupation as some that were removed around 1947 were put back in place after 1952, some others recast, not to speak of new ones. All we can say is that there remain a large number of Kinjiro– statues throughout the country.22

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TOKYO MONUMENTS Outside of schools, the situation is far more complicated. It is quite difficult to tell precisely how many monuments were destroyed during the occupation period, for many of them were, as for Kinjiro–, either rebuilt or relocated after 1952. All we know is that “between late 1946 and May 1948, some 5,613 monuments and 354 statues had been removed; 890 monuments and seventeen statues had been moved to less conspicuous locations; and 908 monuments and twenty-nine statues had had their appearance altered or the wording of their inscriptions changed”.23 Nevertheless, the CIE’s documents do not state exactly how many of these monuments were located outside of schools. Moreover the figures of demolished statues would need to be analysed in detail, as they do not fit with what is supposed to be the number of statues that survived the war. However, a point seems clear, graves have been completely spared. The military cemeteries were transferred in June 1946 to the authority of the Finance, and then the Health and Labour ministries, but no funeral monuments have been removed or transformed. There are many tombs all around the country engraved with epigraphs characteristic of the war period like ‘faithful soul’ (chu–rei), ‘valorous soldier’ (yu–shi), etc., or even bearing the mention of military distinctions. Of course, new ones were erected as allowed in the government directives. Let us mention a detail that makes them very easy to find in a cemetery: a small obelisk surmounts most of them — a type of grave that is known as shinto–gata boseki or shinto–-style tomb — and they are slightly taller than the ordinary ones. In general, it is in the capital that things are best known. In Tokyo, a Commission of Inquiry of the Removal of War Monuments (Chu–reito–, chu–konhi to– no tekkyo shinsa iinkai) was established in February 1947 three months after the government directives had been issued. It had fourteen members, including a former director of the Religions Affairs Section of the Ministry of Education, Shimomura Juichi, the socialethnographer Kon Wajiro–, and a renowned sculptor, Asakura Fumio. It published its findings three months later, on 5 May, proposing the destruction of about twenty monuments, among which were: — — — — — — — — —

Stela to the Navy march Gunkan, Hibiya Park;24 Stela to the missing of the Sado-maru, Shiba Park;25 Bust of T o–go– Heihachiro–, Admiral To–go– Park; Stela to the Admiral To–go–, Admiral To–go– Park; Statue of Hirose Takeo and Sugino Magoshichi, Suda-cho–, Kanda;26 Statue of Kawakami So–roku, Kudan, Chiyoda-ku; Tower to the White Scarves suicide squad of Port Arthur, Sangu–-bashi; Monument to the martyrs of Nikolaievsk, Kudan, Chiyoda-ku;27 Monument to the memory of Hitachi-maru martyrs, Kudan, Chiyoda-ku;28

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— Monument to the dead of Tanaka regiment in the Siberian expedition, Kudan, Chiyoda-ku; — Statue of Yamagata Aritomo, Kokkai gijido–-mae, Chiyoda-ku.29 To fully understand the range of such a measure, one has to realize that most of these works were true ‘survivors’. During the war, on 5 May 1943, the government had indeed officially decided to proceed with the withdrawal of all bronze statues (Do–zo– to– no hijo– kaishu– jisshi yo–ko–), as a symbolic way to stimulate the metal collection campaign launched by the Ministry of Industry and, more generally speaking, to enhance the spirit of sacrifice among the population. If heroes could give their flesh for the nation, what about an ordinary man! A few months later, in December, 9,236 bronzes had been registered throughout the country. Among those, 8,344 were ‘considered as having to be withdrawn without any doubt’; 613 were in a category for which ‘doubts existed’, but ‘had to be withdrawn’; only 279 had ‘to be kept in place’ (sonchi subeki). As a result around 90% of Japan bronze statues disappeared during that period.30 Therefore, if the works listed above managed to survive the war, it was because they were considered to be of an exceptional value, as even the statues of gunshin or god-heroes of the army were not spared. Among the statues — and we shall notice here that they were considered as war dead monuments whether it be by the Americans or the Japanese — the majority were of military heroes, such as Admiral To–go– Heihachiro– or Col. Hirose Takeo (Fig. 8.2). Some of these works were very famous and of great artistic interest such as the Hirose statue, which was among the earliest masterpieces of Asakura Fumio, himself a

Figure 8.2: Statue of Hirose Takeo

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member of the Commission. But, if this one was destroyed, Yamagata Aritomo’s colossal effigy had a better fate.31 After being taken down, it was stored for a while in various places before being moved in 1992 into a park at Hagi City (Yamaguchi Pref.) where the great man was born.32 It can be seen that in the great majority of cases the monuments in question were concerned with the conflict with Imperial Russia. In the whole list, only three refer to events after that conflict. However, the ministerial directive of 27 November clearly specified ‘In principle it is not necessary to destroy the simple war memorials or other monuments commemorating the Russo-Japanese War when there is nothing special about them.’33 If the monuments to the Russo-Japanese War were not spared, it is because they were judged to have an aggressive significance. However, it is hard to include in such a category the Monument to the Martyrs of Nikolaievsk or the Monument to the Memory of the Martyrs of the Hitachi-maru. These stelae could indeed be considered revanchist inasmuch as they accused the Russians of having killed civilians during the war, but they exalted neither the sense of sacrifice nor the glory of war. – The case of the statue of Kawakami So–roku, a work by Okuma Ujihiro of 1905 located in Kudan, is even more surprising. Kawakami was an army officer who finished his brilliant career as Chief of the army’s General Staff (sanbo– honbu so–cho–) after his successes in the Sino-Japanese War 1894–95. But in any case, he was dead (he died in 1899) years before the beginning of the war against Russia. In fact, by stigmatizing the various leaders of the army from the beginning of the Meiji period the Tokyo commission clearly were attempting to describe a genealogy of militarism, as if there had been since the end of the nineteenth century a sort of rampant plot to erode imperial power. On the other hand, the commission decided to spare all the sculptures representing the imperial family, on the grounds that the emperor could not be held responsible for the war.34 Thus, for example, the equestrian statue of Prince Kitashirakawa cast in 1903 by Shinkai Taketaro– was preserved.35 Located originally at the entrance to the barracks of the 1st and 2nd Imperial Guard regiments, it was moved a small distance in 1963 after the opening of Kitanomaru Park (Fig. 8.3). It is now located a few yards beside the Crafts gallery of the National Museum of Modern Art, facing the Imperial Palace but surrounded by trees (Fig. 8.4). The same – thing happened to the statue of Prince Arisugawa Taruhito, by Okuma Ujihiro, which also had been erected in 1903, and was located in front of the Army General Staff building at Kasumigaura (Fig. 8.5).36 After the war, it was placed in Arisugawa Memorial Park, the eponymous park in Minato-ku ward, between a sandpit and the entrance to the Metropolitan Library (Fig. 8.6). Although they were preserved from destruction, they had to survive in a strange position, both glorious (facing the Imperial Palace for one, in his own park for the other) and gloomy (under the dark shadows of trees). Since the Occupation, there are many monuments that hold ambiguous messages, secrets and

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Figure 8.3: Statue of Prince Kitashirakawa.

Figure 8.4: Statue of Prince Kitashirakawa today.

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Figure 8.5: Statue of Prince Arisugawa.

contradictions. That is why the ‘Yasukuni problem’ is not the problem of only one institution: it is the whole commemorative system in Japan that has to be scrutinized and analysed before Japan can hope to unify its memories. Only a few statues were not only spared but also left in situ. Such was the case for two of the most celebrated works by Takamura Ko–un, the Kusunoki Masashige (1893–1900) statue guarding the south gate of the Imperial Palace (Ko–kyo-mae hiroba) and the Saigo– Takamori (1898) – statue in Ueno Park. Also spared was the statue representing Omura Masujiro–, the founder of the Japanese Army. Although dedicated to an army officer, this monument was directly related to the imperial system, as it is located inside the Yasukuni Shrine on a high column on which – is evoked Omura’s glorious career. Only the guns that used to surround the column disappeared. From the point of view of art history it is fortunate that this statue was left unharmed, as it is one of the first bronzes of that kind made by a Japanese artist.37 It also shows the assimilation of Western conceptions of monument within the Sino-Japanese tradition of epigraphic stelae. Finally, the decision taken in 1947 to destroy the statues of the military leaders of the Russo-Japanese War is quite far from the American directives that mainly targeted state shinto– related materials. It shows in

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Figure 8.6: Statue of Prince Arisugawa today.

fact an internal wish to make the military leaders bear the whole responsibility for the conflict. However, it would be a bit hasty to believe that there was a clear political choice behind this decision. We have to consider it may be the expression of a compromise between divergent interests and points of view. If we consider now the whole country and not just Tokyo, we discover that the directives set up by the Japanese administration have been understood and applied in different ways. A famous example is the huge stone tower built by the sculptor Hinako Jitsuzo– in 1940 to celebrate the 2600th anniversary of the legendary imperial lineage. This monument, located in Miyazaki-ken, bears, written in large characters, the epigraph ‘Eight bounds, one roof’, ‘hakko– ichiu,’ a formula that, although improperly translated, was expressly quoted as to be banished in the Directive for the Disestablishment of State Shinto–. The war once over, local authorities wondered whether they should keep this monument, the biggest erected on the Japanese mainland during the war. But after discussion, they concluded it should be preserved, but under a new name. It is now

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known as the Peace Tower (Heiwa no to–), but the inscription ‘hakko– ichiu’ has not been removed.38 There is no doubt this monument would have been purely and simply destroyed if it had been in Tokyo. In the same way, To–go–’s bust was removed in the capital, but several parks or sanctuaries dedicated to his memory were left untouched throughout the country. Again, the stela to the victims of the Sado-maru was demolished in Tokyo, but not in Kokura (now Kita-Kyu–shu–). Such different treatments show both the specific position of the capital city and the predominance of local decisions in the war monument elimination process. A last case deserves our special attention. It concerns two monuments located on Iimoriyama hill,39 Aizu-Wakamatsu, in the immediate vicinity of the Byakko–tai graves, Byakko–tai (White Tigers regiment) being the name of a famous group of young warriors (bushi) who gave their lives ‘heroically’ during the 1868 civil war or Boshin senso–. The first of these monuments is an antique marble column surmounted by an eagle given by fascist Italy to Japan under the auspices of the ‘Senate and People of Rome’ (S.P.Q.R.) as a tribute ‘to the spirit of bushido–’ (allo spirito del bushido) (Fig. 8.7).40 This monument was not Japanese and therefore out of the range of the several directives quoted above. The Americans then decided to do it themselves and asked for the inscription containing the word ‘fascista’ to be erased. But the monument itself, with its great eagle wings spread out, remained in place. Beside this column is a second monument, a little stela marked with an iron cross, that a few words in German explain as being the tribute of ‘A German to the young knights of Aizu, 1935’ (Ein Deutscher den jungen Rittern von Aizu, 1935), in fact a diplomat called Hasso von Etzdorf.41 Here again, because it was considered as a legacy of Nazi Germany, its removal was required (it was put back in place in 1953). If in these cases Americans got so involved, it is also because they could understand the nature of the monuments, and read what was written on them. Of course, it is not the only example of direct intervention of American forces in commemoration related matters, but it leads us to imagine that their policy could have been much more coercive had they mastered the language and better understood Japanese culture. CONCLUSION The monuments removal campaign of 1946–48 still affects contemporary Japan for it created an ambiguous system. Although the responsibility for erasing a part of Japanese memory is often imputed to ‘SCAP’ or ‘Americans’, history shows that the present situation is the result of a complex interaction of decisions. In that process, Japanese authorities obviously played an important role: the government considerably reoriented American directives so as to protect the imperial system and did not really try to set up things on a nationwide basis. With such a policy

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Figure 8.7: Monument for the Byakko–tai.

and without clarification — which implies that historians bring to light the share of responsibility of the Japanese state during the Occupation (and not only during the war) — one could not expect to get anything other than this kind of squeezed, uncomfortable memory that Japan has today. Moreover, it had two other important consequences. First, it deeply changed the face of Japanese big cities. To remove a statue often means transforming the whole urban structure of the area concerned. Monuments that spread out from the 1890s to the 1940s were not only commemorating a certain hero; they were also creating focal points and perspective lines within the city space. In so far as we can imagine Tokyo and some other large cities from old pictures and movies, many districts

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offered a much more rationally organized sense of space. To say it in a word, the ‘disorder’ one can observe today in Japanese cities is not merely the ‘natural’ result of old concepts and cultural practices: they are also the consequence of the war, of the Occupation, and moreover of the incapacity to clarify this period of history. It is interesting to notice that what is clearly and fully accepted in Japanese wartime history, and particularly what refers to Japan as a victim, as at Hiroshima or Okinawa, with the Peace Memorial Parks, or even in Tokyo, with the Yasukuni Shrine, is very efficiently mis en scène. Each Japanese city is, from the point of view of its structure itself, a ‘realm’ of post-war memory whether it is obvious or hidden. What we are saying about social space could also be said about people’s conscience. The removal of monuments and their ambiguous resurgence after 1952 created a situation from which no hero was able to emerge. Post-war Japan is a country that has neither positive nor negative, or evil, heroes. There are no more historical figures whose effigies could help to crystallize national history: there is no MacArthur memorial, no Jean-Moulin Museum, or no repulsive figure like Hitler, only a lot of ‘grey’ and ambiguous people. Although it has not helped until now to write and explain history, we can hope it may become an opportunity to find new patterns of historiography to depict the relations between individuals, society and power. NOTES 1 2

3

4

5

6

Kitagawa Kenzo–, Sengo no shuppatsu (Tokyo: Aoki Shoten, 2000), p. 210. On this directive, see William P. Woodard, The Allied Occupation of Japan 1945–1952 (Leiden: Brill, 1972), pp. 62–72, and Mark R. Mullins et al. (eds), Religion and Society in Modern Japan (Berkeley: Asian Humanities Press, 1993), pp. 49–55, 82–138. This document is commonly known as the Directive for the Disestablishment of State Shinto–, but its original title is Abolition of Governmental Sponsorship, Support, Perpetuation, Control and Dissemination of State Shinto– (Kokka shinto–, Jinja shinto–) (SCAPIN 448). See Woodard, The Allied Occupation of Japan, pp. 296–8. Faubion Bowers, in Thomas W. Burkman (ed.), The Occupation of Japan: Arts and Culture (Norfolk, VA: General Douglas MacArthur Foundation, 1988), p. 203. It explains for instance why nobody calls the Imperial Rescript of 14 August 1945 by its full title that is Imperial Rescript Ending the Great East Asian War (Daito–a senso– shu–sen no sho–sho). CIE’s archives (GHQ/SCAPRecords/CIE) are stored at the Washington National Records Centre (Suitland), but are available in Japan on microfilm (National Library of Japan, Tokyo University’s Central Library, Ritsumeikan University, So–ka University); see documents no. 110–1, 6762–4, etc.

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9

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11

12

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14

15

16 17

18

19

20

21

22

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We also can find documents on war memorials issued by CIE’s Arts and Monuments division, but only concerning artistic or patrimonial aspects. See ‘Ko–so– nado ni kan suru tsucho–,’ 1 November 1946, in Yasukuni hyakunen-shi: shiryo– hen (gekan) (Tokyo: Yasukuni jinja, 1984), p. 88. These criteria are almost the exact translation of the Directive for the Disestablishment of State Shinto–, art. f). See Woodard, The Allied Occupation of Japan, p. 298. – rei-to–, chu–kon-hi to– no sochi ni kan suru tsucho–,’ 27 November ‘Chu 1946, in Yasukuni hyakunen-shi: shiryo– hen (gekan), p. 89, 90. The Ministry of Education first required on 30 January 1946 that ho–anden shaped like shinto– shrine should be removed. SCAP finally asked for the removal of all the ho–anden before 31 August. Woodard, The Allied Occupation of Japan, p. 166 and sq. There were not ho–anden in every school. Some had instead a special alcove (ho–anko) inside the building or even just a special recess (ho–keijo) decorated to receive the precious images. Murakami Shigeyoshi, Irei to sho–kon (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1974), pp. 135–6. A first stela had been erected in 1923 but it was destroyed immediately after by the Kanto– earthquake. It was rebuilt two years later. For all these data, see Tamashi-shi, no. 3 (1995), p. 440–2 and Tamacho–-shi (1970), p. 317–18. Woodard, The Allied Occupation of Japan, p. 154. In 1987, The Supreme Court judged that the municipality of Minoo was not guilty for having provided public land for the relocation of a chu–konhi, considering those monuments had no more religious nature but developed instead a secularized function. See the Supreme Court records for 1987, ‘H05.02.16 Saiko–sai daisansho– hanketsu: Minoo-shi – konhi sosho– jiken,’ in Minshu–, vol. 47:3, p. 1687. chu Registered in Kingendai no senso– ni kan suru kinenhi (Sakura: Kokuritsu Rekishi Minzoku Hakubutsukan, 2003), p. 715. Ninomiya Sontoku’s statues had not been spared by the 1943–45 metal withdrawal campaign. There are other types of Kinjiro–’s statues, for instance walking with bare hands, or seated, reading his book. ‘Ninomiya-san Jakaruta e’, in Shashin Shu–ho– (Naikaku jo–ho–-kyoku, May 1944), p. 8. One of the recent examples of Kinjiro– was erected in 2003 in the grounds of a school in the town of Gujo– (Gifu); see Chu–nichi Shinbun (Nagoya edition) 10 December 2004. See ‘Mission and Accomplishments of the Occupation in the Civil Information and Education Field’, Report of Civil Information and Education Section, GHQ, SCAP, 1 January 1950, p. 28. Quoted by Woodard in The Allied Occupation of Japan, p. 153, and reproduced in Takemae Eiji, Nakamura Takafusa (eds), GHQ Nihon senryo–-shi: Shu–kyo–, vol. 21 (Tokyo: Nihon Tosho Sentâ, 2000), p. 22.

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25

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27

28

29

30

31

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This stela was realized by Hinako Jitsuzo– and inaugurated during spring 1943; see Ongaku Ko–ron, no. 3–6 (June 1943), p. 23. The Sado-maru, a ship that had mainly civilians on board, was hit by the Russian Navy on 15 June 1904. This statue was erected in 1910. It was the work of Watanabe Osao (1874–1952) and his younger brother, Asakura Fumio. It was located in Kanda district, in front of Manseibashi Station, an attractive brick building in Renaissance style designed in 1912 by Tatsuno Kingo. Thomas P. Terry (1864–1945) described it in his guidebook as ‘one of the finest in Tokyo’. See Terry’s Guide to the Japanese Empire (Boston/New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1920), p. 148. This monument was located just beside the statue of Shinagawa Yajiro–, at the entrance of what is now Kitanomaru Park. The Nikolaievsk incident happened in May 1920. In this town of Siberia located on the River Amur’s mouth, several hundreds of Japanese soldiers and civilians are said to have been killed by partisan troops. The stela itself was erected in 1924 and removed in August 1947. This stela was located in Ushigafuchi, near the Imperial Palace. Built in 1934, it was dedicated to the 963 passengers of the Hitachi-maru, a ship hit by the Russian Navy along with the Sado-maru on 15 June 1904. While the Sado-maru finally escaped, the Hitachi-maru sank on the spot. The famous statue The Three Heroes of the Flesh Bomb (Nikudan san-yu–shi, 1934) had been removed earlier in spring by the monks of the Seisho–-ji, the temple in front of which it was located. It is unclear how many statues were effectively removed afterwards, and even more how many were melted. If only 279 had survived, it would be much fewer than the 400 or so that are said to have been destroyed or displaced during the Occupation, not speaking of all those who survived both the war and the occupation. Obviously many statues have not been melted after being dismantled, and could have been put back in place just – after the war. Nevertheless, as in the case of Oyama Iwao’s effigy, originally located on Miyake-zaka, which was taken down during the war and stored in the Fine Arts Academy at Ueno before being solemnly reinstalled in 1964 near to the Yasukuni Shrine, reinstallations generally occurred later than 1947–8. We then have to consider that the local resistance to the withdrawal policy had been stronger than we might have thought. See Hirase Reita, ‘Senso– to bijutsu korekushon,’ in Kitazawa Naoyuki (ed.), Ko–za Nihon bijutsu-shi, vol. 6 (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppan-kai, 2005), pp. 144–5. See also: ‘To–kyo– no do–zo– (14): Mubo– na senso– no gisei,’ Tokyo Shinbun (16 November 1959). This statue was realized in 1929 by Kitamura Seibo– (1883–1987), celebrated sculptor whose most famous work is the huge Sculpture for Peace (Heiwa kinen-zo–) in Nagasaki (1955). See Michael Lucken, ‘La Statue pour la Paix de Nagasaki’, in Le Japon après la guerre (Arles: Picquier, 2006), pp. 223–46.

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36 37 38

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See ‘Kinoshita Naoyuki, Yamagata Aritomo-zo to– Yamamoto Isorokuzo’ in Tan’o Yasunori (ed.), Kioku to– rekishi (Tokyo: Waseda daigaku Aizu Yaichi kinen hakubutsukan, 2007), p.69. ‘Chu–rei-to–, chu–kon-hi to– no sochi ni kan suru tsucho–’ (27 November 1946), Yasukuni hyakunen-shi: shiryo– hen (gekan), pp. 89, 90. See ‘To–kyo– no do–zo– (15): Sengo no junan’, Tokyo Shinbun (17 November 1959). See Tanaka Shu–ji, Kindai Nihon saisho no cho–kokuka (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Ko–bunkan, 1994), pp. 250–2. Ibid., pp. 160–197. Ibid. Tan’o Yasunori and Kawata Akihisa, Ime–ji no naka no senso– (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1996), p. 34. The name of this hill is borrowed from another Iimoriyama hill, located next to Ko–be, where Kusunoki Masashige committed suicide in 1348 after his defeat against Ashikaga troops. It is therefore a metaphorical transposition (mitate), which reactivates in Aizu the great deeds of one of the most important heroes of the Meiji Restoration. The complete epigraph is as follow: ‘S.P.Q.R. nel segno del littorio Roma madre di civilta con la millenaria colonna testimone d’eterna grandezza tributa onore imperituro alla memoria degli eroi di Biacco-tai [sic.]. Anno MCMXXVIII, VI era fascista’; and elsewhere: ‘Allo spirito del bushido’. Hasso von Etzdorf (1900–89) was a German diplomat and secretary at the German embassy in Italy at the beginning of the 1930s. He had a brilliant career in the West German foreign office administration after the war, becoming Ambassador succesively to Canada and Great Britain.

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The Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum and its Exhibition1 STEFANIE SCHÄFER

INTRODUCTION

W

hen describing the last six decades of Japanese history one can hardly avoid the term ‘post-war’. This era was frequently defined in accordance to what it was not, to what it had overcome – that is, the war. By calling the present ‘post-war’, people would reassure themselves that the war was over and yet reaffirm the fundamental connection between now and then. While the past meant suffering, their present was characterized by peace and prosperity. Recently there have been many attempts to write a history of post-war Japan through changing memories of the war, but probably no war memory reflects the dualism of present and past, peace and war so fiercely as the memories of the first atomic bombing – Hiroshima, 6 August 1945. This paper aims to reconstruct the history of the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum (Hiroshima Heiwa Kinen Shiryo–kan) and its exhibition from the days of its founding until today. The museum’s history-telling and related discussions serve as a subtext to how the past was understood and how this understanding might have changed during the museum’s existence. The different images of the past thereby testify for their respective presents. At the same time the exhibition’s history offers insight into the predicaments of official commemoration in general and of remembrance in Hiroshima in particular. THE FOUNDING AND THE EARLY YEARS OF THE MUSEUM On 2 September 1945, only a few weeks after the bombing, the prefecture of Hiroshima announced a first plan ‘to mark out a sufficiently large

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territory close to the centre of the atomic explosion and to keep it as a commemorative site’.2 But the survivors refused to wait for the official site of commemoration that eventually took another ten years to complete. On the first anniversary of the bombing, citizens and officials mourned for their dead at the local Gokoku Shrine in what they called the Peace Recovery Festival (Heiwa Fukko– Sai).3 The anniversary received wide international attention and thereby fostered awareness of the global relevance of the atomic bomb experience. As a result, the mayor expressed the need to strengthen the international aspects through an overall Peace Festival (Heiwa Sai) and to rebuild the city as the world’s peace city. The city administration agreed that this was a task which had to be carried out in the ‘name of the nation’, and therefore turned to the Tokyo government for legal support. In May 1949, after lengthy negotiations with the central government and the Occupation’s General Headquarters, the National Diet agreed to a law which was to express the commonly shared plan of all the citizens of Hiroshima to rebuild their city ‘as a peace memory city’ (cf. article 1).4 Long before the general post-war city construction law in 1968 the surviving citizens of Hiroshima felt a need for a collective urban selfdefinition. Apart from the financial aspects, there were mostly symbolic reasons for the wish to endow the city’s mission and self-definition with a national, and therefore superior, aura by means of a law. In article 3, for instance, the central government provided itself with the possibility to subsidize the town – planning measures in Hiroshima at its discretion. Furthermore, the Prime Minister committed himself to annual reports to the parliament on the implementation of the law. The imperative nature of this strong symbolic act was contrasted by legal loopholes that empowered the government to allocate varying amounts of financial support, or to stop it completely, since it was the state and not the city that decided on the necessity of support (cf. article 3 and 4). From a legal perspective, the law provided only an inadequate tool for the city and its citizens to achieve their objectives. This, in turn, emphasized the primary goal of the law to provide an identity. Despite the national framing of the city’s reconstruction, the main responsibility and the actual realization remained on a local level, since all measures for implementing works were assigned to the mayor’s incumbency (article 6). The law stressed a close cooperation between officials and citizens, but at the same time it left all final decisions in the hands of the city administration, especially the mayor. This distribution of power would influence the future museum deeply. In accordance with the new constitution a referendum was carried out and an overwhelming majority of the citizens agreed to the law.5 In June 1948 – when the city still lay in ashes – the city of Hiroshima had already decided on the construction of a Peace Memorial Park (Heiwa Kinen Ko–en) and invited architects to create its design.6 Since the municipal administration in its current state could not possibly bear the

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costs of such a project all alone, it turned to the central government in Tokyo for help.7 The realization of the building project was part of a nation-wide, five-year recovery plan and would – in the case of Hiroshima – also provide the ‘cultural facilities worthy of a peace city’. The costs for the Peace Memorial Park, about 700,000 Yen, made up approximately 2.6 per cent of the overall financial support.8 The city administration would, after receiving these funds, take over and pay for the maintenance. The City Construction Law was proclaimed on the fourth anniversary of the bombing, and at the same time Tange Kenzo– (1913–2005) was designated to realize his plan for the new Memorial Park in the Nakajima district.9 Indeed, the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum was to be Tange’s debut. The district was located not far from the centre of the explosion, south of the T-shaped bridge of Aioi that had served as a target mark for the pilots. The bomb had completely destroyed this district and had left an open area in the heart of the city, which was now to be used as the official commemorative site. Tange’s design for the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park organizes the respective elements in the form of an isosceles triangle. The base spans an east-west axis and consists in a three-part complex of buildings, with the Peace Memorial Museum in the centre. To the right and left of the museum are two identical buildings that serve as exhibition, meeting and office rooms,10 namely the Kinenkan to the east and the Ko–kaido–11 to the west. On the north-south axis of symmetry a path leads from the Museum to the top of the triangle where the central memorial stone (ireihi) is located. A visitor’s view along this axis reaches the pond of peace (heiwa no ike) and then focuses on the A-bomb dome (genbaku do–mu), which consequently forms an architectural and semantic unity with the Museum and the central memorial stone. According to Inoue Sho–ichi, Tange mainly reused his old design for the Commemorative Building Project for the Construction of Greater East Asia (Daito–-A kensetsu kinen eizo– keikaku) from 1942.12 The earlier project was planned as a Shintoist-national site at the foot of Mount Fuji to commemorate the establishment of the Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere (Daito–-A kyo–eiken). This architectural legacy gave the Peace Museum a bizarre double meaning. Of course, the buildings’ function of commemoration suggested a similar plan, but even the new buildings’ particular design, e.g. imitating haniwa and azekurazukuri, referred to an architectural style which called for a ‘return to Japan’ according to the traditionalist ideology of wartime Japan.13 The plans for the building, which represented a newborn, post-war Hiroshima and its central value, peace, derived from the very plans meant to celebrate wartime imperialism and militarism. The design’s inherent contradiction was noticed by contemporaries: ‘I think that the way of thinking which is at the centre [of Tange’s] design includes post-war democracy, but in other ways it resembles pretty much the world view of the Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere.’14

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Although these explicit references were publicly known, they did not raise general doubt about the chosen design. During the following decades of remodelling – and even destruction and rebuilding – of the Museum, Tange’s design was never altered. And although never discussed publicly, its ambiguous meaning became part of the museum’s message. The Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum opened just in time for the tenth anniversary of the bombing but still consisted of only the central building, the Shiryo–kan,15 which means archive or ‘resource collection’.16 The visitors were mostly people from Hiroshima, survivors who had lost their families and friends through the atomic bomb. The museum did not present them with some unknown horror but with their own past.17 For years, people would go there to remember their dead, bringing whatever they might have found in the ruins to be preserved as part of the collection. The museum’s collection went back to a semi-private initiative led by the geologist Nagaoka Sho–go (1901–73). Nagaoka, who was then working for the city administration, and a group of citizens (known as the genbaku shiryo– hozonkai since 1964) collected more than 6,700 objects between September 1945 and the opening of the Museum in 1955. The collection included bricks, molten glass, roof tiles, etc., mostly material artefacts from the ruins of Hiroshima. In 1949 these volunteers organized a temporary exhibition, which was later transferred to the museum. Like its predecessor, the Shiryo–kan focused on the specimen, the remnant of the past. After the opening in 1955, the collection remained rather chaotic and unorganized. Parts of the museum were used for industrial exhibitions and the only remaining hall struggled to contain a permanently growing collection. This inspired the first major remodelling of the Peace Memorial Museum. One detail of the revision and concomitant discussions shall exemplify the change as a whole. THE FIRST REMODELLING 1972–75 – ENFORCING THE REALISTIC In June 1972, Hiroshima City Council decided on a new way of presenting clothes that had been worn by people exposed to the atomic bomb. Up to this point, only six simple wooden ‘display dummies’18 had been used. Four of these represented housewives, wearing a dress or working trousers, and young high school students, wearing labour service uniforms. The remaining two figures were soldiers in military uniform. The dummies were arranged in three glass cases, each accompanied by an explanatory note. While the two cases with the female dummies were placed next to each other and were thus frequently shown in newspaper articles, the soldiers were displayed at a different place of the exhibition and hence often ignored. These simple dummies were to be replaced by wax figures, a mother with her child and another woman fleeing the fires.19 For those parts of

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Figure 9.1: The display dummies prior to the remodelling. Courtesy, Chu–goku Shinbun.

the body, which had been directly exposed to the bomb’s radiation, the artisans used paint and special substances to imitate injuries and burns.20 The hair was dishevelled and charred. The new arrangement showed the figures with their garments on in one glass case. A coloured photograph of the burning city became the background for the figures. Instead of the former static display the dummies were now shown in movement, stumbling away, dragging the child with them, stretching out their arms like somnambulists in the realm of nightmares. Hence, the 1972 arrangement went far beyond the information conveyed by the mere clothing. It showed the effects of the atomic bomb on the human body and the situation at the time of the explosion, i.e. its historical context. Much effort was put into the details of this dramatic change. Specialists for wax figures came from Kyoto and met with eyewitnesses.21 The scene was even given a specific time and place. One of the artisans explained: ‘We have avoided a dramatic expression. Wax works have been used for medical preparations for a long time; these dummies also are medical material.’22 Reference to the apparently neutral and legitimate realm of science could not conceal the fact that the figures introduced a new approach into the exhibition. This turn provoked a hot controversy on the proper ways of remembering, which the Chu–goku Shinbun named the ‘realism controversy’ (riaruka ronso–).23 The pros and cons brought up in this debate on representing the past cast an

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Figure 9.2: The new arrangement. Courtesy, Chu–goku Shinbun.

interesting light on contemporary war remembrance in general and remembering Hiroshima in particular. Mayor Yamada Setsuo, who had initiated and advocated the project, put the supporters’ stand like this: ‘The current arrangement is not in accordance with the actual situation after the bombing. I want to bring it as close as possible to reality, to truth.’24 Yamada presented a new exhibition concept, which did not see the Shiryo–kan primarily as a ‘resource collection’. Traces of the past were disappearing from the city’s face and a generation was growing up which did not know the war, so Yamada intended to mend the growing gap between past and present by means of approximation. The ‘realistic’ (riaru) mode of representation meant a likeness to the original, the true event (makoto). By connecting these two terms, Yamada claimed the ‘truth’ for his preferred representational mode. Nagaoka Sho–go, who had laid the foundations of the Museum’s collection and served as its first curator, opposed this idea: ‘The first goal [of the Museum] was to address the cruelty of the atomic bomb and to propagate

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peace using the material actually exposed to the bomb.’25 In Nagaoka’s thinking, the historical remains of the bombing lay at the core of the Museum. They were a historical source of understanding as well as meaningful relics. These relics bore a fragment of the past and hence provided the only legitimate access to the ‘truth of the atomic bombing’, a bridge between the viewer and the lost past. ‘It is a misunderstanding to say’, he continued, ‘that because the actual objects are unsatisfying one could strengthen them through models. People from all over the world do not come to see models but objects of the atomic bombing.’26 In Nagaoka’s understanding, what was unique to Hiroshima was the actual experience of the bombing to which both people and objects testified. The authentic genbaku shiryo– possessed an ‘aura’ that allowed the spectator, i.e. the museum’s visitor, to bridge the gap between his present and the lost past; such an ‘aura’ could not be evoked by a reproduction. That put the survivors and the relics in a unique position to convey a vanishing past. Hence it is not a surprise that the Council of Atomic and Hydrogen Bomb Victim Groups (Nihon Gensuibaku Higaisha Dantai Kyo–kai; in short: Hidankyo–) opposed the new display techniques. Moritaki Ichiro–, then chairman of the Hidankyo–, explained: ‘The burned clothing is sufficient. No matter how hard we try to reconstruct, artificially, the situation of that day, we can never represent it.’27 Instead of ‘realistic’ he therefore called the representational mode suggested by the administration ‘artificial’ (tsukurimono),28 in contrast to the survivors’ own authentic experience. By emphasizing authenticity and experience, the opponents defined the source of legitimacy and the addressee of the Museum: ‘Even though it may not be as strong [as the replicas], each and every artefact contains the truth of the atomic bombing in its silence and contains the longing for peace of those surviving families who donated it.’29 Such an exhibition would place the victim in its centre, as both its creator and its addressee. By opposing a reconstruction-based exhibition the survivors put their own experience and identity as victims at the forefront. For them, only remnants of the past were left, and those remnants, people and things alike, bore a blank, the ‘silence’, which referred to the lost. Yet the blank did not mean deficiency but was the mark of their authenticity and therefore possessed the power to convey their message. In accordance with this, the objects were usually referred to as ihin, meaning not simply a leftover of the past, but a legacy and therefore an obligation. The ihin, the only remains of those who vanished in the bombing, made a claim. By representing those who were no longer present, the ihin demanded that the dead should not be forgotten. This demand was the mnemonic heritage to the future. Lessening the importance of the object within the Museum would be tantamount to negligence towards that heritage. Supporters of the wax dummies saw those fragments and their silence as obstacles to their goals: ‘[The display dummies] do not have the power to express the magnitude of the atomic bomb. In order to keep claiming

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the prayers of Hiroshima [we need] the wax figures, which can reconstruct the situation at the time of the bombing even more realistically.’30 ‘Reconstruction’ (saigen) replaced the ‘remnants’ (ihin). This display technique, fostered by the Museum’s administration, was not limited to the wax figures. The early 1970s design included a diorama of the city in 1940 as well as a life-sized reconstruction of a pre-war home.31 Yamada Setsuo stated: ‘I want this catastrophe, in which more than 200,000 people died, to burn itself stronger into the minds of the spectators, and the Museum to become more efficient.’32 If the event was to be remembered it had to leave a trace in people’s minds. His eyes were set on the new audience for which the exhibition would have to prepare. Since the late 1960s, the percentage of foreigners visiting the Museum had increased significantly.33 However, young students on their annual school excursions still comprised most of the visitors to Hiroshima.34 The increasing wealth of the 1960s and 1970s supported this expanding domestic tourism, which reached its zenith in the late 1980s.35 The new visitors, both students and foreigners, had experienced neither the war nor the atomic bomb. In Yamada’s thinking, the appropriate way of adapting to the new audience was to provide a ‘realistic’ representation. What these people needed was neither mere information nor some remnants to trigger their memories, but something else: ‘The clothing isn’t bad, but the display dummies can’t convey the misery of the atomic bombing precisely without a facial expression.’36 The properties of the human face (hyo–jo–) conveyed emotions, which were seen as an effective and legitimate way of connecting with the past, leaving a burned mark in the public memory. Since this past was vanishing, the similarity of a replica and the emotions thereby conveyed were the best means to achieve the ‘reexperiencing’ of the past (tsui taiken). The opponents did not criticize an emotional appeal in general. Almost everyone agreed that the question of the final meaning of the Hiroshima bombing could not be answered by scientific data. It had to do with the human experience and with suffering, that is, emotions. What did appal the opponents was the idea of reconstructing or reliving the past as an – at least to some degree – achievable and desirable task, even though it meant depicting the atomic bomb experience as the ultimate evil. Many survivors opposed such a technique, which would constitute an apotheosis of their sufferings. For them, the mere idea that what was forever their unique experience could be relived was an insult to the victims and proved the administration’s ‘superficial tourist consciousness’.37 The victims, quite like the relics they were defending, had experienced the bomb. In their eyes, approximation could not bridge the gap and likeness could not recreate the past. The fragmented state of the past and the silence deriving from the traumatic experience were reflected by the mode of representation: the object itself. The victims’ fight against the wax figures has therefore a strong connection to the survivors’ political fight to be officially acknowledged as victims.38

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The quarrel between the two factions continued for a long time and at one point entered the official agenda of a city council hearing, during which the opposition (communists and socialists) showed themselves as fervent opponents of the wax figures.39 But the mayor insisted on his decision and the change was put forward, apparently without any concessions to the opponents.40 Still, the reactions of the first visitors give evidence that the change was a matter of political power rather than public consent. THE SECOND REMODELLING 1989–94 – QUESTIONING THE MEANING OF HIROSHIMA The next major remodelling of the exhibition did not occur until the late 1980s. Once more, as in the early 1970s, it was one particular aspect of the changes that provoked a public discussion. And again this occurrence was exemplary of the transformation as a whole. The topic of the debate was Japan’s role as a perpetrator in the war. This discussion had occurred before in the history of the Museum but never as fervently as in the late 1980s.41 In 1987, fourteen non-governmental organizations demanded that the exhibition had to show the connection between Hiroshima and the Japanese war atrocities. The so-called ‘perpetrator’s corner discussion’ (kagaisha ko–na ron) falsely evokes the idea that the citizens wanted every detail of the war to be explained, thereby changing the atomic bomb exhibition into an exhibition of the 15 Years War (1931–45). Their goal was an ‘exhibition corner with materials on the military city of Hiroshima as a perpetrator’, i.e. a specific account of militarism or ethnic discrimination concerning Hiroshima.42 The protesters demanded that Hiroshima’s role as a military city with a thriving weapons industry, as well as the situation of the Koreans in Hiroshima, be explained in detail. The Peace Memorial Museum had never gone beyond the events of 6 August except where it dealt with exclusively civil aspects of preand post-war history. Yet Hiroshima’s military past was indeed extensive. The army had played a crucial part in the city’s development, beginning with the quartering of the 5th Division in 1873 and extending throughout Japan’s imperialistic expansion and the Pacific War.43 ‘Hiroshima was a flourishing military city and many people from the Korean peninsula were deported. If the Museum doesn’t present the problem from the point of view of the perpetrator, it cannot convince.’44 Supporters of a perpetrator’s corner argued that the atomic bomb could not be described satisfactorily unless it was depicted within its imperialistic, racist and capitalist frame work, in other words, understood as structural violence rather than a singularity cut off from history. The supporters pointed out that civilian life in pre-atomic bomb Hiroshima was also part of this setting, since its wealth was primarily the result of Japanese militarism. The 1970s design with its reconstruction of a

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pre-war home as well as the wax figures, had focused on the civil aspects, thereby making the exhibition a Hiroshima Museum of Victims. Still, when the leaders of the NGOs demanded a widening of the museum’s focus they did not try to justify the atomic bombing. To the contrary: ‘In order to express the horror of war and of the atomic bomb, their senselessness, it is necessary not only to condemn the bomb but also to think about the reasons why it was dropped.’45 The bomb had been dropped within the context of the Pacific War that was started by Japan and hence part of the story of the bombing. Any fragmentary history of the bombing would lend support to those who denied their responsibility in line with official Japanese denials of war atrocities and would nourish the newly arising historical revisionism. Taking a critical stance towards Japan’s militarist past, on the other hand, would offer the possibility of criticizing the American decision to make use of the bomb. Until that time, the Museum had mentioned neither the decision-making process in general nor the reason for choosing Hiroshima in particular. The exhibition was limited to the explosion itself, giving scarce information on civilian life in Hiroshima before the war. The critics’ argument promoted Hiroshima’s anti-nuclear mission as a part of an overall anti-war movement. Condemning Hiroshima meant condemning war in general. Munakata Motoi, a spokesman of the movement, said: ‘ “No more Hiroshimas” means to prevent a new rising of the military city of Hiroshima and of a military base in the front rank of an Asian invasion. That is why it is important to know the past exactly.’46 Naturally, the initiative met with severe conservative and nationalist opposition. ‘The perpetrator’s corner leaves a seed of evil in Japan’s future’, they insisted. ‘Perpetration is a concept which the victors made into the premise of the Tokyo Trials in order to convict the defendants unilaterally.’47 This line of argumentation is part of a whole set of historical revisionism that appeared in the 1980s. Ueno Chizuko’s writings on the ‘comfort women’ offer a sharp analysis of the revisionist argument: The issue is the recovery of national pride. Their claim is truthful history, which readily rejects a ‘historical view of self-demonization’ and maintains pride in their country. This is their claim. For whom on earth, for what purpose a ‘truthful history’? The ‘truthful history’ covers up the diversity and conflicts among the ‘nation’ by creating just one legitimate ‘national history’. On whose side are they?’48 In the case of the museum’s exhibition, the revisionists were certainly not on the side of those whose memories were being repressed, like the Korean victims who until today struggle for equal compensations. The administration of Mayor Araki and the museum’s direction also opposed the changes, although their reasons were different. Museum Director Motokawa explained: ‘It is impossible to demand an exhibition of national war responsibility from a single [local] administration.’49

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This argument misunderstood the actual request, which emphasized those aspects of war responsibility that were linked to Hiroshima. The mayor’s secretary Ikeda Masahiko who was the administration’s representative to the committee deciding on the new exhibition pointed out another – maybe the most important – argument: ‘Because you could – if the perpetrator’s part is emphasized too strongly – say “And that’s why the bomb was dropped!,” we do not emphasize the perpetrator’s part. Also, in our view an exhibition which depicts the military city would simply be a history of Hiroshima.’50 Frequently, the public was concerned that explaining the causes of the bombing could be mistaken for a justification of the event. That might be the reason why the decisionmaking process concerning where to drop the bomb had not been part of the exhibition until then. Even though a well-balanced exhibition was difficult to achieve, Ikeda’s following statement points to the dangers which the Museum faced if they continued ignoring the topic: ‘Japanese imperialism bothered its neighbours. But if we overemphasize this point, the misunderstanding arises that the bombing of Hiroshima was right.’51 The euphemistic term ‘to bother’ or ‘to annoy’ (meiwaku) for the invasion of Asia indicates the argument’s frequent connection to right-wing rhetoric, which downplayed Japan’s role as an aggressor and thereby avoided any forthright acknowledgement of responsibility. Such a stance invited criticism for exemplifying ‘victim consciousness’ (higaisha ishiki). ‘Victim consciousness’ refers to a post-war discourse that supported the idea of a peace-loving nation by telling the Japanese past as a history of victims. Although this concept is well known among Japanese critics, this time it was raised by the International Herald Tribune. In April 1990, the IHT reported on the Peace Museum’s exhibition and the debate over the perpetrator’s corner. It placed these events in the context of Japan’s still unsolved problems with its past, e.g. the textbook controversy, the diplomatic problems with China and Korea, and the shooting of Motoshima Hitoshi, the Mayor of Nagasaki in 1990.52 The IHT argued that, ‘[s]ome see the Hiroshima dispute as another chapter in a continuing story of rightist and peace groups trying to exploit the memorial’.53 They would instrumentalize the victims in order to advance their political agenda, stressing the aspect of Japanese suffering during the war. Fukushima Takayoshi, the second mayor, disagreed: ‘The exhibition and the victim consciousness are two different things. We pray for eternal peace but do not attempt to support a victim consciousness. We do not believe that America is only the perpetrator and Japan only the victim.’54 Fukushima questioned a taxonomy, which drew a clear line between victims and perpetrators. Explaining the atomic bomb did not necessarily mean to stage a ‘victim consciousness exhibition’. According to this line of argumentation Fukushima would have had to comply with the critics’ demands and support an exhibition that conveyed a more complex concept of victim-perpetrator relations. If the narration of the exhibition was limited to the mere suffering while

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leaving out the historical context, the victims became indeed vulnerable to political exploitation. Thus the perpetrators would go uncharged and the narration could become the basis for a new nationalism and possibly for new harm. If the museum was to stand up to its ideal of remembering the victims, it had to defy any political abuse. Yet, taking a non-political stance had been one of the premises of the broader Japanese anti-nuclear movement ever since the World Peace Conference in 1963 when the communists insisted on communist countries’ legitimate right to own and use nuclear weapons. Within the bounds of the Peace Museum, peace was promoted as an ideal that should transcend political frontiers. This dogma left a lasting inherent contradiction and was a frequent source of trouble, because remembering the atomic bomb without touching political issues proved to be an impossible task. The case of Motoshima Hitoshi had shown that any serious commitment to the cause of the anti-nuclear movement meant putting oneself at the front line of current politics. Many agreed that ‘no more Hiroshimas’ also meant ‘no more Okinawas’ or ‘no more Chernobyls’, and accepted the need for a markedly political stand, opposing, for example, their country’s policy of supplying energy via nuclear power plants. Since its topics, war and peace, are political issues themselves, the Hiroshima Museum is inevitably a political institution. By condemning the atomic bombing the museum would either have to question the logic of war and thus the state’s monopoly of violence or would end up with inherent contradictions, which would make their cause incredible. Ironically, what solved the dispute in the end was not a thorough insight into the mechanics of violence and power but a result of these mechanisms themselves. Through US news coverage, the debate took on an international dimension and became even more passionate. This probably led Araki, the reluctant mayor of Hiroshima, who sympathized with the conservatives’ cause,55 to comply at least to some degree. When the remodelled Shiryo–kan opened in 1991 it contained a new account of Korean victims, but it still failed to fulfil the citizens’ demands. With the election of a new mayor of Hiroshima, who was head of the Peace Culture Foundation,56 the museum’s policy did change. Hiraoka Takashi was an acknowledged specialist on Korean issues and used his influence to change the story told by the museum. In 1994, the exhibition was reopened, fulfilling all the demands brought up by the NGOs seven years earlier. When visiting the museum today one encounters one of the most balanced Japanese accounts of wartime and post-war Japan, one that includes numerous foreign and national counter-memories. CONCLUSION The historical outline of the exhibition given above reveals multiple layers of diverging war memories overlapping each other. The founding of the Peace Park and the museum’s early exhibition indicate that the com-

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memorative project of Hiroshima was – although affected by international interests – initiated on a local level and designed for local needs. It was the site where hibakusha could mourn their dead and it also provided the site where they would face their traumatic past. In order to mend the fissure severing the hibakusha from their environment, people needed to give the bomb a meaning and, if possible, a proper place in the present. The Shiryo–kan was designed to be that place.57 The remodelling period of 1971 to 1975 marked the time when the nation’s interest in the atomic bombing could no longer be ignored. For Japan, it was a period of economic high-growth and political recovery, even though the victims of the atomic bomb were largely excluded from this rise to wealth and power. By defending the aura of the remnants, survivors were fighting what they saw as a political abuse of their past that threatened to deprive them of their last resort, their singular experience. By the early 1990s, the Shiryo–kan finally had become a full-fledged history museum (hakubutsukan or chinretsukan), including pre- and postwar developments. The discussion on the ‘perpetrator’s corner’ reflected a turning point in post-war Japan at the end of the Sho–wa period. Attempts to redefine the present through new accounts of the past sprang up among commoners and intellectuals, like the ‘self-history’ (jibunshi) boom of the mid-1980s. These new accounts ranged from unprecedented open-mindedness and expressions of responsibility, on the one hand, to a new historical revisionism that opposed any reconciliation with the wartime past, on the other hand. One reason why people experienced a historical crossroad might be the generational shift. People who knew nothing of the war outnumbered the survivors by then. The museum participated in the controversy and finally adapted to a new audience, which did see the Hiroshima bombing as a historical event that was not part of their life story. Hiroshima remembrance is often linked to discourses on post-war national identity and victim consciousness.58 Despite the museum’s rightful placement within this national discourse, it is important to point out the private and local aspects of Hiroshima remembrance in order fully to understand both the problems inherent to national identity discourses and the dynamics of remembering. Remembrance and commemoration are no mere devices for the purpose of enforcing a national discourse, although one might argue that they only exist within a social framework. The atomic bomb victims are a ‘community of memory’ sharing a common past (even though not an old one). Their experience is the identity-founding bond of memory, which worked against a nation’s tendency to blend divergent memories into one smooth narration. These two concepts of memory (of the nation and of the group) were doomed to create conflicts and fights, as shown in the manifold disputes between local authorities and private groups. Although the original purpose of the Memorial Park was to create a space of unison urban self-definition, it eventually became the site for

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conflict, an ambivalent place that fed the newly arising nationalism while, at the same time, challenging it and its stories of homogeneity. NOTES 1

2

3

4

5 6 7 8 9

10

11

12 13 14 15

16

17

18 19

I want to thank deeply the German Academic Exchange Service (DAAD) and the Toshiba International Foundation as well as the staff of the Chu–goku Shinbun Peace Library. This study would not have been possible without their generous support and help. – goku Shinbunsha (ed.), Nenpyo– Hiroshima 40 nen no kiroku (Hiroshima: Chu Chu–goku Shinbunsha, 1986), p. 55. Chu–goku Shinbun, 5 August 2000. The nation-wide Gokoku shrines are strongly connected to the shinto–ist-nationalist ideology of wartime Japan. Yet the reason to choose this place was probably its setting right under the centre of the explosion. The ideological connotations of the site were apparently no obstacle. For the Hiroshima Peace Memory City Construction Law (Hiroshima Heiwa Kinen Toshi Kensetsu Ho–) and its interpretation see ibid., pp. 190–4. Chu–goku Shinbunsha (ed.), Nenpyo–, p. 190. Ibid., p. 49. Ibid., p. 55. Ibid., pp. 198, 207. Inoue Sho–ichi gives an interesting analysis of the history of Tange’s – design. See Inoue Sho–ichi, A to, kicchu, japanesuku – Daito–-A no posuto modan (Tokyo: Seidosha, 1987). Chu–goku Shinbun, 20 February 1952a; Chu–goku Shinbun, 20 February 1952b. – Names from Inoue, A to, kicchu, japanesuku, p. 286. In the 1990s, the – – Kokaido was renamed Kokusai Ko–ryu– Kaikan after it had been pulled down and rebuilt. Ibid., p. 286. Ibid., p. 290. Ibid., p. 294. The Kinenkan would also host the ‘Hiroshima Recovery Exhibition’ (Hiroshima Fukko– Taihakurankai) in 1958. Lisa Yoneyama, ‘Postmodernism and the Symbols of History: The Relationship between Collection, Display, and Materials in the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum and the Museum of Kamigata Performing Arts’ in Angus Lockyer et al. (eds), Japanese Civilization in the Modern World XVII: Collection and Representation (Osaka: National Museum of Ethnology, 2001), p. 140. Hiroshima-shi (ed.), Hiroshima shishi – Zaiseihen (Hiroshima: Hiroshimashi, 1983), p. 232. Chu–goku Shinbun, 24 June 1972. Sankei Shinbun, 17 December 1972. The two soldiers were apparently not remodelled.

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The Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum and its Exhibition 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

28 29 30 31 32

33

34

35

36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48

49

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Chu–goku Shinbun, 24 June 1972. Yomiuri Shinbun, 25 August 1972. Chu–goku Shinbun, 31 July 1973. Chu–goku Shinbun, 24 June 1972. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Ibid. Although Moritaki was chairman of the Hidankyo–, his statement does not necessarily reflect the attitude of all hibakusha. However, Moritaki did present the Hidankyo–’s official position, speaking out for many survivors. The newspaper records support this view. Chu–goku Shinbun, 31 July 1973. Ibid. Asahi Shinbun, 16 July 1972. Chu–goku Shinbun, 31 October 1972. Ibid. Yamada Setsuo himself was an atomic bomb survivor and supported their case, e.g. help for Korean bomb victims. But his primary goal as mayor and city official was the city’s international political mission. Chu–goku Shinbun, 9 April 1967. The number has been increasing ever since. In 1985 foreigners made up 5,7%, in 2000 already 8,7% of all visitors. Chu–goku Shinbun, 21 May 1986. Zaidan Ho–jin Hiroshima Heiwa Bunka Senta– (ed.), (Zai) Hiroshima Heiwa Bunka Senta– 20 nen shi – Senta– no ayumi (Hiroshima: Hiroshima Heiwa Bunka Senta– , 1997), p. 83. For example, in 1985, 39,7% of the visitors were students. Hiroshima Heiwa Kinen Shiryo–kan (ed.), 30 nen no ayumi (Hiroshima: Hiroshima – kan, 1987), p. 21. Heiwa Kinen Shiryo Sankei Shinbun, 17 December 1972. Chu–goku Shinbun, 16 July 1972. Chu–goku Shinbun, 7 August 1973. Chu–goku Shinbun, 16 July 1972. Chu–goku Shinbun, 31 July 1973. Asahi Shinbun, 11 March 1990. Chu–goku Shinbun, 26 October 1987. Asahi Shinbun, 11 March 1990. Mainichi Shinbun, 4 March 1988. Asahi Shinbun, 11 May 1990. Ibid. Mainichi Shinbun, 4 March 1988. Ueno Chizuko, Nashonarizumu to jenda– (Tokyo: Seidosha, 1998), pp. 150–1. Asahi Shinbun, 11 May 1990. It would be interesting to ask who if not a local or private group should advance such criticism. If opposing nuclear weapons included criticism of the nation who but some non-national entity could advance such a stance? Mainichi Shinbun, 4 March 1988.

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Asahi Shinbun, 11 May 1990. Motoshima was shot and seriously wounded by a right-wing radical because he had publicly stated that the Sho–wa Emperor bore responsibility for the war. International Herald Tribune, 20 April 1990, p. 2. Asahi Shinbun, 13 May 1990. Asahi Shinbun, 11 May 1990. The Peace Culture Foundation (Heiwa Bunka Senta– ) was in charge of the museum but was also part of the city administration. Its staff came from the regular town employees. This is true in a geographical sense. There were other ‘places’ like art, literature, etc. James J. Orr, The Victim as Hero: Ideologies of Peace and National Identity in Postwar Japan (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2001).

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10

A Usable Past? Historical Museums of the Self-Defence Forces and the Construction of Continuities ANDRÉ HERTRICH

INTRODUCTION

I

n this chapter I will analyse the exhibitions of museums of the Japanese Self-Defence Forces (SDF or jieitai) and their representation of the Imperial Army and Navy.1 Officially the SDF present themselves as entirely new organizations, founded in the 1950s, that are not connected to Japan’s pre-war military. Starting from the rearmament processes in the 1950s, I will describe the three Self-Defence Forces’ (Air, Ground and Maritime SDF) contradictory relation to their past and illustrate my observations with the presentation of military history in the SDF’s Public Relations Centres. The positions taken in these publicly orientated places differ profoundly from those taken by the only semipublic historical museums in SDF facilities. While the Public Relations Centres tend to deny or at least to downplay any connection between the SDF and the Imperial military branches, the non-public museums display items related to the Japanese military before 1945 rather prominently and thus construct continuities from the Imperial Army and Imperial Navy in Japan’s post-war military history. WHAT ARE THE SELF-DEFENCE FORCES? In 1954, the Japanese Diet passed the Defence Agency Law and the SelfDefence Forces Law and thus established these institutions as central pillars of Japan’s national security. To that date, post-war Japan had not possessed any armed forces, since the Imperial Army and Imperial Navy had been disarmed and dissolved in the aftermath of the Second World

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War. The new Self-Defence Forces ( jieitai) and their wartime predecessors did not have too much in common. The Imperial Army and Navy had been the most powerful organizations in modern Japan, dominating the political and social sphere for more than seventy years and finally pushing Japan into war and defeat. As a consequence, Article 9 of Japan’s post-war constitution renounces ‘war as a sovereign right of the nation and the threat or use of force as means of settling international disputes’, and states that ‘land, sea, and air forces, as well as other war potential, will never be maintained’ in order to avert a repetition of the country’s experience. Nevertheless, in 1950 Japan started to rearm and four years later, as mentioned above, the Air, Ground and Maritime Self-Defence Forces (ASDF, GSDF, MSDF) were founded. After having experienced the enormous influence the pre-war military had had on political affairs, the SDF were set under strict civilian control and vested only with limited scopes. Due to Article 9, the SDF were not declared an army (gun), but explicitly established as armed forces with the sole aim to defend Japan against external aggressions. The members were not called soldiers, but tokubetsushoku kokka ko–muin (special civil servants), and even the rank system was newly defined. Until today, in the five decades after their foundation, the SDF’s character has become more and more ambiguous. In 2000, a NHK reporter asked SDF officers how to define the Self-Defence Forces. Most interviewees clearly stated that ‘it [was] not an army (gun)’. Nevertheless, one answered that ‘seen from abroad, we are an army’. Other comments stayed rather vague, describing the SDF as ‘not a police nor an army’ but something in-between, ‘a chu–tohanpa (half-hearted) organization’, or, even more hazy, as ‘some kind of armed organization’.2 Just as character and status of the Self-Defence Forces fail to become evident, their relation to the Imperial Army and Navy remains ambivalent. In an interview in 2005, a retired GSDF Lieutenant General stated: ‘1945 was a watershed, the Imperial Army’s existence ceased and the post-war SDF were completely new organizations.’3 This mirrors the official Defence Agency’s position. The 2004-Defence-White-Book which commemorates the fiftieth anniversary of the SDF with a series of historical articles, neither mentions the Imperial Army or Navy as SDF’s predecessors nor takes notice of the influence some former officers had on the rearmament process.4 Obvious continuities or any kind of overlaps are negated or actively concealed. The establishment of the Self-Defence Forces in 1954 is presented as a completely new beginning in Japan’s military history. When asked about the SDF’s relation to Japan’s pre-war military, public relations officers of the different services answered firmly, if not a bit annoyed: ‘MSDF and Imperial Navy are not related at all!’, ‘ASDF does not have any precursor in pre-war Japan. The Army and Navy air forces do not have anything in common with the ASDF.’5 For a better understanding of personnel continuities and the SDF’s attitude towards the Imperial Army and Navy, the course of Japan’s post-war remilitarization should be taken into consideration.

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REARMING JAPAN – A MILITARY NEW BEGINNING? The rearmament had not been conducted as a consistent process but took different directions in each service. Strictly speaking, there were three rearmament processes. This fact explains why each branch of the SDF takes its own view of the past and handles the memory of its predecessor differently. After Japan had been demilitarized in the aftermath of the Second World War, the outbreak of the Korean War in 1950 made a reconsideration of Japan’s security inevitable. General Douglas MacArthur, Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces in Japan and Chief-inCommand of the UN-Forces in Korea planned to deploy four United States divisions from Japan to Korea. In order to uphold internal security in times of leftist strikes and demonstrations, MacArthur ordered Prime Minister Yoshida Shigeru and the Japanese government to build up a new police force of 75,000 men and increase the existing Coast Guard by 8,000 men. In the following years, the newly established National Police Reserve (NPR, keisatsu yobitai) was first renamed to hoantai (security force) and finally transformed into the Ground Self-Defence Force. The NPR’s administration, the later Defence Agency, was subordinate to the Prime Minister’s Office from where the rearmament process was thoroughly supervised by Yoshida Shigeru. The initial phase of rearmament was conducted without the participation of former Imperial Army officers. When a group of former officers attempted to take responsibility in the general staff of a future Japanese army, Yoshida intervened as he feared a possible revival of militarism.6 Instead, the rearmament was planned and organized by policemen and bureaucrats, always guided by United States military advisers. In the years of the NPR’s (and the later GSDF’s) formation, only very few former Imperial Army officers were allowed to enter. While former officers were banned from the initial formation of the NPR, the rearmament of the maritime branch was mainly conducted by former officers of the Imperial Navy and they were even supported by the United States Navy.7 In 1950, Admiral Arleigh Burke and former Admiral Nomura Kichisaburo– had several informal meetings which led to the establishment of a US-Japanese committee, the so called ‘Y-Committee’. The core of the future navy had already been embedded in the Coast Guard, separated from it in 1952 as keibitai (Safety Force) and became the Maritime Self-Defence Force in 1954. The Y-Committee planned and conducted the organizational building up of a navy personnel, facilities and, of course, ships. Finally, the autonomous formation of the MSDF was concluded under the roof of the Defence Agency with a high degree of personnel continuity. The third branch of the Self-Defence Forces, the Air Self-Defence Force came into existence in 1954 as a newly created organization.8 It is the only part of the SDF that did not have any direct predecessor in the prewar period, as Imperial Japan did not have an independent air force. The

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ASDF originated in the combined efforts of bureaucrats and former Army and Navy officers, supported by the United States Air Force, to build an independent third service. Although the ratio of former officers was high, the ASDF is the one service that does not have a pre-war history of its own and is neither connected to the Imperial Army nor Navy in terms of historical memory. By 1945, the military had been discredited in both public opinion and historiography for leading Japan into an aggressive war and thus was made responsible for defeat and destruction. ‘Military fascism’ and ‘militarism’ were expressions used to describe Japan’s political system in the 1930s and 1940s, leaving not much space for a positive interpretation of the Imperial Army’s or Navy’s role.9 Nevertheless, the extent in which both parts of the Imperial military were considered as ominous differed very much. Mainly the Army was held responsible for an adventurous expansionism in Manchuria and China and thus waging war in Asia. Therefore most defendants in the Tokyo Trial were Army Generals. Only three Navy Admirals were charged, two of which were sentenced to lifetime imprisonment (one died during trial). Six of the seven defendants who were sentenced to death were Imperial Army Generals. As a consequence, the Navy’s standing in the public opinion was much more positive than the Army’s. This initial position not only made it easier for former Imperial Navy officers to take part in the rearmament activities, but also led to a positive attitude towards the Imperial Navy within the MSDF. Defence Agency and GSDF, on the other hand, had been organized mainly by civilians who rejected any attempt of former officers to participate in order to prevent militarism’s resurgence. Former officers were completely excluded in the important years of its formation, and were not allowed to enter the GSDF until the institutional and organizational framework and the foundations of a strict civilian control had been laid. That is why the Defence Agency and the GSDF neither emphasize their predecessor nor feel a need to dissociate themselves from the Imperial Army. Instead, the Self-Defence Forces – especially the GSDF and the ASDF – are represented as a military new beginning. Of course, the SDF have always differed from their predecessors in many ways, just as pre- and post-war Japan differ. The SDF were founded as the armed forces of a democratic state that was allied with the United States and thus were limited by the ‘peace constitution’ as well as by a strict civilian control. Nevertheless, both SDF and its imperial predecessors were or are national armed forces in uniforms, based on hierarchical structures of command and obedience and entrusted with the task of national defence, which they eventually would exercise by use of violence. Furthermore, SDF personnel had served in the Imperial Army and Imperial Navy, had fought and survived Japan’s wars and experienced defeat. Considering these facts, one has to state that the SDF might have been a newly built up organization, but at the same time still are an armed force deeply rooted in the pre-war and wartime military establishment.

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THE SELF-DEFENCE FORCES AND THEIR ‘HERITAGE’ At this point it seems useful to clarify the term ‘continuity’ in the context of the SDF’s history. It does not indicate the persistence or revival of the Imperial Army or Navy in the disguise of the new Self-Defence Forces. The SDF have never been anything of a hotbed for militarism or revisionism. Neither have there ever been any attempts by SDF officers to regain the power and status the pre-war military enjoyed.10 The renowned writer Mishima Yukio therefore could not gain support from the SDF for his cause to revive the traditional virtues and the honour of the Emperor, the Tenno–, when on 25 November 1970, with four members of his private army Tate no kai (Shield Society), he seized the headquarters of the GSDF Eastern Command in Ichigaya, Tokyo, and took the division commander hostage.11 Mishima gave a speech on the balcony in front of gathered SDF members, adjured them to mutiny against Japan’s post-war political system and called them to be ready to take over the role of protector of the Tenno–. Mishima’s appeal fell on deaf ears, many of the SDF personnel rather laughed at the speaker who, as was intended in any case from the beginning, after the speech commited ritual suicide (seppuku) with one of his followers in the office of the division commander.12 Nevertheless, as stated above, many SDF officers had already been officers of the Imperial Army or Navy, i.e. personnel continuity was high.13 They were not only influenced by their education in pre-war and wartime years, but also by their experience of Japan’s destruction and demise, of occupation and demilitarization. As Japan changed, people changed, too; some in the same pace, some as precursors, others as stragglers. There is no need to assume that soldiers generally tend to be stragglers, antiquated and backward orientated. On the contrary, the first SDF officers had to meet the demands of a democratic state’s military in times of nuclear warfare and accept the primate of politics and civilian control. Thus, ‘continuity’ in this context refers to a set of virtues and values of a certain social group.14 These virtues and values were shaped by historical experience and define the identity of the group. They were not just preserved or enshrined, but taken as obligations to be carried on in future. From one generation to the next, they were taught and bequeathed, especially in groups which experienced discontinuities or disruptions in their history. This heritage of values and virtues links a gone past with the present. In some cases this heritage persists with its bearers, in other cases it may be reinvented by a later generation. In this regard, the Imperial Forces’ virtues and values (mainly introduced by former officers) that became part of the SDF’s group identity can clearly be seen as ‘continuities’. The personnel continuity thus determines a continuity of values. The military codes of the Self-Defence Forces are described in the jieikan no kokorogamae (the codex of conduct for SDF members) issued in

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1961. According to this, the ideal soldiers should meet the following requirements: The man who strives to improve himself has compassion for others and is concerned about the nation, will be able to genuinely love the fatherland and its citizenry. Such love should form the foundation of the soldierly spirit today. Essential corollaries of belonging to the self-defence forces include avoiding political activity, giving due thought to our noble mission as corpsmen, taking pride in our roles, practising the prescribed virtues day and night, being constant in training and resolving to give our all in the performance of duty, regardless of the difficulties that may face us.15 This behavioural code is imparted through spiritual training (seishin kyo–iku). This special part of the military instruction does not take place in a classroom of the National Defence Academy, but is rather practically taught by superiors and comrades during everyday activities in the units. The spiritual training is especially supposed to foster the following values: sense of mission (shimei no jikaku), individual fulfilment (kojin no ju–jitsu), accepting responsibility (sekinin no suiko–), obeying regulations (kiritsu no genshu), encouraging unity (danketsu no kyo–ka). These post-war virtues are regarded as absolute necessities. They ensure the soldiers’ successful performance in combat and represent an important prerequisite for victory in war. Of course, spiritual training (seishin kyo–iku) was part of the pre-war military instruction, too. Here, the cornerstones were the kokutai (body politic) ideology, loyalty to the Emperor and the Imperial Rescript to Soldiers and Sailors (gunjin chokuyu) issued in 1882. The Imperial Rescript stated five virtues as ‘military spirit’: loyalty (chu–setsu), decorum (reigi), valour (buyu–), fidelity (shingi) and frugality (shisso). Although they mark a striking contrast to the SDF’s codex, Inagaki Osamu argues not to overemphasize the difference between the two, as the basic intent is the same. Both pre- and post-war military exist for the purpose of winning wars.16 According to Inagaki the spiritual training must emphasize ‘immediate, devoted obedience to orders’ in order to capacitate the SDF to succeed in war.17 ‘Spiritual training in the self-defence forces is leading more and more to a rediscovery of the values inherent in the old military spirit . . . And therein lies the purpose of “spiritual training”: it is a way to eradicate the “ill effects” of having been cut off from the old military traditions.’18 In the sense of values and virtues, continuities thus are not abstract, but appear in various forms: as symbols, rites and ceremonies or related to historical events or objects. In this respect, historical museums, too, serve the purpose of spiritual training by illustrating these virtues. In the following, I will describe public and semi-public places of selfrepresentation of the SDF and its history, respectively, military history

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until 1945 and examine the different ways the SDF presents its relationship to the Imperial Army and Navy. REPRESENTATION IN PUBLIC RELATIONS CENTRES For the last few years, the Self-Defence Forces have actively promoted a positive image of themselves as a technologically well equipped, peaceloving and helpful organization.19 Each SDF branch operates its own ko–ho– sentâ (Public Relations Centre) where equipment, technology and uniforms are presented to an interested public. The GSDF PR Centre is located in Wako– City in Tokyo prefecture.20 The main exhibits, an AH-1S helicopter and a Type 90 tank, are put up in a big hall in the building’s core. Visitors are invited to use a flight simulator and watch movies about the adventurous life in the GSDF, e.g. night manoeuvres and motor bike rides, in a 3D cinema. They can play computer games or experience the weight of helmets and body armour. The displayed weapons are very much state of art, there are no out-dated objects. The GSDF presents itself as a modern military force by emphasizing technology and firepower. The history of the GSDF is presented in a ‘History and Chronology’ room. Photos and chronological tables give an overview from its beginnings as the National Police Reserve in 1950 up to the mission in Iraq. The displayed items such as flags, medals, badges or a horn are related to different historical events, e.g. the Olympic Games in Tokyo 1964, during which the SDF were deployed as security guards, emergency service after plane crashes, floods or earthquakes, and the GSDF’s participation in United Nations’ Peace Keeping Operations (PKO). In one corner of the ‘History and Chronology’ room you find a computer terminal which informs you about other GSDF museums in historical pre-war Imperial Army buildings. This is the only hint to the fact that the GSDF might somehow be connected with the Imperial Army. Besides this, the Imperial Army is not mentioned here at all, neither is the war and the following phase of de- and remilitarization. NPR and GSDF seem to have appeared all of a sudden out of a historical vacuum, untied to anything in the past. There is no documented continuity between the Imperial Army and the GSDF. The official self-representation shows the Ground Self-Defense Force as an organization that breaks with Japanese military history, as it categorically disregards the Imperial Army as predecessor and rejects its heritage. The same impression is given at the Air Park, the Air Self-Defence Force PR Centre in Hamamatsu (Shizuoka prefrecture).21 Modern fighters as well as the first ASDF planes from the 1950s and other technological equipment, e.g. engines, radar stations and anti-aircraft cannons, are the main exhibits. Here too, visitors may watch movies in a 360 degree cinema or try a flight simulator, children may wear pilot suits or sit in the cockpit of a Starfighter. In one exhibition hall, a review of the organization of the ASDF and its tasks and missions is provided. Some

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photos and a chronological table show the history of Japan’s post-war military aviation, starting from the foundation of the ASDF in 1954. Similar to the GSDF PR Centre, this indicates if not the non-existence of an antecedent air force before and during the Second World War, then at least the non-connectedness between the ASDF and the air forces of the Imperial Army and Navy. The wartime past is only indicated by one rather unobtrusive detail: A reconstructed Zero fighter used by the Imperial Navy’s air force is hanging from the ceiling of the hangar without any explanation or reference to it, while all other planes are carefully named and described. The mentioning of the military aviation during wartime rather seems to be a matter of embarrassment. The ASDF, which has no direct predecessor, but emerged from the fusion of the Imperial Army’s and Navy’s air forces, nevertheless does not present itself in a continuous line of military aviation in Japan. Instead, its selfrepresentation in Hamamatsu indicates that it is an organization free of wartime history and – just like the GSDF – as a new start, denying its roots in the Imperial air forces. As the emergence of the Maritime Self-Defence Force differed very much from the formation of the other two services, naval history and the role of the Imperial Navy is represented differently by the MSDF than it is by the other two. The MSDF PR Centre is located in Sasebo (Nagasaki prefrecture), in the rebuilt facilities of the former Suiko–sha, the Navy Officer’s Association.22 The MSDF’s exposure to Japan’s naval history appears to be in stark contrast to the GSDF’s and ASDF’s PR Centres. Here, not technology is dominant, but history. The Imperial Navy and its history from the end of the Tokugawa Period to 1945 is depicted on three floors, followed by the presentation of the MSDF on two floors. The Imperial Navy section starts with the arrival of the United States flotilla under Commodore Perry in 1853 and the foundation of the Imperial Navy in the first years of the Meiji period (1868–1912). All major events in Japanese naval history, e.g. the wars against China 1894–5 and Russia 1904–5 or the Pacific War (1941–5), are referred to. Items on display are models of ships and planes, uniforms of admirals and sailors, medals, bronze busts of famous admirals, e.g. To–go– Heihachiro– or Yamamoto Isoroku, documents, calligraphies, photos and paintings, but also articles of daily use such as tools, manuals, crockery or medical goods. Background information, like biographical sketches, maps indicating battle manoeuvres and data on the navy and its history during peace and war, are provided on tables, maps and video screens. The MSDF section gives information on the naval rearmament in the 1950s, technical equipment, e.g. ship models, radar or mines, and on its participation in disaster relief missions and the minesweeping operation in the Persian Gulf in 1991. The focus here is rather set on technology, organization, skills and the tasks of the MSDF than on its history. The MSDF Historical Museum draws a very positive image of the Imperial Navy. The MSDF does not try to separate itself from the

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Imperial Navy, but underlines the close ties between the naval forces before and after 1945. The exhibition does present the MSDF as a successor of the dissolved Imperial Navy, a heritage the MSDF is not ashamed of. This is illustrated by the first exhibit in the MSDF section: the MSDF flags show the rising sun with sixteen rays which used to be the Imperial Navy’s war flag. Taking the different ways of rearmament in the 1950s into consideration, the contradictory attitudes towards history may not be very surprising. Just as the GSDF and ASDF neglected any continuities of the Imperial Army or military aviation in the phase of their formation, their PR Centres five decades later disregard any hint of relationship and denounce any continuities between the SDF and the pre-war military. This is especially true for the GSDF and the Imperial Army. Taking this fact into consideration, it comes rather surprising that the representation of Japan’s military history in the exhibitions of historical museums within SDF compounds differs very much from the historical representations in the SDF’s PR Centres. HISTORICAL MUSEUMS IN SDF FACILITIES In the following I will describe the exhibitions of historical museums on the compounds of SDF units, to which the general public has only limited access. I visited the historical museums in Uji, Zentsuji and Kurume (GSDF), Iruma (ASDF), Kanoya (MSDF) and the Officer Candidate Schools in Nara (ASDF), Etajima (MSDF) and Kurume (GSDF).23 These museums are accessible for a general public, but most of them require prior registration, thus the approximate 2,000 to 3,000 annual visitors (per museum) are mainly SDF personnel, retired SDF members or an interested public on special ‘open days’. The MSDF museums in Etajima and Kanoya do not require prior registration and therefore draw the attention of 70,000 to 90,000 visitors per year.24 Most SDF facilities had originally been in use as barracks, air fields or naval bases by the Imperial Army and Navy. After 1945, United States occupation forces took them over, but returned them in the beginning of the 1950s to the SDF. The museums are often located in the former main building or the division commander’s office. Most museums were founded in the 1960s and 1970s by the initiative of the division commanders and supported by citizens who donated exhibits. These were mainly uniforms and articles of daily use, but also photos, letters and calligraphies. Some museums consist of one single room, others of an entire building. Some exhibition rooms are arranged very carefully, while others seem to be set up rather thoughtlessly and in haste. Although the present SDF usually are part of the exhibition, too, the majority of exhibits is related to the pre-war history of the Imperial Army or Navy. The SDF sections mostly consist of technical equipment, planes and tanks as models and originals, any kind of accoutrement,

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ammunition, badges and flags. Information on the SDF and its tasks and missions are given on tables; sometimes a chronology or an organization chart is provided. Photos depict disaster relief operations after earthquakes, volcano eruptions or typhoons, PKO missions in Cambodia or the Golan Heights or the clearing-up after the AUM sect Sarin gas attack in 1995. The Imperial Army and Navy sections in SDF museums usually display a broad array of uniforms, guns and swords, flags and articles of daily use. Often you will find photos of regulars who served in these specific barrack or officers who were the division commanders. Sometimes they are accompanied by personal writings, e.g. calligraphy, letters or the last greetings. The collection is usually supplemented by maps, manuals, music notes and newspaper articles. Oil paintings show generals or admirals, the Emperor as the Supreme Commander of the armed forces, soldiers in combat or in daily life, military ceremonies or planes and tanks in action.25 Parts of plane crashes or ship wrecks, corroded water bottles or helmets with bullet holes can be found, too. The SDF museums are neither war nor peace museums. They do not exhibit historical facts of Japan’s wars and the political background or the effects on the population.26 Even though the history of the armed forces and their soldiers is the museums’ main interest, historical facts are clearly kept in the background. Instead, the exhibitions obviously try to create a sentimental and nostalgic atmosphere by displaying objects that were used by Imperial Army and Navy personnel. Gottfried Korff defines items from a distant past as palpable and permanent and thus as authentic.27 They are indispensable for remembrance, because memories cannot prevail without objectification. Historical items are bearers of signs that connect the present with the past. By doing so, they serve as objectification of virtues. Their authenticity enables a direct encounter with these virtues. This makes a museum a lieu de mémoire.28 A lieu de mémoire can be a site of historical significance, but, even more important, it is a location where the will to preserve and represent the past is manifested. It is a place where a group remembers and commemorates its own history. Thus the museums construct the group’s collective memory and their group identity.29 This is exactly what Sabine Frühstück defines as the SDF museums’ general purpose.30 According to Frühstück, the museums show the Imperial Army in a sentimental way by stressing timelessness, truth, tragedy and a personal touch. Collective memory is produced by contextualizing the exhibits in culture and history of the surrounding area or depicting Imperial Army soldiers not only as friendly and caring, but also as willing to lay down their lives for the Tenno– and the nation. By emphasizing altruism and heroism, the SDF museums construct a continuity between the Imperial Army soldiers’ willingness to die out of loyalty on the one side, and the SDF members’ willingness to serve the Japanese people, e.g. in times of natural disasters on the other.31 The continuities of readiness to make

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sacrifices and heroism that become visible in historical museums mirror the continuities of military virtues that are imparted by spiritual training. Thus, historical museums are places where spiritual instruction happens, as a table at the entrance of the ASDF museum in Iruma (Saitama prefrecture)32 indicates: The museum ‘. . . exhibits various materials . . . with the intent to convey to posterity the brilliant (!) history and tradition and the pioneer achievements and lofty spirits. Also it is intended to contribute to the education of personnel.’33 A pamphlet issued by the MSDF museum in Kanoya (Kagoshima prefrecture) lists the following purposes: ‘1. Discipline for SDF. Education by use of valuable materials of the Navy and items relevant to the MSDF as teaching materials. 2. To raise the consciousness of National Defence . . . 3. To conserve materials.’34 To sum up, SDF museums can be defined as places where the collective memory and the collective identity of the SDF and their members become manifest. Virtues of the Imperial Army and Navy constituted in the Imperial Rescript for Soldiers and Sailors become visual in the items exhibited in SDF museums. Thus, the traditional (or rather, pre-war and wartime) value system is transmitted to young SDF recruits and cadets as part of their education, and the continuity of a pre-war soldier spirit in the post-war Self-Defence Forces is ensured.35 THE SELF-DEFENCE FORCES AND THEIR HEROES In this section I will take a closer look at two groups of Imperial Army and Navy personnel who are especially commemorated in SDF museums: great military leaders and average soldiers and their ‘heroic’ deeds. Each branch of service dignifies historical figures such as certain Imperial Army Generals and Imperial Navy Admirals, most of who served between the Meiji era (1868–1912) and the Second World War. The most popular figures are Admiral To–go– Heihachiro–, General Nogi Maresuke and Lieutenant Colonel Kato– Tateo (promoted to Major General post-mortem). All three were venerated as ‘gods of war’ (gunshin) after their deaths. Lieutenant Colonel Kato– (1903–42) was a famous Imperial Army air force pilot with high scores in biplane victories. He died after his plane was shot and crashed into the sea in 1943 and became a gunshin. But also great victories or gestures of loyalty enabled a person to become a ‘god of war’. Admiral To–go– (1848–1934) commanded the Japanese fleet in the Battle of Tsushima in 1905 and led it to victory, and General Nogi (1849–1912) was honoured as gunshin after having committed suicide just after the death of Meiji Tenno– in 1912. To–go– and Nogi were celebrated in pre-war Japan not only by the Army and Navy, but became popular public figures that appeared in public spaces and were venerated in shrines dedicated to them. Each SDF museum pays hommage to its ‘own’ gunshin. The GSDF historical museum in Zentsuji (Kagawa prefrecture), for example, is

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dedicated entirely to General Nogi.36 The exhibition room used to be his office and his desk and chair are on display among other exhibits, e.g. calligraphies and photos. Other GSDF museums commemorate General Nogi, too, but not as exclusively. Admiral To–go–’s memory is honoured in almost every MSDF museum: busts, photos and the well-known painting of To–go– aboard the battleship Mikasa during the Battle of Tsushima are often-exhibited items connected to him. Lieutenant Colonel Kato– is present in every ASDF museum. The museum of the ASDF Officer Candidate School (OCS) in Nara presents a life size wooden statue of Kato–, while the ASDF base museum in Iruma even maintains a ‘Kato– gunshin memorial room’ where objects and paintings referring to him are exhibited. These military leaders had already been commemorated by the Imperial Army and Navy for their achievements in war, for fighting bravely or being loyal to the Tenno–. And obviously the SDF, too, regards them as role models and heroes, thus honouring their memories in the SDF museums. Not only officers of high rank take their place in the SDF museums, but also ‘average soldiers’. While some are mentioned just because their uniform or their photo was donated, others serve as personification of military virtues and model of military bearing. One of them is Army Lieutenant Onoda Hiroo who gained fame in 1974 when he was discovered on an island in the Philippines, still fighting, as he believed that the war was not yet over. In the museum of the GSDF Officer Candidate School in Kurume (Fukuoka prefrecture), a glass case displays lots of items he used for his survival in the jungle and some crops he grew in these years. Next to an ink sketch of his hut and his memoirs,37 there are photos showing Onoda after his return and during his visit at the OCS. Onoda serves as a role model for a military demeanour of obedience, loyalty and endurance or, as Inagaki calls it, ‘blind submission . . . of this fossil of pre-war militarism’.38 The GSDF-OCS’s judgement was much less harsh. Instead Onoda was warmly welcome to lecture young cadets, as exhibited photos indicate. Another example of ‘model soldiers’ and embodied virtues are the nikudan sanyu–shi (three flesh-bullet patriots), three soldiers who died while trying to remove a barricade during the Shanghai Incident in 1932.39 They wrapped bamboo sticks around explosives and pushed this bomb beneath the barricades, sacrificing their lives to facilitate their comrades’ approach. This case of self-sacrifice was made publicly known and the nikudan sanyu–shi were honoured as heroes in wartime Japan. In Kurume they are still commemorated in the historical museums of the Officer Candidate School and a nearby GSDF barrack, as the three young soldiers were from Kyu–shu– and served in Kurume.40 A painting of the three soldiers, grim-faced approaching the barricades with their bomb, is shown in the OCS museum, while the GSDF barrack museum illustrates this impressive episode of courage under fire with manikins. Loyalty, courage, self-sacrifice and altruism are the virtues the three

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flesh-bullets stand for. They serve as a positive role model for young officer candidates trained in Kurume. The very same virtues are also personified by the far more famous tokko–tai (short for tokubetsu ko–gekitai, special attack unit), better known as kamikaze.41 Several SDF museums commemorate these suicide pilots. – The ASDF museum in Iruma exhibits a restored Oka plane, a suicide bomber powered by a rocket engine, as the centre-piece of the ‘tokko–tai memorial room’. The warhead, plane models and the cockpit are on display, too, decorated by plastic cherry blossoms. A painting shows an – Oka with bursting red jet approaching its target. The memory of the pilots is upheld by photos showing them in training or about to depart. In the museum of the MSDF Officer Candidate School in Etajima in Hiroshima prefecture,42 we find a marble plate, decorated with flowers and candles, with the names of suicide attack pilots engraved. Vice Admiral Ugaki Matome is remembered here, too. He was in charge of planning the suicide attacks and flew the last attack himself, only hours after Japan had surrendered, following his subordinates into death. Mementoes of young tokko–tai pilots are shown, too, such as bandanas or handwritten flags, their last words, the last greetings to their families, etc.43 The MSDF museum in Kanoya holds a vast collection of these letters, as Kanoya used to be the main Navy air base from where the suicide attacks started.44 Among the memorabilia shown here are oil paintings of pilots taking their last sip of saké before take-off or a statue of a young pilot saluting. More than 800 photos of pilots are shown, giving name, age, rank and date of death. These pilots are not portrayed anonymously, but as caring, kind and selfless soldiers who sacrificed their lives to protect not only the emperor and the nation, but also their families and beloved. The exhibited farewell letters were written by young pilots aging from sixteen to the mid-twenties. Some ask about life at home, others give thanks for a gift or try to comfort their parents. Sixteen year old Tanaka Yasuo asks his parents to be merry as he will attack bravely out of filial piety and ‘highest loyalty (saidai chu–setsu) towards the nation’.45 His eighteen year old comrade Sumihiro Hideo sees the Empire in danger and thus writes: ‘I do not have a greater desire than bringing peace and comfort (taisan no yasuki) to the Empire by my death today.’46 He ends his letter with ‘o–kimi no tame’ (for the sake of the Emperor), a phrase often used by his fellow pilots as well. Kubo Tadahiro (twenty-two) asks his parents to have faith in his deed, as he is ‘certainly doing it like a samurai, certainly like a Japanese man’. He is confident he will become ‘immortal in the land of gods’ (shinshu– fumetsu), as he is dying for the sake of the Tenno–. Another pilot, Tsuchiya Hiroshi (age unknown) is certain that if he dies for the country, his soul will rest in Yasukuni Shrine. That is why he is ready to depart on his suicide mission ‘to protect the Empire’ (ohomikoku o mamoru). And Murata Seisaku (twenty-three) states: ‘At the same time the cherry blossom will fall, I will approach an

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Allied ship, for the sake of the Empire . . . I will fly my plane far away through the sky and, falling as a flame, I will strike an Allied ship for the sake of the Emperor (kimi no tame).’47 Loyalty and sacrifice were embedded in a specific ‘military mentality’ on which the suicide attacks were based by motivating the pilots to fulfil their mission. The museum in Kanoya defines them as follows: During its short existence of a little more than seventy years, a particular ‘military mentality’ developed, which continues to influence the wider Japanese community. A sense of total loyalty and specifically a willingness to lay down one’s life for the mother Nation was fostered through heartfelt patriotism, close family bonds and a desire for peace and prosperity. Complete altruism was, and is, considered to be highly honourable and a responsibility which each citizen should deliver with total devotion. As a result of this mentality the Japanese military earned a reputation for determination, discipline, and an unfaltering commitment to the greater good.48 Young soldiers, just as old as their contemporary counterparts, sacrificing their lives to defend the nation and their beloved, serve as emotionally highly charged role models of military demeanour. By cherishing these pilots, the SDF also cherishes the military virtues they represent such as loyalty, decorum and valour. As a SDF officer at one museum stated: ‘By exhibiting these pilots we pay tribute to their courage and their sacrifice to protect their families.’49 Another officer commented on exhibiting tokko–tai in the SDF museums: ‘They are important as role models for teaching young recruits that also SDF members might face a situation in which they would have to sacrifice their lives for the sake of the country. To make young SDF members understand this, is the intention of this museum.’50 CONCLUSION Historical museums of the Self-Defence Forces remember the Imperial Army and Navy very positively and affectionately. Soldiers, officers as well as regulars, who were considered as ‘great leaders’ and ‘heroes’ in the years before 1945 are part of the historical memory of the present military forces, the SDF. They are presented as exemplary models of soldierly virtues and military bearing. By doing so, the museums uphold virtues of a dissolved military organization and a distant past. Museums as lieux de mémoire shape the identity and collective memory, and so identity and collective memory of SDF members are very much influenced by the value system of the Imperial Army and Navy. This is especially true as one of the main intentions of SDF museums is the education of young recruits and cadets. By instructing SDF members,

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these virtues and values are bequeathed and transmitted from one generation to the next and thus continuities of the Imperial Army and Navy persist in all three services of the SDF. Therefore, virtues formulated in the Imperial Rescript for Soldiers and Sailors and exemplarily represented by suicide attack pilots are still alive in Japan’s modern military. Indeed, this is not the only component in the SDF’s spiritual and ideological framework. The SDF as armed forces of a democratic state under strict civilian control, has built up a new code of conduct. Also the engagement in disaster relief operations and UN peace-keeping operations shapes the identity of SDF members as part of a modern military. Of course, the Self-Defence Forces represent a military new beginning after the Second World War. But still, a military mentality and special virtues that were highly valued in the Imperial Army and Navy continue to exist in the present SDF. And this is true even to a bigger extent than the SDF would publicly admit. The Self-Defence Forces’ historical museums impressively bear witness to these continuities. NOTES 1

2

3

4 5

6

7

I would like to thank the German Institute for Japanese Studies (DIJ) in Tokyo for their generous grant which made this research possible. I also would like to thank Gundula Müller-Wallraf and Marc Kleine for reading earlier versions of this paper. NHK Ho–do–kyoku Jieitai Shuzaihan, Kaijo–jieitai ha ko–shite umareta. ‘Y-bunsho–’ ga arukasu so–setsu no himitsu (Tokyo: NHK Shuppan, 2003), pp. 13–15. The interview took place in August 2005. Most of my interview partners did not wish to be named. Although the rank denotations changed in Japanese, they remain the same in English. Bo–eicho–, Nihon no bo–ei. Bo–eihakusho (Tokyo: Konpakuto, 2004). Interviews with officers of each service from the Defence Agency’s PR department in March 2006. Prime Minister Yoshida’s position towards rearmament is described in Hideo Otake, ‘Defense Controversies and One-Party Dominance: The Opposition in Japan and West Germany’, in T. J. Pempel (ed.), Uncommon Democracies. The One-Party Dominant Regimes (London/ Ithaca N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1990). The so-called ‘Hattori-Group’, a group of former Imperial Army officers centred around Colonel Hattori, hoped to become the future general staff. See John L. Weste, ‘Staging a comeback: rearmament planning and kyu–-gunjin in occupied Japan, 1945–52’, in Japan Forum 11 (1999), pp. 165–78. For the experiences of Imoto, a member of the Hattori-Group and later GSDF General, see Kumao Imoto, ‘Iwayuru Hattori Guru–pu no kaiso–’, in Gunjishigaku 156 (2004), pp. 74–104. On the naval rearmament see: NHK Ho–do–kyoku Jieitai Shuzaihan, Kaijo–jieitai ha ko–shite umareta, and James E. Auer, The Postwar Rearmament

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8

9

10

11

12

13

14

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of Japanese Maritime Forces 1945–71 (New York/London: Irvington Publishers, 1973). One of the very few sources on the ASDF establishment is: Hiroshi Masuda, Jieitai no tanjo–. Nihon no saigunbi to Amerika (Tokyo: Chu–o–ko–ron Shinsha, 2004), p. 171–232. On the historiography of Japanese Fascism see: Peter Duus and Daniel Okimoto, ‘Fascism and the History of Pre-War Japan: The failure of a concept’, in Journal of Asian Studies 39 (1979), pp. 65–76; Sumio Hatano, ‘Zur Kontroverse um den Faschismus’, in Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft 47 (1999), pp. 103–108, and Sebastian Conrad, Auf der Suche nach der verlorenen Nation. Geschichtsschreibung in Westdeutschland und Japan 1945–1960 (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1999), p. 133–218. The so-called ‘Three Arrows Research Scandal’ and the Kurisu scandal in the 1960s and 1970s were rather connected with the government’s enforcement of civilian control than with a possible resurrection of militaristic attempts. See Hans-Georg Mammitzsch, Die Entwicklung der Selbstverteidigungs-Streitkräfte und Aspekte der zivil-militärischen Beziehungen in Japan (Bonn: Doctoral Thesis, University of Bonn, 1985). See also Welfield, pp. 370–400, on the ideological standpoint of several SDF officers: Most were supporters of the Liberal Democratic Party and anti-communists, but not necessarily pro-US. Although some still believed in Japan’s dominance in Asia, the civilian control was accepted generally though criticized as being too strict. John Welfield, An Empire in Eclipse. Japan and the Postwar American Alliance System (London/Atlantic Highlands, NJ: Athlone Press, 1988). The building which housed the headquarters of the GSDF Eastern Command served as Army Ministry in pre-war years. Later the International Military Tribunal for the Far East was held in this building. Since 2000 it is part of the newly built Defence Agency complex and serves as a memorial. The balcony as well as the scratches on the door caused by Mishima’s and his fellows’ swords are still visible and can be seen during the guided tour. Before this incident took place the Tate no kai was invited to use GSDF facilities for trainings and were even equipped with arms (for training purposes). It is not unusual for civilians to us the facilities, e.g. for management training and Mishima and his group were warmly welcomed by the GSDF. This was probably related to Mishima’s popularity rather than to his ideology. See Henry Scott Stokes, The Life and Death of Yukio Mishima (New York: Charles E. Tuttle Company, 1974). The SDF yearbook of 1956 identifies the following ratio of high ranking SDF officers with a military or civilian background: out of 124 officers were 86 former imperial officers and 38 former bureaucrats (GSDF: 46:23, MSDF: 19:9, ASDF: 21:6). See Bo–eicho–, Jieitai nenkan (Tokyo: Bo–eisangyo– Kyo–kai, 1956), p. 403–21. The definition of ‘continuity’ refers to Langbein’s definition of ‘heritage’, which also has a non-substantial, ideal and ethical connotation. Ulrike

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16 17 18 19

20

21

22

23

24 25

26

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Langbein, ‘Erbe’, in Niclolas Pethes und Jens Ruchatz (eds), Gedächtnis und Erinnerung. Ein interdisziplinäres Lexikon (Reinbek: Rowohlt, 2001). Osamu Inagaki, ‘The Jieitai: Military Values in a Pacifist Society’, in The Japan Interpreter 10 (1975), pp. 1–15, p. 2. Ibid., p. 3. Ibid., p. 12. Ibid., p.13–14. On SDF’s efforts of constructing a positive ‘soft image’: Sabine Frühstück and Eyal Ben-Ari, ‘ “Now We Show It All!” Normalization and the Management of Violence in Japan’s Armed Forces’, in Journal of Japanese Studies 28 (2002), pp. 1–39. http://www.eae.jgsdf.go.jp/prcenter/index.html (all links last accessed in September 2006). The PR centre opened in 2002 and is visited by approx. 100,000 visitors per year (all numbers provided by the PR centres and historical museums). http://www.dii.jda.go.jp/asdf/airpark/index.htm. Open since 1999 (approx. 280,000 visitors per year). http://www.dii.jda.go.jp/msdf/sasebo/index.html, click on ‘Sasebo shiryokan’ (in Japanese). Open since 1994 (approx. 100,000 visitors per year). Officially the MSDF museum is not a PR centre but a shiryo–kan, a ‘documentation centre for historical items and archive materials’. This expression is also used by all SDF museums in barracks and bases. I will use the term ‘historical museum’. The visits took place between October 2004 and October 2005. For further information on military museums: Chikao Terada, Nihon zenkoku hozonheiki gaido (Tokyo: Bunshun Nesco, 2003). See also: http://www.asahinet.or.jp/~ku3n-kym/list.html. All numbers provided by the museums. According to Sabine Frühstück oil paintings in SDF museums produce a sense of authenticity and realism. Sabine Frühstück, ‘Von Männern, Tauben und Kirschblüten: Zur Gedächtnisproduktion in Militärmuseen’, ¯ ber Japan denken – Japan überdenken in Roland Domenig et al. (eds), U (Münster/Hamburg: LIT Verlag, 2005), pp. 221–223. On peace and war museums see: Sven Saaler, Politics, Memory and Public Opinion. The History Textbook Controversy and Japanese Society (Munich: Iudicium, 2005); Takeo Sato, ‘Die Aufarbeitung des Kriegthemas in den japanischen Museen und anderen Kultureinrichtungen’, in Hans-Martin Hinz (ed.), Der Krieg und seine Museen (Frankfurt a. M./New York: Campus Verlag, 1997); Terence Duffy, ‘The peace museums of Japan’, in Museum International 49/4 (1997), pp. 49–54. Gottfried Korff, Museumsdinge, deponieren – exponieren (Cologne: Böhlau, 2002), pp. 140–5. See also Gottfried Korff and Martin Roth (eds), Das historische Museum. Labor, Schaubühne, Identitätsfabrik (Frankfurt a. M./Paris: Campus Verlag, 1990). Peter Carrier, ‘Piere Noras les lieux de mémoire als Diagnose und Symptom des zeitgenössischen Erinnerungskultes’, in Gerald Echterhoff

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30 31 32 33 34

35

36 37

38 39

40

41

42 43

44

45

46 47 48 49 50

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and Martin Saar (eds), Kontexte und Kulturen des Erinnerns: Maurice Halbwachs und das Paradigma des kollektiven Gedächtnisses, Konstanz (Konstanz: UVK Verlag, 2002). According to Maurice Halbwachs, a past does not exist but needs to be reconstructed as a product of the present. Jan Assmann, ‘Das kollektive Gedächtnis zwischen Körper und Schrift’, in Hermann Krapoth and Denis Laborde (eds), Erinnerung und Gesellschaft. Mémoire et Société. Hommage à Maurice Halbwachs (1877–1945) (Wiesbaden: VS Verlag, 2005). Frühstück, ‘Von Männern’, p. 216. Ibid., pp. 220, 225. http://www.asahi-net.or.jp/~ku3n-kym/heiki3/iruma/irum.html. Table in English entitled ‘The purpose of Shubudai’. Pamphlet in Japanese entitled Shiryo–kan no gaiyo–’ [Outline of the historical museum]. Frühstück, ‘Von Männern’, p. 217, quotes officials of SDF museums lamenting about young recruits’ and cadets’ poor understanding of history and traditions. Some of them even only know the national anthem as the ‘sumo song’. http://www.14b.mae.jgsdf.go.jp/nogi/nogisan.html. Hiroo Onoda, Tatta hitori 30nen senso– (Tokyo: Tokyo Shinbun Shuppankyoku, 1995); Hiroo Onoda, Waga rubanshima no 30nen senso– (Tokyo: Nihon Tosho Center, 1999). Inagaki, ‘The Jieitai’, p. 1. Concerning the pre-war memory of the nikudan sanyu–shi see also the contribution of Michael Lucken (Chapter 8) in this volume (the editors). Frühstück, ‘Von Männern’, pp. 218–20, describes regional contextualization in SDF museums as an important ‘strategy to produce authenticity’. Concerning the memory of the tokko–tai see also the contribution of M.G. Sheftall (Chapter 4) in this volume (the editors). http://www.asahi-net.or.jp/~ku3n-kym/heiki/etajima/etajim.html. For an analysis of the aesthetic and poetic content of farewell letters see: Emiko Ohnuki-Tierney, Kamikaze, Cherry Blossoms, and Nationalism. The Militarization of Aesthetics in Japanese History (Chicago: University Of Chicago Press, 2002). http://www.dii.jda.go.jp/msdf/kanoya/index.htm, click on ‘Kanoya kichi shiryokan’ (in Japanese). Kanoya Ko–ku– Kichi Shiryo–kan Renrakukyo–gikai, Kokoro no sakebi – ku– Kichi Shiryo–kan Renrakukyo – gikai, 2003), p. 81. (Kagoshima: Kanoya Ko Many letters exhibited in Kanoya are published in this guidebook. Ibid., p. 84. Ibid., p. 85. Table in English entitled ‘Military Mentality’. Interview in October 2005. Interview in July 2005.

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11

The New Image of Childhood in Japan During the Years 1945-49 and the Construction of a Japanese Collective Memory CHRISTIAN GALAN

INTRODUCTION

N

o one will contest the statement that the years 1945-49 mark a turning point in the history of childhood in Japan. Whatever point of view one takes, it was during these years that one passes from a conception of the child as a subject of the Emperor, tenno– no kodomo, or tenno– no sekishi (the child being the property of the Emperor and the State), to a modern and democratic image of the child, as a free and selfsufficient individual who has rights and to whom parents and government have duties. However, if one examines this period from a microhistorical rather than macrohistorical point of view (centred on ‘real’ children), the perception one may have of the whole process seems to be somewhat different – less ‘ideal’ and certainly more complex. As the renowned English pediatrician and psychoanalyst Donald W. Winnicott has written, ‘to understand the effect of war on children it is first necessary to know what capacity children have for the understanding of war and of the causes of war, and of the reasons by which we justify our fighting’.1 The aim of the following diagram – which I will use as a starting point for my argument – is to summarize the elements that could possibly help the Japanese children of the years 1945-49 gain this understanding of both the preceding war and their present situation. Relationship C, mainly distinguished by a rupture between the old and new images of childhood, has often been studied, particularly as the content of school textbooks or syllabi was revised.2 Relationships A and

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Institutions of Memory: Memorials, Museums, National Heroes Present time: everyday life & actual experience

A

Part: war experience > former concept of the child

B

C break

Current adult discourse (textbook content, etc.) > new concept of the child

B, however, have been the subject of very few studies, which is why I have made them my particular focus here. In my study of relationships A and B, my aim is: 1) to understand the nature of the connection between the real life and the memory of the recent past (that of the war) of the children of 1945–49; and 2) to understand the relationship between the children’s actual experiences and the current adult discourse on childhood. I will analyse each relationship by introducing a specific example. I will attempt to point out that, in addition to the acknowledged trauma of this time – first, indoctrination and the cruel reality of war, and later, the shock of defeat and the disastrous living conditions of the immediate post-war period-, paradoxically, the children of the years 1945-49 were also victims of the measures taken to liberate them and lead them to happiness and democracy. I will illustrate two ways in which the means of actually carrying out these measures were traumatic for the children involved. It is my hypothesis that these traumas were of major consequence in how the collective perception and memory of the war were constructed thereafter in Japan. THE BETRAYAL OF THE ADULTS AND THE ‘DISAPPEARANCE’ OF THE PAST It is well known that one of the first measures taken by the Allied forces just after their victory over Japan was to censor the textbooks used in Japanese schools.3 Every single reference to the imperial system, the shinto– religion, the army, the kokutai (national body, or national polity), or the Japanese conquests was erased from the textbooks. This measure principally affected language textbooks. History, ethics and geography textbooks in which the ultra-nationalistic and militaristic ideology was still apparent were first taken out of circulation, and then prohibited completely in December 1945.

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The New Image of Childhood in Japan During the Years 1945–49 191 Under the supervision of their teachers or headmasters, the pupils tore out the pages or inked over the offending passages in their textbooks and thereby partially erased wartime memory. Whole texts along with their illustrations were masked, others altered, sometimes very drastically: for example, fighter planes in the sky became swallows, flags were changed into trees (see Fig. 11.1), etc. This incident of the suminuri kyo–kasho, as they were called thereafter, which literally means, ‘inked over textbooks’, made a deep impression on the children. Schoolbooks occupied a central place in the daily life of the children and they have always played a key role in the moral and intellectual education and training of the Japanese. In fact, the renowned historian of Japanese education Karasawa Tomitaro– went as far as writing that ‘textbooks made the Japanese’. He goes on to say: During every epoch since the beginning of the Meiji Era (1868–1912) schoolbooks have tended not to evolve from the life of

Figure 11.1: Two censored pages from the text book Shoto– ka kokugo from 1941.

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the people, but to be handed down to the people from above. Accordingly, Japanese teachers have been nothing more than propagandists, so to speak, for texts that were remote from the actual life of the nation. In other words, Japanese pupils rather than learning by means of their textbooks, have learned the textbooks, themselves. For this reason, their mental activities have been confined within the pattern set by the books.4 Thus, it was not common objects that were ‘vandalized’ in this way, but rather instruments that had before been regarded as almost sacred objects, that one used to have to handle carefully and respectfully, in honour of the ‘truth’ they contained. The suminuri kyo–kasho incident, and most importantly, the way it was carried out, was in my opinion a traumatizing experience for the Japanese children, and I see two reasons for this. First, it very concretely brought ‘defeat’ into the personal, everyday world of all children – not only those in the big, bombed cities, but all over the country. Second, and most importantly, the children were given no explanation as to why they had to destroy parts of books they had been taught to handle with care and consideration. The opening scene of Shinoda Masahiro’s film, Setouchi sho–nen yakyu–dan (The baseball team of the youth of the inland sea, 1984), offers a humorous description of the scenes that took place in all Japanese schools during the month of September 1945. In a scene, one sees the range of the children’s responses: for most of them incomprehension, amusement, frustration and silence; for others, anger, rebellion and escape. – The first text in the collection by Oe Kenzaburo– called ‘Jibun no ki’ no shita de (Under ‘my tree’) also provides interesting insights into the children’s state of mind and the children’s reaction during the months of September and October 1945. The entire piece is of interest to our topic here, but I have limited my quote to the following excerpt from the text entitled ‘Naze kodomo wa gakko– ni ikaneba naranai no ka’ (Why must children go to school?): In my life, up to now, I have considered this question two times. . . . The first time . . . it was autumn and I was ten. . . . Losing [the] war brought about major changes in the life of the Japanese. . . . I thought that such changes were right. I also understood that rather than a god dominating real society, democracy in which all beings took part together with the same rights was better. . . . But in spite of this, one month after the end of the war I stopped going to school. Because the teachers who, until the middle of the summer, had told us that the Emperor was a ‘god’, had made us bow down before his photograph, had taught us that Americans were not human

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The New Image of Childhood in Japan During the Years 1945–49 193 beings, but demons, animals, now, these same teachers, with quiet assurance, began telling us the contrary. Because they now taught us, as if it was completely natural, that the Emperor was a human being, that the Americans were our friends, but without ever saying that what we thought and had been taught up to that point was wrong and that they were sorry for this. On the day the occupation troops [entered my village . . .], the schoolchildren, standing along both sides of the road, waving the spangled banners, welcomed them with cries of ‘Hello!’ But, me, on this day, I fled from the school and I ran into the forest . . . Hearing the sound of these voices shouting ‘Hello!’, I started to cry.5 – Shinoda’s film and Oe’s text show that the distress felt by the children came less from the defeat and its historical consequences for Japan itself than from a lack of explanation concerning defeat and the changes brought about by defeat. For years, the children had been brainwashed by their elders into thinking in terms of love for the motherland, respect for the Emperor, fighting to the death, honouring Japan, etc., and had for the most part complied with this system. Indeed, in these dark hours, someone such – as Oe or certain adults could perhaps perceive or hope for the closeat-hand victory of democracy over totalitarianism. The vast majority of children, on the other hand, believed the war could not be lost; brainwashing made it impossible for them to conceive of a defeated and occupied Japan. Moreover, as Winnicott states: A child in this age group [between five and eleven years old] does not understand the idea of a fight for freedom, and indeed could be expected to see a great deal of virtue in what a Fascist or Nazi regime is supposed to provide, in which someone who is idealized controls and directs.6 One must bear in mind the dozens of slogans children heard adults saying, and which they had to repeat and shout out almost on a daily basis, such as the following examples: Hoshigarimasen, katsu made wa / Until victory, we desire nothing! Koko mo senjo– desu / Here, too, is the battlefield! Kichiku beiei / Americans and British are beasts! Getsu getsu ka sui moku kin kin / Monday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Friday (= no more Saturday, or Sunday, we work every day) Zeitaku wa tekida / Luxury, that is the enemy!

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But with defeat in the war, everything changed overnight. Children now saw the same adults completely alter their attitude and discourse, hunch over, lower their gaze and ask them to accept defeat, accept life rather than death, obey the invaders (the ‘beasts’), and especially to erase and destroy all that had formed the moral bases of their young life thus far. With no explanation, they were handed a new, indisputable order of things, which they were meant to accept just as they had the former. The children’s questions were met with the adults’ ashamed or embarrassed silence. They had to keep silent and obey, as always, but the adults had betrayed them and lied, and who could guarantee that they were not lying again? The about-face imposed by the adults, without any explanation or – introspection, without regret, as Oe stresses, was perceived by the children (even if unconsciously) as an affront to their intelligence. This offence undermined the adults’ credibility and resulted in the rejection and refusal of their authority. Many accounts reveal that the relief felt by children at the end of the war quickly turned into a sense of being without guidance, without reference points, mainly because of the adults’ incomprehensible attitude. The following two examples illustrate how the authority of adults, all adults, whether Japanese or American, had completely crumbled: The war came to an end in August 1945. We were then in our fourth year of elementary school. The instructors, of whom we were afraid because they hit us, suddenly became nice, which struck us as very strange. From then on, the expression ‘We do as we like! We do as we like!’ became popular. For example, we used to smoke the tobacco our father kept in his tobacco pouch, and when he came to scold us, we ran away shouting, ‘We do as we like! We do as we like!’7 Against the background of defeat, the authority of militarism, love for one’s country and respect for the emperor that had permeated us to our very core from our earliest existence all came crashing down. In the eyes of the children, who had ultimately lost the ability to believe in any form of authority, the existence of the occupation troops, the GHQ, seemed like an authority to challenge. For us, it was very simple. We were unperturbed by the superiority of the conquering countries. Even less so did we have a sense of values that would have made us see the conquerors as good and the conquered as bad. Japanese or Americans – we couldn’t care less. What the war experience had taught us, was that both democracy and peace were what each separate person made of them.8 Some children expressed their incomprehension and anger by rebelling – or ‘fleeing’, as in Shinoda’s film or in Oe’s account, which according to child psychologists, are among the healthiest reactions for a child

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The New Image of Childhood in Japan During the Years 1945–49 195 confronted with such events. These specialists add that not having this type of response is a symptom of more serious disorders: . . . where loss is suffered a manifest indication of distress is to be expected, and . . . where no such reaction occurs there may be disturbance of a deeper kind.9 Yet the majority of children chose to take refuge in silence and obey without comment. In doing so, what image did these children form for themselves of the adults’ world? Of past events? Of their future world? The problem was that they were not told ‘this or that is no longer taught’ but ‘this or that has to be forgotten for ever’. The blotting out of the textbooks, in the manner in which it was done (i.e. without any explanation, in a context of shame and silence), clearly illustrates how the adults dealt with the relationship ‘A’ defined in the introduction by forcing the ‘disappearance’ of the memory of the past on the children. CHILDREN WHO WERE NOT REALLY CHILDREN The second element I see as important in the construction of the collective memory of the war relates to the new image of childhood that was disseminated, and imposed on the children themselves. The advantage of textbooks over any other materials available is that it is sure that all the children of the period in question, without exception, studied them. Therefore, to illustrate my point I will take the example of the new set of textbooks for ‘Japanese language’ (kokugo) classes. The drafting of these textbooks by the Ministry of Education began in 1946, and they were published from April 1947 onwards. Known as ‘ “All nice children” textbooks’, Minna ii ko tokuhon, or ‘Nice children textbooks’, Yoi ko tokuhon, they were, up to 1949, the only language textbooks used in all the elementary schools in the country. The textbook authors put an end to the practice by which the first words presented in the textbooks were symbols of Japan: the rising sun, cherry trees, the flag. But this was by no means a full emancipation from the State. The beginning of the poem in hiragana which appeared at the start of volume 1 reiterated the new official educational directive and the new vision of childhood: minna ii ko . . . all nice children! (see Fig. 11.2). Ohana o kazaru, minna ii ko. Kirei na kotoba, minna ii ko. Nakayoshi koyoshi, minna ii ko. They put flowers to decorate, all nice children. Speak a pretty language, all nice children. Friends, comrades, all nice children.

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Figure 11.2: The first two pages of the 1947 ‘Japanese Language’ (Kokugo) textbook.

Humanity, beauty, language, society: the view of the new idealized society was summed up in the first words of the textbook. Moral discourse had not disappeared from the textbooks; it had only changed to advocate a different ethic, one centred on the individual and on society, an ethic tempered by humanism, pacifism, internationalism and democracy. The texts were imbued with a new ideology that aimed to convey feelings of happiness, peace, well-being and harmony to the children. These textbooks depicted life within a perfect society, with the hope or promise of a radiant future: minna ii ko, ‘all nice children’ implying that they would grow up to be ‘all nice adults’. The abandoning of the intention to indoctrinate led the authors to refocus on the life (imagined or idealized) and activities (also idealized) of children. The texts included had been selected according to fifteen criteria set out in the directives: texts that were full of life, literary texts for children, texts likely to amuse the children and enrich their feelings, texts relating to the arts and physical activity, biographies of remarkable men, texts relating to the nature and the world of the sciences, texts that promoted helping others, cooperation, peace between individuals and the peoples of the world, texts that celebrated what was beautiful, good and true, texts discussing language, ‘authentic’ (sic) stories of children, etc. In addition to the concept of jido–ka (literally ‘infantilization’ or ‘putting at children’s reach’) which had prevailed in the writing of textbooks

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The New Image of Childhood in Japan During the Years 1945–49 197 before the war, the concept of kindaika (‘modernization’, which we can understand here as ‘democratization’) was introduced. This new idea that language was to be democratized along with society in general also influenced the writers of the texts to adopt the everyday oral language. Texts that had been classics of school literature for decades were deleted from the textbooks. This is understandable for many of the texts that praised the Emperor, the kokutai or army. However, some traditional tales also paid the price of this operation, including the fairy-tale of Momotaro– (‘The Peach Boy’). Momotaro–, a devil-defeating hero, had been an extremely popular figure among Japanese children. Now he was labelled a ‘war criminal’,10 since in the latest version of language textbooks (kokugo) he fought against devils who had the faces of Westerners! For several years, Momotaro– vanished completely from textbooks, and the traditional fairy-tale was omitted from the works of children’s literature as well. The trouble with the world depicted in these textbooks was that, although it was founded on good intentions, it was a complete breakaway from the culture the children had known until then. Moreover, this new world did not at all correspond to the real one in which the children were living. The general tone of the textbook and its messages of hope in a better world contrasted terribly with the difficulties the population was facing. The look of the textbook itself, with illustrations in only yellow, green and black, seemed to contradict the optimism of its content. In contrast to the pre-war and war-period textbooks full of superb colours, the sober images in these books distracted from the warmth and hope they were meant to convey. The result was that the idea of ‘happiness’, which was totally new and which they attempted to pass on to the children, seemed completely surreal. The reopening of elementary and secondary schools starting on 1 September 1945, is often cited to illustrate how smoothly the occupation went and the goodwill of the Japanese population; yet in this light, it is perfectly misleading, for it suggests that the life of the children had gone back to normal. Schools did, indeed, reopen, but which schools and for which children? Lessons had been suspended for all but the youngest elementary school pupils. 3,400,000 schoolboys from the highest elementary school grades and from secondary school had been put to work in factories and in the fields since April 1945.11 Nearly 11,000 of them died, and 10,000 were wounded or fell seriously ill in these situations. In large cities, 580,000 of the youngest elementary school pupils had been evacuated to the countryside (gakudo– sokai) since the summer of 1944 and were still cut off from their families. Not all of these children were able to return home once the war was over. The cities were devastated and many houses were destroyed. Family members were either spread out or missing. Although the order to return was given as early as 21

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September 1945, long months of waiting and uncertainty would pass before they could reach home. And on their return, the vast majority of them found a disastrous situation. More than 1,250,000 children (under eighteen years old) were fatherless.12 In addition, more than 123,000 (i.e. 1% of all children) children had lost both their father and mother. In 1946, there were 11,153 abandoned children in Japan; 12,977 in 1948; and 14,009 in 1949. 4,500,000 houses had been destroyed in the cities, and for years after the war Japanese city dwellers lived in slums and shantytowns.13 For months if not years after the end of the war, malnutrition and exhaustion from seeking food were the daily lot of the children. In May 1946, merely 1.8% of children ate rice three times a day and 12.8% twice a day, while 42.5% had only rice once a day and 42.9% had none at all. In this regard, 1946 was the worst year since the beginning of the Meiji era. On average, boys between the ages of seven and twelve were 4.8 cm shorter and weighed 2.2 kg less than in 1937; girls were 5.5 cm shorter and weighed 3.3 kg less. Those most seriously affected were twelveyear old children living in cities, especially girls, whose average height (again compared to 1937) had decreased from 136.3 to 130.1 cm and whose average weight had gone down from 30.4 kg to 27.5 kg.14 Hunger, disease, epidemics, lice, destitution, poverty, homelessness, lack of parents, loss of close relatives, and the resulting consequences, i.e. delinquency, black market trade, and lack of school education, were the daily – lot of these children. In July 1946, in Osaka, for example, it was decided that school should continue through the summer holidays (except on Wednesdays) in order to prevent children from going to the black market. In fact, contrary to what is generally assumed or said, a great many children of school age remained without school education during the post-war period. In 1949, the number of children not in school still amounted to 8% of all primary school children (800,000) and 10% of all secondary school children (500,000), for a total of 1,300,000 children.15 As for juvenile (or even infantile) delinquency, it increased steadily throughout these years. The number of children between fourteen and twenty sentenced for an offence went up from just under 100,000 in 1946 to nearly 135,000 in 1951. As yet another indication, in September 1947, an emergency law was passed prohibiting the employment of children under fifteen. This law had no immediate effect, but the urgency it received underlines the fact that the exploitation of children for work was also a serious problem in the post-war years. In February 1947, in Nagasaki, 10,000 children under eighteen were working in coalmines. Then, of course, there were all the children repatriated from the former colonies, groups of whom arrived regularly in Japan, many of the children carrying their family’s ashes in an urn around their neck. Yet this was the context in which the 1947 textbooks, which depicted a world full of little birds and flowers, of nice, well-bred, well-dressed

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The New Image of Childhood in Japan During the Years 1945–49 199 and well-fed children, were used.16 A photograph from the outstanding book of the American photographer Joe O’Donnell, Japan 1945,17 illustrates this situation. It shows a neat and tidy classroom, the austere, studious looks of the pupils, and a strict schoolmaster. The view through the window shows only destruction and desolation; it is as if the school were a cocoon cut off from the real world (see Fig. 11.3).18 In addition to the difficulties discussed above, the attitude of the Japanese authorities towards children struggling to get by in the daily life was so appalling that it was denounced by many foreigners as well as by some Japanese. In the words of John Dower: Once sentimental effusions had been dispensed with, the war’s youngest victims were treated abysmally. War orphans and homeless children almost by definition became ‘improper’ children.19 In short, a dirty child was not a genuine child, or in any case, could not be a good Japanese child. Thus, textbooks could not show a world that should not exist, nor children who were not really children. As strange as it is to think of a Japanese childhood without Momotaro–, on a broader level, the image portrayed in the textbooks was totally disconnected from what the children truly were and what they endured. Although one cannot deny the importance of the message of hope displayed in these textbooks, one has to wonder about the consequences

Figure 11.3: American photographer Joe O’Donnell’s photograph from his book Japan 1945.

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of the clash between the Utopia the textbooks depicted and the real life of Japanese children. Although for different reasons and this time at the level of the entire country, what we see happening during this period is reminiscent of a phenomenon that occurred in Japan in the early 1930s with the rise in Marxist and liberal thinking. The Japanese government, alarmed by the growing influence of these ideas, became less and less tolerant of progressive educational thinking, to the point of openly waging war against it. In order to escape the very real threats facing them at this time, most of the progressive educators took refuge in the philosophy of Froëbel or in the romantic vision of education of someone such as Ellen Key (1849–1929), which allowed them to proclaim the ‘purity of the child’ without running too great a risk. Similarly, in the post-war years, it was as if this expression of the purity and innocence of children in textbooks and other media could somehow make up for what adults had made children endure for the past decade. Once again, this offered a way out of explaining the current living conditions; it was a means of simply waiting for better days. Admittedly, the children played, could laugh and be ‘happy’ in these years. But they did not live among flowers, did not play with birds, and many of their close relatives were dead. The carefree nature of childhood helped many of them overcome and endure the hardships of the time and survive. But their games were definitively not those that appeared in the textbooks. As John Dower has pointed out: The games were happy – that was the point of playing, after all – but in ways that almost invariably tended to sadden grown-ups, for they highlighted so clearly and innocently the pathos that war and defeat had brought into their lives. Early in 1946, for example, it was reported that the three most popular activities among small boys and girls were yami’ichi gokko, panpan asobi and demo asobi – that is, holding a mock black market, playing prostitute and customer, and recreating left-wing political demonstrations. . . . Well into 1949, children continued to turn social disorders into games. In runpen-gokko they pretended to be homeless vagrants. . . . Predictably, child’s play also included kaidashi-gokko, pretending to leave home to search for food.20 In these games, one sees the response of real children to the sterile image adults attempted to impose on them. CONCLUSION To conclude, I will return to the diagram that I used at the beginning of my article. As I see it, rather than receiving the explanation they needed

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The New Image of Childhood in Japan During the Years 1945–49 201 from the adults (by which I mean the Japanese as well as the Allied forces) to help them understand the break between the past (the war period) and the present (the post-war period) (relationship A), the children were compelled to forget and erase memories of the immediate wartime past. In the same way, they were only offered dreams as a means of grasping and going beyond reality, whereas true and accurate explanations could have helped them understand and accept their present situation (relationship B). The policy implemented was what I would call the suminuri kyo–kasho (textbook ink blotting) policy: cross out, erase, blur, forget; tell something else, even create a world of make believe that does not exist anywhere. Anything but explain. Simply change the subject. Oblivion, dreams and escape, in the right amounts, are certainly useful in recovering from past trauma, especially for children. But when used exclusively, in place of discussions of what is real, what effect do these tactics have in the long run? What impact does this have on the construction of the collective memory for the children of that generation? The following seems clear from what has been said in this paper: When one blames the Japanese for not constructing a collective memory of the war, or doing so selectively, one has to bear in mind that these blanks were created intentionally and organized as such, at least for all children who were six to fourteen-years old between 1937 to 1953 (and who were twenty-years old between 1950 and the beginning of the 1960s, i.e. the generation said to have silently sacrificed itself to the reconstruction of the new Japan). Lastly, and I will conclude with this point, one is forced to note that, with this policy, schools, adults, teachers and government (in spite of what they proclaimed), contrary to the new credo of the time, continued after the war to deny children the existence of a personal world, just as they had in the pre-war period.

Present time: everyday life & actual experience

B (dream)

A (obliteration)

Part: war experience > former concept of the child

C (break)

Current adult discourse (textbook content, etc.) > new concept of the child

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Institutions of Memory: Memorials, Museums, National Heroes NOTES

1

2

3

4

5

6 7

8 9 10

11

12 13 14 15 16

17

18

Donald W. Winnicott, Deprivation and Delinquency (London and New York: Tavistock, 1984), p. 25. See, for example, Harold J. Wray, ‘A Study in Contrasts: Japanese school textbooks of 1903 and 1941–5’, in Monumenta Nipponica, 1973, pp. 69–86; Yamazumi Masami, ‘Textbook Revision: The Swing to the Right’, in Japan Quarterly 28, 1981, pp. 472–8; Yoshimitsu Khan, Japanese Moral Education Past and Present (Associated University Presses, 1997). On 15 September 1945, under the control of SCAP, the Ministry of Education of the first post-war cabinet drafted a text entitled ‘Educational policy for the construction of a new Japan’, Shin Nihon kensetsu no kyo–iku ho–shin. This text banished all nationalist or militaristic ideology from the educational system, to which it attributed new end aims, i.e. to educate people and raise the general level of cultural awareness in order to pave the way to a peaceable and democratic society. Censure of the textbooks was one of the concrete and immediate results of this text. Cf. Miyahara Yoshikazu et al. (eds), Shiryo– Nihon gendai kyo–iku shi (Tokyo: Sanseido–, 1974), pp. 21–3. Karasawa Tomitaro–, ‘Changes in Japanese Education as Revealed in Textbooks’, in Japan Quarterly, 1955, p. 365. – O e Kenzaburo–, ‘Jibun no ki’ no shita de (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha, 2000–2001), pp. 7–10 Winnicott, Deprivation and Delinquency, p. 26. Nogaki Yoshiyuki (ed.), Nihon kodomo no rekishi, vol. 7 (Tokyo: Daiichi Ho–ki, 1977), p. 43. Ibid., pp. 45–6. Winnicott, Deprivation and Delinquency, Editors’ introduction, p. 11. Cf. Kuboi Norio, Nihon no shinryaku senso– to Ajia no kodomo (Tokyo: Meiseki Shoten, 1996), pp. 84–8 and Torigoe Shin, Momotaro– no unmei (Tokyo: Minerva Shoten, 2004), pp. 153–6. For the chronology of the events and statistics related to children cf. Shimokawa Ko–shi, Kindai kodomo shi nenpyo– / Sho–wa-Heisei 1926–2000 hen (Tokyo: Kawade Shobo– Shinsha, 2002) and ‘Kodomotachi no sho–washi’ – henshu– iinkai (ed.), Kodomotachi no Sho–washi (Tokyo: O tsuki Shoten, 2000). August 1949 survey by the Japanese government. July 1949 survey by the Japanese government. Asahi Shinbun, 19 April 1947. Asahi Shinbun, 24 May 1949. On this subject, it is also of great interest to read the very fine ‘War tales for children’ by Nosaka Akiyuki (Senso– do–wa-shu–. Tokyo: Chu–ko– Bunko, 1980). Joe O’Donnell, Japan 1945 (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 2005), p. 73. Yet even this image, which perfectly symbolizes my subject here, is somehow misleading as the school in this photograph at least had walls and a

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The New Image of Childhood in Japan During the Years 1945–49 203

19

20

roof, which was certainly not true (far from it) for the vast majority of schools in the period just after the defeat. Rather, the general rule was aozora kyo–shitsu, ‘open air schools’, set up in the rubble or in the fields, with no walls or roof – nor notebooks, textbooks or pencils, for that matter. John W. Dower, Embracing Defeat – Japan in the Wake of World War II (London and New York: W. W. Norton, 1999), p. 62. Ibid., pp. 110–12.

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12

Sato– Eisaku, Yasuoka Masahiro and the Re-establishment of 11 February as National Day: The Political Use of National Memory in Post-war Japan EDDY DUFOURMONT

INTRODUCTION

A

s Pierre Nora has pointed out, national flags, national songs or national holidays are part of the realms of memory of a nation, the lieux de mémoire.1 In the case of Japan, all of these symbolic realms existed already in the pre-war period and were remodelled in the post-war era by Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) cabinets.2 The dominance of the LDP in politics and the creeping recent nationalism, symbolized by the visits of Prime Minister Koizumi Jun’ichirô to the Yasukuni Shrine or the approval of revisionist textbooks, are well-known aspects of Japan’s postwar political life. The history of post-war politics is largely under construction, although efforts have been made to sketch the establishment of the 1955 system, characterized by LDP supremacy.3 But our knowledge of the motivation for the re-establishment of pre-war symbols is still weak. The re-establishment of 11 February as National Day in 1966 by a cabinet under Prime Minister Sato– Eisaku is a case in point. The cabinet met strong opposition, especially from Marxists historians. If we want to fully understand the reasons for the re-establishment of pre-war symbols by the government, we need to examine the motivations of Sato– and the politicians who supported him. They have been largely ignored by previous research.4 It is well known that the political measures of Yoshida Shigeru, Hatoyama Ichiro– and Kishi Nobusuke are often described as a ‘reverse course’, from democracy to renewed ‘fascism’. The few works written about Sato–’s supporters, represented by the Soshinkai (The Society of

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The Re-establishment of 11 February as National Day

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Public Spirit), led by the representative Chiba Saburo– and the Confucian thinker Yasuoka Masahiro (1898–1983), presented both the Soshinkai and Yasuoka as fascists, giving little explanation. Why did Sato–, the Soshinkai and Yasuoka desire the re-establishment of 11 February as the National Day? To deal with a part of the question, we should focus our analysis on Yasuoka and the Soshinkai. The Soshinkai is completely untreated in historiography, but Yasuoka, a specialist of Wang Yangming, is often – described as an acquaintance of Kita Ikki and O kawa Shu–mei, fathers of the pre-war ultra-nationalist movement. He is also known to be an ideologue of bureaucrats of Kokuikai (Association for National Reform), and one of the authors of the imperial declaration of surrender from 15 August. However very few works address his thought.5 Thus, we must first treat the Soshinkai itself as an organization, then its role in the reestablishment of 11 February, and finally the influence of Yasuoka on Sato– and the Soshinkai. THE SOSHINKAI AND THE RE-ESTABLISHMENT OF 11 FEBRUARY Sato– Eisaku’s Emphasis on the Renewal of Tradition 11 February was introduced as National Day by the Meiji government in 1872 because, following the legends described in eighth century texts Kojiki and Nihon Shoki, it was considered the day when the first, mythical emperor, Jinmu, built the imperial palace and founded Japan. It was called kigensetsu (in English officially designated as ‘Empire Day’) and was one of the major holidays in pre-war Japan as well as an important part of state shinto–. Therefore, it was abolished under the US occupation in February 1948, along with the Emperor’s birthday. On 9 December 1966, the government of Sato– Eisaku decided to make 11 February ‘National Foundation Day’ (kenkoku kinen no hi), in order to ‘commemorate the foundation and to stimulate patriotic spirit’, according to the law of 25 June 1966.6 Even though the 1966 law did not explicitly say it, the decision to designate the 11 February National Foundation Day was nothing more than the re-establishment of pre-war kigensetsu. At the beginning of the 1950s, Yoshida Shigeru had already expressed his desire to re-establish kigensetsu as a national holiday in a meeting of the Diet. As early as 1953, the government celebrated the imperial birthday in the traditional way, but it was not until 1956 that kigensetsu was openly discussed, at which point Shinto– groups, right-wing organizations and conservatives called for its re-establishment. Some local governors organized 11 February commemoration ceremonies, encouraged by Hatoyama Ichiro– and his education minister, Kiyose Ichiro–. Even the Japan Times deemed a national day necessary, because Japan was now a reconstructed country and a member of the United Nations. But the newspaper opposed the label kigensetsu, referring to its lack of historical

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authenticity and its militaristic and nationalistic overtones.7 The project of the Hatoyama government was perceived as anti-democratic and unconstitutional because it was initiated by the government, and not based upon the will of the people. The government met with strong opposition of scholars, especially those affiliated with Marxist organizations like Nikkyo–so. In 1959, Prince Mikasa himself, the emperor’s brother, declared that 11 February was completely superfluous.8 For the government, its re-establishment was one element used by the LDP for the revision of the constitution and the creation of the Self Defence Force. However, in the late 1950s, the LDP lost the two-thirds majority in the Diet it needed to revise the constitution. Then Sato– Eisaku succeeded Ikeda Hayato in November 1964. Sato–’s diary shows that he was personally devoted to the emperor and nostalgic as regards the pre-war emperor-centred system.9 Soon after he became Prime Minister on 3 February 1965, he decided to present a bill introducing 11 February as a national holiday, and combined it with the re-establishment of Respect for the Aged Day (keiro– no hi, pre-war ro–jin no hi, on 15 September) and the creation of Sports Day (taiiku no hi, on 10 October). Sato– Eisaku established a committee to prepare the re-establishment of 11 February.10 He also decided to change the country’s name on stamps, replacing Nihon with Nippon. Those facts should make Sato– a perfect example of the ‘reverse course’ described by Marxist historians. But it is important to notice that Sato– disliked the violence of far rightwing movements as well as that of leftist ones: he was not pleased when rightists demonstrated for the emperor’s birthday, nor when Mishima Yukio committed suicide in the Self-Defense Force headquarters. In 1960, he supported the new laws issued in order to repress far right movements (uyoku).11 At the same time, he had contacts with far-right leading politicians, including Kodama Yoshio. Yet he was not the only one to be in contact with him, and even if Kodama sometimes appears in Sato–’s diary, this does not prove any relationship between the two men.12 However, what about Sato–’s main supporters, the Soshinkai, who had closer links to Sato– than Kodama? Supporters of the Soshinkai The Soshinkai is a group of nearly eighty LDP members of the Lower and the Upper House of the Diet, created in October 1958 by Chiba Saburo–. Chiba began his political career in the 1920s, under the patronage of the liberal Ozaki Yukio, and became an important leader in the National Democratic Party (later the Reform Party, then the Democratic Party).13 In 1958, Chiba Saburo– became the head of the special committee for security measures of Kishi Nobusuke’s cabinet. Except for the fact that Chiba was the leader of the Soshinkai and Yasuoka Masahiro the counsellor, we have very few documents that provide information about the Soshinkai and its members. Mainichi Shinbun (15 August 1961)

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presents the Soshinkai as an organization whose activities ‘transcend factions’.14 The newspaper lists the following names (the participation in a Sato– cabinet is indicated by the abbreviation S and the number of the cabinet): ● ● ● ● ● ● ● ●

●

● ●

Kiyose Ichiro–. Minister of Education under Hatoyama Ichiro–. Head of the Deputy Assembly in the 1960s. Araki Manjuo. Minister of Education under Ikeda Hayato. President of the Committee for Public Security (S2–3). Naoki Ko–jiro–. Minister of Justice (S3). Fukuda Takeo. Future Prime Minister. Minister of Finance in S1–2–3. Kimura Atsutaro–. Minister of Justice under Yoshida Shigeru, First Commander-in-Chief of the Self Defence Forces. Kaya Okinori. Minister of Finances under the Ikeda government. Aoki Kazuo. Minister of Greater Asia during the war. Hasegawa Takashi. Secretary of Ogata Taketora in Higashikuni and Yoshida Shigeru cabinets, Deputy Vice-Minister of Education under Ikeda Hayato, Minister of Labour under Tanaka Kakuei, Minister of Transports under Miki Takeo, Minister of Justice under Takeshita Noboru. Shu–to– Hideo. Minister of Agriculture (Yoshida 1) and Minister of Construction (Yoshida 3). Leader of the Committee for Public Security under Ikeda Hayato. Nadao Hirokichi. Minister of Education under Ishibashi Tanzan, Kishi Nobusuke and S2. Minister of Health under Ikeda Hayato. Hamachi Bunpei. Vice-Minister of Transport under Hatoyama Ichiro–. President of the Japanese Fishing Association.

Others sources also cited:15 ●

● ●

● ● ●

●

Aikawa Katsuroku. Clerk of the Home Ministry and Ministry of Health under Koiso Kuniaki. Under the Sato– government, head of the Committee for Security Measures. Aichi So–ichi, Minister of Education in S1, Foreign Minister in S2 and 3. Hoshina Zenshiro–. Naval officer. One the most important members of the LDP’s Committee for Defence Measures and the patronal organization Keidanren. Under Sato– Eisaku, he was sent to discuss the retrocession of Ogasawara Islands. Sakata Michita. Minister of Education (S3–4). Saigo– Kichinosuke. Minister of Justice (S2). Hayakawa Takashi. Deputy Vice-Minister of Autonomy Ministry under Hatoyama Ichiro–, Autonomy Minister under Ikeda Hayato, Labour Minister under S1 and 2, Health Minister under Miki Takeo. – O mura Seiichi. Home Minister (Yoshida 1) and Chief of the SelfDefence Forces under the Hatoyama cabinet.

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Tachibana Naoshige, President of Heiwa Business Company and adviser for the Kinki So–go Bank. Kudo– Sho–shiro–. President of the Tomin Bank. Shibusawa Keizo–. President of the Bank of Japan, Minister of Finance under the Shidehara cabinet. Ichimanda Hisato. Minister of Finance under Hatoyama Ichiro– and Kishi Nobusuke. President of the Vietnam Association (Betonamu kyo–kai). Ishii Ko–jiro–, Minister of Justice in S1 and 2. Shimomura Sadamu. General, last Minister of the Army Ministry (Shidehara cabinet). Hamada Sachio. Vice President of the Diet General Assembly. – O tsubo Yasuo.16 Home Ministry clerk and owner of the Daiei Company. Deputy Vice-Minister of Education under Ikeda Hayato and deputy Vice-Minister of Justice under Sato– Eisaku.

As the list shows, the Soshinkai was composed of very important politicians, and we can even say that the Soshinkai dominated not only the Sato–, but also the Ikeda Hayato cabinets. We have little information about the other members of the Soshinkai, but the list above allows us to make three further observations. First, some politicians who served in pre-war and war cabinets were still in office. Members of the Koiso cabinet (1944) and the former Imperial Navy were especially strongly represented. We can connect this with Yasuoka Masahiro’s service as a counsellor for the Greater Asia Ministry under the Koiso and Suzuki cabinets (September 1944 – August 1945). Second, some of the Soshinkai members were members of the Kokusei do–shikai (Friends’ Circle for the Government of the Country).17 The Kokusei do–shikai was founded in June 1954, and included deputies from the Liberal Party and the Reformist Party. They were under the ideological direction of Yasuoka, the political thinker Yabe Teiji, and the journalist Mitarai Tatsuo. They were connected with the Cho–enkai (Peach Garden Society) of Ogata Taketora.18 Their goal was to unify the conservative forces to create a new party opposed to Yoshida Shigeru, and to establish a new policy of independence. Their key role in the formation of the LDP put them in senior posts within the party.19 People from the Kishi-Fukuda faction were present in both Kokusei do–shikai and Soshinkai.20 In the To–fu– sasshin renmei (Renovation of the Party League), created by Fukuda Takeo, we find Hoshina Zenshiro–, Aikawa Katsuroku, Chiba Saburo–, Sakata Michita, and Hasegawa Takashi.21 Thus it is possible to say that Fukuda faction was the principal force represented in Soshinkai. What was the main goal of Soshinkai? The sources give the following points:22 ● ●

to fight the violence of Marxist movements. to warn society against the international threat of communism.

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to promote respect for the tradition and history and Japan, the spirit of democracy and independence. to protect the parliamentary democracy and contribute to the pacification of politics. to fight factionalism inside the LDP, to make it appear devoted to the country and attractive to the people.

The meaning of the word soshin, given to the group by Yasuoka, was ‘public spirit’, meaning that it transcended personal ambition and the political struggles inside the LDP.23 The Soshinkai applied these goals in two ways: anti-communism and support for spiritual mobilization. Let us begin with the anti-communist activities. In 1965 Chiba Saburo– was one of the creators of the Asia Parliamentarian’s Union (APU, Ajia kokkai giin rengo–), of which Kishi Nobusuke was the president. Ishii Ko–jiro–, Kimura Atsutaro– and Kaya Arinori also participated. APU assembled representatives from Japan, Korea, Taiwan, the Philippines, Thailand, South Vietnam, Malaysia and Indonesia, in order to resist communism and to promote the prosperity of Asia.24 Chiba, Kishi, Masuhara Keikichi met with Yasuoka to prepare the creation of APU.25 For Yasuoka, this project was the perfect example of what Japanese politics in Asia should be: a ‘community of destiny’.26 The Soshinkai was also a bastion of the pro-Taiwan lobby. The Association for Researches on the Asian Question (Ajia mondai kenkyu–kai, called A ken) represented this group in the LDP. It was opposed to the Association for Research on Asian and African Questions (Ajia-Afurika mondai kenkyu–kai, called AA ken), which was the pro-China lobby. Fukui Haruhiro says that thirty-six members of Soshinkai were present among the ninety-eight members of AA ken.27 Kanda Yutaka also showed that Kaya Okinori, Ishii Ko–jiro–, Kishi Nobusuke, Fukuda Takeo and Aichi So–ichi belonged to the Association for Japan-Taiwan cooperation (Nichika kyo–roku iinkai).28 The Soshinkai and Yasuoka were also strongly linked with Park ChungHee’s Korea, which is one reason why the normalization treaty between the two countries was realized in the Soshinkai dominated Ikeda-Sato cabinets (and met with strong opposition in both Korea and Japan). Yasuoka played the role of an unofficial counsellor in matters of international relations for Ikeda Hayato and Sato– Eisaku: when Park ChungHee assumed power in May 1961, Sato– consulted Yasuoka in the presence of the Korean politician Park Choong-Eum.29 Park himself had old relations with Yasuoka.30 Other meetings between Yasuoka and Sato– – took place as well.31 Ikeda and his foreign minister O hira Masayoshi themselves met Yasuoka to talk about Japanese-Korean relations just after Park’s visit to Japan in July 1962.32 In October the same year, Chief of Information Service Kim Jong-Pil met Yasuoka.33 According to Chiba Saburo–, Yasuoka met Park Choong-Eum himself, with Kim Jong-Pil, on 10 May 1962.34 Yasuoka had also good connections to Gwon Il, one of the main delegates of the Korean community in Japan, and Jeong

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Han-Yeong, president of the Japanese-Korean friendship association (Nikkan yu–ko– kyo–kai).35 Meetings between members of Soshinkai and key members of the Korean government are recorded as well in June 1968, Kaya Arinori was invited by Park Chung-Hee and his prime minister to discuss problems of civil security and defence.36 One of the reasons why Yasuoka has been so much involved in Japanese-Korean affairs is the strong desire of Kansai businessmen to reopen diplomatic relations between Japan and Korea. The Kansai Shiyu– kyo–kai created by Yasuoka in 1957 assembled prominent businessmen from the Kansai region, and delegates from the business world who promoted the reopening of Japanese-Korean relations as part of their enterprises.37 The second aspect of the Soshinkai activities, spiritual mobilization, was a domestic one, and the reestablishment of 11 February was one part of this effort. Aside from an attempt to revise the constitution with the creation of a committee led by Chiba and dissolved without results, the Soshinkai did not involve in concrete activities. Minister of Education Nadao Hirokichi emphasized the ‘spirit of defence’ in education, and Araki Manjuo stopped meeting Nikkyo–so delegates as his predecessors used to do. Nadao and Sakata Michita were confronted with student demonstrations, especially at Tokyo University, at the end of the 1960s. The Soshinkai’s most significant concrete activity was the organization of the Meiji’s centennial celebration. Through the cabinet, the Soshinkai was heavily involved in the anniversary committee. Yasuoka joined the preparatory committee, – with other conservative thinkers and writers like Kobayashi Hideo, O ya – 38 Soichi and Yabe Teiji. Sato– and the Soshinkai: Opponents of Yoshida Shigeru? The public knew about the existence of the Soshinkai because of Matsuo Sho–ichi, an historian and member of the Nikkyo–so, who opposed Chiba and Araki at a trial at the end of 1960s. He denounced Sato–’s policy of the re-establishment of 11 February, the organization of the Meiji centennial, and pointed out the influence of the Soshinkai in Sato–’s cabinet. Matsuo called it the ‘Soshinkai cabinet’.39 He presented the Soshinkai as a ‘fascist’ brains trust of the LDP directed by Yasuoka. As noted above, Soshinkai members and Yasuoka joined Koiso and Suzuki wartime cabinets. If we follow the ‘reverse course’ thesis, this could demonstrate the reactionary nature of the Soshinkai and Yasuoka, and suggest that they were nostalgic as to a militaristic Japan. The re-establishment of 11 February would then be an attempt to recreate it. But Yasuoka’s case contrasts with such conclusions. Despite his strong nationalism, Yasuoka was not an ardent supporter of wartime government politics: first, although he was not opposed to the principle of expansion, he thought that it should be done not only by militaristic means, but also by cultural and economic means. Moreover, this expansion should be maintained in good relations with the other countries.

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For these reasons he pointed out both the foolishness of the project of world domination and the reasons for the lack of support from the Asians.40 Second, he was against an alliance with the Axis, because of Hitler and Mussolini, as well as Stalin, all of whom he regarded as tyrants, and which he contrasted to the kingly way (o–do–).41 Third, Yasuoka opposed the total control of the society by the Taisei Yokusankai (Imperial Rule Assistance Association), which replaced parties, and he also criticized the controlled economy.42 Therefore he joined the group that opposed wartime Prime Minister Tôjô Hideki, together with Yoshida Shigeru, Makino Nobuaki and Hatoyama Ichiro–. It is said that at that time Hatoyama read Yasuoka’s articles with interest.43 When Nakano Seigo–, another member of the anti-To–jo– group, was arrested, Yasuoka wrote an article criticizing To–jo–.44 Yasuoka had also strong connections with the Navy and the Kyoto School at that time.45 In other words, Yasuoka belonged to the peace party; that is why he joined the Koiso cabinet, which secretly began peace negotiations, and became one of the editors of the imperial declaration of surrender from 15 August. – jo – group certainly explains the influence The fact that he joined the anti-To of Yasuoka in the post-war LDP. The people of Soshinkai are often described as right-wing, representative of a chauvinist attempt to destroy the heritage of post-war Japan, as symbolized by Yoshida Shigeru. The basic opposition to Yoshida among the participants of the Kokusei Do–shikai, and the ‘fascist’ manner of Yasuoka’s thought seem to be going in the same direction, but this would be incorrect. First Yasuoka himself was strongly linked with Yoshida. Otabe Yu–ji indicates that Yasuoka knew the father-in-law of Yoshida Shigeru, Makino Nobuaki, who was a well-known liberal politician. Makino had barely escaped assassination a number of times in the 1930s. Otabe argues that Yasuoka escaped from prison thanks to Yoshida, and through his relations to Makino.46 Although this is true, Otabe’s research largely underestimated the relation between Yasuoka and Makino: as the Makino diary reveals, Yoshida’s father-in-law was one of Yasuoka’s closest links and they planned the reform of the Kyo–cho–kai (Society for Cooperation) together.47 They suffered the attacks of the Movement for the Clarification of National Essence (Kokutai meicho– undo–) in 1930s and, like Yoshida, they opposed war against the USA and Great Britain.48 After 1945, Yoshida often invited Yasuoka to discuss foreign relations.49 Second, we cannot simply label Yoshida a ‘democrat’. Yoshida is the man who saw the Korean War as a ‘gift from Heaven’.50 If he was a liberal, he was also a pure product of the imperial regime. He was interested in restoring pre-war institutions in order to promote a ‘healthy patriotism’. Along with Yasuoka, Ogata Taketora, Okazaki Katsuo and Go–ko Kiyoshi he reorganized the Association for Martial Virtue (Butokukai), in March 1954.51 Sato–, Chiba, Yasuoka and some others members of Yoshida’s faction met in 16 May 1956 because they opposed

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the treaty with the USSR proposed by Hatoyama Ichiro–. Sato– and his followers met on Yoshida’s order.52 The meeting played a decisive role in the formation of the Soshinkai, which was created soon after. Hatoyama, often described as a liberal and an opponent of the war, was not so different from Chiba, Yasuoka and Yoshida’s faction, because he also planned the revision of the constitution and support for the Self Defence Forces. Some future members of the Soshinkai served in his cabinet. In any case, it is clear that the Soshinkai cannot be seen as the supposed opponents of Yoshida’s disciples. Moreover, a number of Soshinkai mem–, bers participated in Yoshida’s cabinets, including Kimura Atsutaro Hasegawa Takashi and Shu–to– Hideo. Thus we cannot describe the Soshinkai as reactionary opponents to a democratic line represented by Yoshida and his followers. So, to understand their intention with the reestablishment of 11 February, we need to radically rethink their position. An examination of Yasuoka’s thought can be useful here. JAPANESE TRADITION IN YASUOKA MASAHIRO’S THOUGHT The Imperial Symbols as Lieux de Mémoire Yasuoka formulated a Confucian personalism ( jinkakushugi), emphasizing self-cultivation and respect for the individual. Such ideas were dominant during the Taisho– period (1912–26), but Yasuoka’s major contribution was to mix it with Wang Yangming neo-Confucian thought. In order to preserve the future of Confucianism, he thought of a conservative ethic based on the respect for the individual person.53 On the basis of this Confucian personalism, Yasuoka devised a system of political thought, which I call ‘Confucian democracy,’ or ‘Confucian minponshugi’ because he used this translation of democracy coined by Yoshino Sakuzo– but this does not mean that Yasuoka’s minponshugi was democratic. With this political thought, Yasuoka did not want to develop a new imperial ideology justifying the putsch or military intervention in politics, but a new way to defend the political status quo. As a matter of fact, he was not satisfied with the traditional imperial ideology as presented by Inoue Tetsujiro–, who emphasized the paternalistic figure of the emperor, and presented the Japanese nation as his family. Yasuoka criticized this theory as unfit to rationally explain the virtue of the emperor. He wanted each Japanese subject to recognize the superiority of the emperor on his own initiative and on a logical basis. The emperor should reside in the heart of each Japanese subject like a deity.54 To explain the emperor ideology, Yasuoka chose to structure his argument in the form of a dialogue, with questions like ‘Why we should respect the State?’ ‘What are the necessary links between the statesmen and the people?’ ‘Why is the emperor inviolable?’ ‘Why should the unity of the imperial line be venerated?’ Yasuoka centred his political thought around the emperor, assigning to him the role of the Head of State,

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superior to the people and divine in nature. In this case, Yasuoka simply echoed the Meiji constitution. But he made this imperial superiority a symbolic and a spiritual one: convinced by the materialistic nature of man, Yasuoka thought that the only way for the king to be recognized by his subjects was to be absolutely impartial, and in order to be impartial he needed to be free from all material desires. The domination of the emperor was thought to be an absence of domination. This Taoist imagery was used deliberately: Yasuoka chose the Taoist term of ‘mysterious virtue’ (gentoku) to express the imperial nature: the emperor was an organ of the state but, as a descendant of the gods, a spiritual one. The emperor symbolized the consciousness of the State and the desires and interests of all the people. He ruled without violence. Yasuoka saw the proof for his ideas in the complete absence of revolution in Japan and in the (legendary) ‘unbroken line’ of emperors. Japan should be a united and peaceful country, as opposed to the occident and China. This was the kokutai, the essence of the nation. Yasuoka also clearly expressed the symbolic nature of the emperor. He said: ‘one nation might symbolize itself with the national flag, another one with its laws, and yet another one with nothing. We Japanese do it with the emperor’.55 Yasuoka recognized the spiritual and religious power of the emperor as real, but he gave all the governmental duties to the ‘statesmen’ (iseisha). The ‘statesmen’ were the bureaucrats, the members of parliament and the ministers – all political forces of the Meiji system. Citing Guiseppe Mazzini, Yasuoka desired ‘the progress of all, through all, under the leading of the best and the wisest’.56 But, using the idea of Huang Zongxi (1619–95), Yasuoka said also that, like the emperor, the statesmen’s duty was to serve the people and sacrifice all their desires for its sake in order to receive the support of the people. He defended the religious aspect of the emperor but did not see it as opposed to rationality: Yasuoka thought that it was superficial to present religion and science as incompatible. The sciences should also discover truth and participate in the realization of an ideal. The true enemy was not science but the materialistic tendency to destroy all spirit and ideal.57 Yasuoka’s thought was just one theory of the kokutai among many others, but it was distinctive. Among the categories of pre-war kokutai theories defined by Oguma Eiji,58 we can categorize Yasuoka in the category of the few thinkers who rejected Inoue Tetsujiro–’s traditional theory in an attempt to rationalize it. Oguma put Satomi Kishio in this category. Like Yasuoka, Satomi tried to logically explain the figure of the emperor considering the same difficulties. But their systems of thought were radically different, and Satomi did not view the emperor as a symbol. Yasuoka’s thought was unique, and it preceded the relegation of the emperor to a symbolic status argued by Tsuda So–kichi and Watsuji Tetsuro–, and realized in the 1947 constitution. That is also why, after the war, Yasuoka felt no need to change his ideas. On the contrary, he repeated:

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Imperial inviolability never meant that the emperor was able to enter fire without burning in a miraculous and unscientific way. The idea of imperial divinity itself never meant that the emperor was a being without form and colour, living in super-human existence, without sleeping or eating.59 The pressure of the American occupation, which pushed the emperor to affirm his human nature, destroyed state shinto– and put an end to prewar symbols. Yasuoka did not abandon his ideas of a saintly and pacifistic emperor but he did try new ways to defend the emperor, who like most pre-war symbols became one part of a general frame of respect for ‘tradition’. Yasuoka presented the emperor as a Japanese particularity, because the emperor did not have a family name like other kings, and because he combined a political role as head of state with a religious role emanating from the national shinto– religion.60 He criticized communists because they presented the emperor and tradition as feudal. He also attacked scholars like Ninagawa Arata, who described the sovereign as a toy in the hands of statesmen, even during the Meiji area.61 As in the pre-war period, Yasuoka’s goal was to promote the spirit of independence, i.e. a way for Japan to get itself involved in the world not by constant influence of the Occident, but based on respect for its own ‘oriental’ tradition. The failure of pre-war Japan was due to excessive imitation of Anglo-Saxons, Germans and Italians. In post-war Japan the risk was a loss of autonomy due to imitation of America or the USSR. Yasuoka encouraged the Japanese to reconstruct Japan with frugality and endurance. Of course, Yasuoka approved of the re-establishment of 11 February. But for him the question was not whether 11 February was historically accurate or not. The question was: what the Japanese should do with 11 February and the legacy of the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki? Yasuoka thought that, as part of the national memory, 11 February, as well as the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki, did not only belong in the hands of historians. These ‘realms of memory’ possessed an eternal message and the commemoration of 11 February was one way to remember the history of the Japanese nation. 11 February has a symbolic significance, exactly like Christmas or Buddha’s birthday, neither of which can be historically confirmed, as Yasuoka pointed out. In other words, Yasuoka recognized that 11 February was not scientifically verifiable, but had to be respected for its symbolic significance. His position is clearly nationalist and lacks respect for the individual freedom to not believe in the shinto– myths and therefore reject 11 February, but we cannot just describe it as an irrational and fanatical attempt to return to the past like Hori Yukio, who characterized Yasuoka’s thought as ‘irrational’ and ‘poor in logic’. This remark can be applied to other cases. The historian Tsuda So–kichi was accused of lèse-majesté in 1940 for his research on the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki. For that reason he is often presented as a liberal victim of ‘fascism’. In fact, as Oguma Eiji demonstrated, Tsuda wanted to treat the myths as myths

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and not as history because he believed in their sanctity and argued that myths transcend human reason. After the war, Tsuda was attacked by Marxist historians who criticized him as ‘irrational’.62 As Eric Seizelet pointed out, Minister of Education Amano Teiyu– was not simply being nostalgic regarding the pre-war period when in 1951 he invited all schools and universities to sing Kimi ga yo and display the Hinomaru flag. Amano was aware of their utility as national symbols. A Lieu de Mémoire as Tool for People’s Education The ‘education of the people’ (kyo–ka), the basic concept for spiritual mobilization, was a keyword in domestic politics of pre-war Japan elites, in both the ‘authoritarian’ Meiji regime and the Taisho– democracy. Sheldon Garon was among the first ones to emphasize the importance of spiritual mobilizations organized by the State.63 Eizawa Ko–ji explained that spiritual mobilization, an emphasis on austerity and respect for Confucian values as expressed by the Imperial Rescript on Education were constant goals of the government, especially after 1905 and the growth of Marxist influence.64 Political leaders received strong support of businessmen, as spiritual mobilization and Confucianism aided economic growth, and so represented an obstacle to Marxism. Shibusawa Eiichi (1840–1931), the most famous businessman of his time, founded the Confucian association Shibunkai and the labour association Kyo–cho–kai, with government cooperation. The fact that Yasuoka was able to promote reform in the Kyo–cho–kai in the 1930s was no coincidence: he was one of the few scholars to use Confucianism in his thought, while political leaders still used it to promote spiritual mobilization. Between 1937 and 1945, the domination of society by the state increased through economic control and establishment of the Taisei Yokusankai. As explained above, Yasuoka was very critical of the regimentation of the population, and he was against tight control of the economy. But even in wartime he was aware of the need to ‘educate the people’, which is why he agreed to promote ‘thought war’ (shiso–sen), at the invitation of Ogata Taketora, the Chief of the Information Office. Yasuoka’s thought was not meant to be propaganda to mobilize the population for the war, but to unify the people under imperial ideology and tradition against the communist threat; he described communist propaganda as a ‘rhetorical weapon’ (bunbatsu) from Moscow.65 In other words, for Yasuoka the thought war was not offensive but defensive, directly related to kyo–ka efforts. Sato– Takumi showed that the propaganda measures created by Ogata were not completely directed at foreign enemies, but that they also had a domestic dimension. The propagandist’s goal was also to assure the stability of the people and to guard it against veneration of the West, especially communism. Unity and stabilization were goals in themselves.66 The American occupation destroyed most, but not all of the authoritarian pre-war state: a majority of the bureaucrats remained in their

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posts and a great number of pre-war politicians returned as well. The return of these figures also signified the return of spiritual mobilization as a means to control the people and protect it against communism. In other words, Japanese elites were still preoccupied with the ‘education of the people’ (kyo–ka). The emphasis on tradition by conservatives in the post-war period was in no way more the will to use Confucianism as a tool for spiritual mobilization, as in the pre-war period. Two sets of circumstances reinforced the desire for spiritual mobilization: the success of Marxist revolutions in China, North Korea and North Vietnam, and the need to reconstruct Japan. In both cases politicians received the support of businessmen, exactly as in the pre-war period. Yasuoka himself enjoyed great popularity among businessmen because his discourse emphasized the need for reconstruction and protection against communism. They also appreciated Yasuoka’s personalism because with the Taisho– period they experienced neo-Kantian personalism and were themselves paternalists.67 That is why they invited Yasuoka to speak on conferences for their employees and organized Confucian study group circles where they often met with political leaders.68 Yasuoka was also invited by patronal organizations like the Keidanren or the Industrial Club (Nihon Ko–gyo– Kurabu).69 As Sheldon Garon has pointed out, the great movement for spiritual mobilization in the post-war period, the New Life Movement (Shin seikatsu undo–), was organized by businessmen and LDP politicians. In fact, Yasuoka and his disciples were at the top level of the movement. Yasuoka’s thought was described as the ‘philosophy of the movement’.70 For Yasuoka, the goal of the Meiji centennial was the same as for the New Life Movement: the improvement of the national consciousness and morality. But he also hoped for the active and spontaneous participation of the people with minimal direction from the government. That is why he pointed out the necessity to clearly explain the goal of the centennial.71 The official goal was to thank earlier generations for their contribution to national prosperity. The objective of catching up to the West had been achieved. But the people, especially the young people, had an obligation to preserve tradition and the Japanese spirit in order to built a better future.72 Thus, the re-establishment of 11 February should be understood not as a step in the ‘reverse course’ but as a tool for kyo–ka, organized by political and economic elites within a general frame of spiritual mobilization, in order to unify the nation for economic development and move it away from communism. CONCLUSION In 1892, the historian Kume Kunitake was forced to resign because he presented myths as pure legends, and criticized their use in politics. His opponents, practitioners of ‘nativist studies’ (kokugaku), wanted shinto– to be the national religion and the basis for the divine emperor ideology and for the ‘education of the people’ (kyo–ka). They attacked

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him precisely because his theories were ‘harmful to the state’.73 In other words, truth was less important than national interests. We can see the conflict between historians and the government about 11 February as an avatar of the Kume incident. That is to say that the 11 February re-establishment as a kyo–ka measure should be understood in the light of Michel Foucault’s theory of state domination. Indeed, Yasuoka, Sato– Eisaku and the Soshinkai stressed the importance of 11 February as a lieu de mémoire but they were unable to think that a lieu de mémoire should be in the hands of the people instead of in the hands of the leaders. They were unable to understand the citizen movement against them. Like the sanctuary of Yasukuni, 11 February is not a real national lieu de mémoire because originally the leaders, but not the people decided to establish it. Moreover, they met strong opposition from the people at that point. Actually few people still think about opposing 11 February today, but most people take their holidays on that day without thinking about tradition at all, contrary to what Yasuoka wanted to achieve. Pierre Nora has explained that commemoration is something particular in each country: in contrast to republican France, the kingdom of Great Britain organizes very few commemorations, and the USA has a real ‘civic religion’.74 Perhaps we can view 11 February as characteristic of Japanese political and economic elites’ attempts to use a lieu de mémoire in order to mobilize the population. The existence of the Soshinkai suggests a mobilization from above. Recently, Kenneth Ruoff pointed out a relatively popular mobilization in favour of kigensetsu, even among scholars.75 I agree with this interpretation, but the existence of both Soshinkai and popular mobilization is not necessarily contradictory. I think the attempt of kyo–ka by the elites is a basic pattern in twentiethcentury Japan. This remark can be extended to East Asia, as Prasenjit Duara has shown the importance of kyo–ka in the politics of Chiang Kaishek (Jiang Jieshi).76 This topic certainly requires future research. NOTES 1 2

3

4

Pierre Nora, Les lieux de mémoire (Paris: Gallimard, 1987). Seizelet Eric, Les petits fils du soleil: la jeunesse japonaise et le patriotisme (Paris: Publications Orientalistes de France, 1988). Masumi Junnosuke, Sengo seiji 1945–1955 (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1983). Murakawa Ichiro–, ‘Nihon jiyu–to– shi, minshu jiyu–to– shi, jiyu–to– shi’, in Hokuriku Ho–gaku, vol. 2, no. 1, June 1994, pp. 1–59; no. 2, September 1994 pp. 13–51; no. 3, March 1995, pp. 1–53; no. 4 March 1995, pp. 47–115. ‘Nihon shinpoto– shi, Minshuto– shi, Kokumin minshuto– shi’, in Hokuriku Ho–gaku, vol. 3, no. 2, September 1995, pp. 3–82; No. 3, December 1995, pp. 2–25. ‘Kaishinto– shi’, in Hokuriku Ho–gaku, vol. 4, no. 1, April 1996, pp. 25–80. Matsuo Sho–ichi, ‘Soshinkai jiken ni tsuite’, in Bunka Hyo–ron, August 1969, pp. 193–5; Matsuo Sho–ichi, ‘Soshikai jiken to 1970 nen mondai’, in

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Gekkan So–hyo–, January 1970, pp. 43–50; Matsuo Sho–ichi, ‘Soshinkai jiken to sengo minshushugi no kiki’, in Rekishigaku Kenkyu–, no. 359, April 1970, pp. 55–60. Ito– Takashi, ‘Kyoku icchi naikakuki no seikai saihensei mondai’, in Shakaikagaku Kenkyu–, Vol. 24, No. 1, 1972, pp. 56–130; Otabe Yu–ji, – sei ideologı– to shin’eibei-ha no keifu – Yasuoka Masahiro o ‘Tenno chu–shin ni’, in Shien, vol. 43, no.1, 1983, pp. 25–38. Furukawa Takahisa, ‘Kakushin kanryo– no shiso– to ko–do–’, in Shigaku Zasshi, vol. 99, no. 4, 1990, pp. 1–39; Kawajima Makoto, ‘Kokuikai to shin kanryo–’, in Nihonshi Kenkyu–, no. 360, 1992, pp. 1–25. Quoted in Eric Seizelet, Monarchie et démocratie dans le Japon d’après-guerre (Paris: Maisonneuve & Larose, 1990), p. 250. Quoted in Olavi Fält, ‘The Image of the Emperor Showa as a Symbol of National Aspirations’, in: Ian Neary (ed.), Leaders and Leadership in Japan (London: Japan Library, 1996), pp. 235–8. Mikasa no Miya Takahito, ‘Kigensetsu ni tsuite no watashi no shinnen’, in Bungei Shunju–, January 1959, pp. 73–84. See for example the following entries in his diary, Sato– Eisaku, Sato– Eisaku nikki, (Tokyo: Asashi Shinbunsha, 1998): 11 February 1964 (p. 86), 29 April 1964 (p. 121), 1 January 1965 (p. 217), 29 April 1966 (416). Members of this commitee were: Sugahara Michinari (President of the Anti-Prostitution Committee), Yoshimura Makoto (Professor of To–kai University), Abe Gen’ichi (Professor at Tokyo Metropolitan University), Okuda Azuma (President of Kyoto University), Oketani Shigeo (Professor at Tokyo Institute of Technology), Sakakibara Shigeru (Professor at Tokyo Women’s Medical University), Tanabe Shigeko (Professor at Senshu– University), Funabashi Seiichi (Writer), Matsushita Masahisa (President of – Ritsumeikan University) and O ya So–ichi (Critic). – – See the entries in Sato, Sato Eisaku nikki for 29 April 1966, p. 417, and 25 November 1970, p. 210. See for example the diary of the liberal Ashida Hitoshi, Ashida Hitoshi nikki (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1986), vols 3 and 4. Chiba Saburo–, So–zo– ni ikite (Tokyo: Karucha Shuppansha, 1977), pp. 78, 90,104, 276. Mainichi Shinbun Yu–kan, p. 2. Shiyu–, September 1961, p. 63. Matsuo, Soshinkai jiken ni tsuite, p. 194, as well as Matsuo, Soshikai jiken to 1970 nen mondai, pp. 43–50. – Kansai Shiyu–, March 1959, p. 8. O mura Seiichi Tsuitokuroku Kanko–kai, – – O mura Seiichi o shinobu (Tokyo: O mura Seiichi tsuitakuroku kanko–kai, – – 1970), p. 300. Chiba, Sozo ni ikite, pp. 333, 368, 372, 391, 404. Fukuda Takeo, Araki Manjuo, Nadao Hirokichi, Sakata Michita, – Hayakawa Takashi, O mura Seiichi. Hayashi Shigeyuki, Yasuoka Masahiro sensei do–jo–ki (Tokyo: Purejidentosha, 1988), p. 28, ‘Kokusei do–shikai no hassoku’, in Bunka to rokka, April 1954, p. 103. All the Kaishinto– members of the Kokusei Do–shikai were key people of the Kaishinto– committee for the renovation of the constitution. See

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Jishu Kenpo– Kiseigiin Renmei, Kaishinto– kenpo– cho–sa kaiho– ho–kokusho, Kaishinto– kenpo– cho–sakai kenpo– cho–sa No.7 (Tokyo: Jishu Kenpo– Kiseigiin Renmei, 1955), pp. 40–41. Murakawa Ichiro–, Nihon jiyu–to– shi, minshu jiyu–to– shi, jiyu–to– shi, p. 54, fig 68–76, shows lists with names of members of the founder committees of the LDP. We can see Kokusei Do–shikai largely represented. Among others, former Prime Ministers Takeshita Noboru, Mori Yoshiro–, Koizumi Junichiro– belong to this faction. Fukuda Takeo, Kaiko 90 nen (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1995), pp. 155–156. Tsuji Kiyoaki, Shiryo– – sengo 20 nen shi (Tokyo: Nihon Hyo–ronsha, 1966–1967), vol. 1, p. 352. Shiyu–, No. 143, September 1961, p. 63. Chiba Saburô sensei kenshô kinnen shuppan kankôkai, Yonjûgo nen no konjaku, (Chiba Saburô sensei kenshô kinnen shuppan kankôkai, 1969), pp. 295, 309. Chiba, So–zo– ni ikite, p. 356. Hayashi, Do–jo–ki, p. 60. Yasuoka Masahiro, ‘Fukai hansei to ooi ni naru kakushin’, in Shiyu–, no. 154, August 1962, p. 9. Fukui Haruhiro, Jiyu– minshuto– to seisaku kettei (Tokyo: Fukumura Shoten, 1968), pp. 316–17. Kanda Yutaka, ‘Sato– naikaku to “futatsu no chu–goku”, taichu– taitaiwan seisaku ni okeru baransu no mo–saku’, in Kokusai Kankeiron Kenkyu–, no. 21, March 2004, p. 28. Entry for 17 May 1961, Sato–, Sato– Eisaku nikki, vol. 1, p. 484. He appears in the Shiyu– Kyo–kai reunions. See Shiyu–, No. 61, November 1954, pp. 41–42. See the entries for 26 January 1962, 12 March and 21 April 1964, Sato–, Sato– Eisaku nikki, vol. 2, p. 502, vol. 2, pp. 110, 117. Hayashi, Do–jo–ki, p. 53. Ibid. Chiba, So–zo– ni ikite, p. 341, p. 343. Gwon came often to give conferences for Shiyu– Kyo–kai. He joined also the radio programme of Yasuoka called Asa no kagami. See Shiyu–, no. 113, March 1959, no. 148, February 1962 and no. 149, March 1962. About Jeong, see Shiyu–, no. 138, April 1961. Chiba, So–zo– ni ikite, p. 374. See Kimura Masato, ‘Nihon no taikan minkan keizai gaiko–-kokko– seijo–ka o meguru kansai zaikai no hataraki’, in Kokusai Seiji, no. 92, October 1989, pp. 116–31. Meiji hyakunen kinen kankei gyo–ji nado gaikyo– (Tokyo: Naikaku, 1968), pp. 228–9. Matsuo, Soshinkai jiken ni tsuite, p. 195. See for example Kawai So–ryu–kutsu no gakugen (Niigata: Nihon Gosonsha, 1936), pp. 48–51. ‘Shina jihen no taigi to sochi’, in Kinkei kaiho–, tokushu–, September 1937, ‘Shina ko–bo dangi’, in Gaimusho– Cho–sabu (ed.), Shina tochi ni kan suru ronso– (Tokyo: Gaimusho– Cho–sabu, 1939), pp. 37–67.

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Naikaku Jo–ho–bu (ed.), Nihon seishin to shiso–sen, (Tokyo: Naikaku Jo–ho–bu, 1940), pp. 13–15. Daito–a kyo–eiken no shido–sha tarubeki Nihonjin no kyo–iku (Tokyo: Keimyo–kai Jimusho, 1943), p. 15. Kawai So–ryu–kutsu no gakugen, p. 78, ‘Seiyo–jin to no–son’, in Tokuno–, no. 75, June 1939, pp. 1–2. Sekai no tabi (Tokyo: Daichi Shobo–, 1942), pp. 207–18. – Keisen sagen (Tokyo: O bunsha, 1944), p. 232. Hatoyama Ichiro–, Hatoyama Ichiro–-Kaoru nikki (Tokyo: Chu–o– Ko–ron Shinsha, 1999), p. 328, 350. Yasuoka Masahiro, ‘Yamaga ryu– seijiron’, Yomiuri Shinbun, 10 January 1943, p. 2. Yasuoka joined the brain trust of the Marine officer Takagi So–kichi, with Tanaka Ko–taro–, Abe Yoshihige, Ro–yama Masamichi, Hozumi Shigetada, Ko–yama Iwao, Yabe Teiji and Watsuji Tetsuro–. See Takaki So–kichi, Taiheiyo– – to Rikukaigun no ko–so– (Tokyo: Keizai O raisha, 1982), p. 197. Yasuoka defended the Kyoto School in 1944 vigorously when they were accused to be traitors by the Education Ministry. See Kuroda Hidetoshi, Sho–wa genronshi e no sho–gen (Tokyo: Ko–bundo–, 1966), p. 56. Otabe Yu–ji, Tenno– sei ideorogî to shin’eibei-ha no keifu, p. 25–38. Makino Nobuaki, Makino Nobuaki nikki (Tokyo: Chu–o– Ko–ronsha, 1990), pp. 431–2, 445. The movement for the clarification of national essence was a league of far right organizations led by Minoda Muneki. It was directed against liberals and Minobe Tatsukichi, the father of the emperor-state-organ-theory, – democracy. See Eddy Dufourmont, ‘Yasuoka popular during the Taisho – Masahiro to tenno kikansetsu jiken: 1932–5 nen no seijishi o saiko– suru tame ni’, in Kokusai Kankeiron Kenkyu–, vol. 24, September 2005, pp. 81–110. Yoshida Shigeru Kinnen Jigyo– Zaidan (ed.), Yoshida Shigeru shokan (Tokyo: Chu–o– Ko–ronsha, 1994), pp. 758–61. Hayashi, Do–jo–ki, p. 17. John W. Dower, Embracing Defeat: Japan in the Wake of World War II (New York: W.W. Norton, 1999), p. 541. Ivan Morris, Nationalism and the Right Wing in Japan: A Study of Post-War Trends (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1960), p. 243. Sato–, Sato– Eisaku nikki, vol.1, p. 309. On Yasuoka’s thought, see Dufourmont, Yasuoka Masahiro, pp. 81–90. Nihon no kokutai, p. 67. Ibid, p. 84. – ‘O do– ni tsuite’, in To–yo– Shiso– Kenkyu–, no. 20, January 1925, p. 18. To–yo– rinri gairon (Tokyo: Genko–sha, 1929), p. 88; Nihon seishin no shingi to kisu– (Tokyo: Keimyo–kai, 1934), p. 50; ‘Shin Nihon to warera no shinjo–,’ in To–yo– Shiso– Kenkyu–, October 1945, p. 15 ‘Yamaga Soko– no chu–cho– jijitsu to shinkoku no jikaku’, in Nihon oyobi Nihonjin, no. 5, February 1924, p. 7. Oguma Eiji, Tan’itsu minzoku shinwa no kigen – Nihonjin no jigazo– no keifu (Tokyo: Shinyo–sha, 1995), p. 115 ff. Shin Nihon to warera no shinjo–, p. 20. Ibid.

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‘Nenmatsu zokuron soshun e’, in Shiyu–, no. 299, December 1974, p. 9; – ni tsuite,’ in Shiyu–, no. 322, November 1976, p. 5. Yasuoka ‘Nihon to tenno refers to Ninagawa Arata, Tenno– – Dare ga nihon minzoku no shujin de aru ka (Tokyo: Ko–bunsha, 1952). Oguma Eiji, Tan’itsu minzoku shinwa no kigen, p. 335; Oguma Eiji, ‘Minshu–’ to ‘aikoku’ – Sengo Nihon no nashonarizumu to ko–kyo–sei (Tokyo: Shinyo–sha, 2002), p. 316–17. Sheldon Garon, Molding Japanese Minds: The State in Everyday Life (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997). Eizawa Ko–ji, Taisho– demokurashiiki no kenryoku no shiso–, (Tokyo: Kenbun Shuppan, 1992). ‘Nihon seishin to shiso–sen’, p. 2. Sato– Takumi, ‘The System of Total War and the Discursive Space of the Thought War’, in: Yasushi Yamanouchi, J. Victor Koschmann and Ryuichi Narita (eds), Total War and Modernization (New York: Cornell University Press, 1998), p. 294. See e.g. (President of Nomura Shoken and Vice-President of Keidanren) Okumura Tsunao, Waga hansho–gai (Tokyo: Yomiuri Shinbunsha, 1971). Ito– Yasuhiko, Ito– Yasujiro– tsuiso–roku (Tokyo: Fujiki Shuppansha, 1973). Ito– was president of the Company for the Development of To–hoku. Ishida Kamesaburo– Tsuiso–roku Henshu– Iinkai (ed.), Ishida Kamesaburo– (Tokyo: Nihon Keizai Shinbunsha, 1978). Ikeda was President of Mitsubishi Petroleum Company. Hayashi, Do–jo–ki, p. 75. Yasuoka Masahiro sensei nenpu, p. 119. Shin Seikatsu Undo– Kyo–kai (ed.), Shin seikatsu undo– kyo–kai 25 nen no ayumi (Tokyo: Shin Seikatsu Undo– Kyo–kai, 1983), pp. 1, 171–82. ‘Meiji hyakunen kinen junbi kaigi ho–bukai dai san kaigi jiroku’, in Meiji hyakunen kinen junbi kaigi shiryo–, (Tokyo: Naikaku so–ridaijin kanbo–, 1966–8), vol. 1, p. 33; ‘Meiji hyakunen kinen junbi kaigi ho–bukai dai ion kaigi jiroku’, in Meiji hyakunen kinen junbi kaigi shiryo–, vol. 1, p. 27; ‘Meiji 100 nen kinen gyo–ji ni kansuru teian dai 2 shu–,’ in Meiji hyakunen kinen junbi kaigi shiryo–, vol. 3, p. 41. ‘Meiji hyakunen o iwau’, in Meiji hyakunen kinen kankei gyo–ji to– gaikyo–, pp. 4–5. Nagahara Keiji, 20 seiki Nihon no rekishigaku (Tokyo: Yoshikawa Ko–bunkan, 2003), pp. 36–7. Pierre Nora, Les lieux de mémoire, p. 4707. Kenneth Ruoff, The People’s Emperor: Democracy and the Japanese Monarchy, 1945–1995 (Cambridge: Harvard University Asia Center, 2001), pp. 160–83. Prasenjit Duara, Sovereignty and Authenticity: Manchukuo and the East Asian Modern (Lanham: Rowman and Littlefield, 2003).

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How Did Saigo– Takamori Become a National Hero After His Death? The Political Uses of Saigo–’s Figure and the Interpretation of Seikanron – NORIKO BERLINGUEZ-KONO

INTRODUCTION – ince Saigo Takamori is a relatively well-known historical figure both in Japan and elsewhere, there seem to be several ways of representing Saigo–, especially in a non-academic field. First of all, anyone who has lived in Japan for any length of time but without necessarily being well versed in Meiji history, knows about Saigo–’s popularity in Japan. Simply by taking, for example, the large number of books about Saigo– written for the general public (young and the old alike), we can readily appreciate that many Japanese are familiar with his name.1 Similarly, his name appears in the guidelines for history education at primary school level, in which forty-two Japanese personalities are listed requiring in-depth study because of their contributions to Japanese history.2 Also, what makes Saigo– the most familiar of all great Japanese men and women is probably his statue erected at the entrance of Ueno Park, not far from Ueno Zoo, a popular place for families. It is not surprising that such a regular and frequent presence of Saigo– in daily life has made him a national ‘hero’. The second portrayal often used to pay tribute to this personality seems to present him, as the title of a Hollywood blockbuster does,3 as being one of the ‘last samurai’ at the dawn of Japan’s modern era. This type of representation is largely diffused overseas among foreign fans of the way of the samurai and it has to be said that there is a perceptible gap between Japanese and foreign opinion, i.e. the praise of the traditional samurai world overseas on the one hand, and the relative detachment of the Japanese public from this world on the other. Nonetheless, things

S

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are changing: Western fascination for the samurai, recently brought to Japanese attention by the above-mentioned blockbuster, triggered a boom for what we call bushido–, the way of the samurai, at least among Japanese publishers. It is important to note that this boom cannot be understood without taking into account the recent context of the re-evaluation of the Meiji Restoration. Another approach for the fans of Saigo– is to emphasize his human and moral qualities such as uprightness, generosity, frugality, faithfulness, and patriotism – qualities embodying, for his fans, the ideal of a Japanese political leader. The advocates of such a perception are novelists, economic leaders and writers close to the traditional right. They like to refer to Saigo–’s personality in order to draw public attention to the current situation of Japanese society. Lastly, unlike part-time historians, academics endeavour to adopt a more rigorous approach to the examination of Saigo–’s life. Historians have drawn special attention to the interpretation of the great crisis of 1873, as a result of which not only Saigo–, but also Itagaki Taisuke and Eto– Shinpei, left the government. Depending on the interpretation of the crisis that a historian proposes, the perception of Saigo– varies considerably from one to another and that is why a close investigation into the crisis is indispensable in order to shed new light on Saigo–’s role as well as on the form of ‘modernity’ resulting from the crisis. The direct cause of the crisis is as follows: Saigo– wished to be sent to Korea as an ambassador plenipotentiary of Japan and this trip was planned to take place after Saigo– obtained the imperial authorization. Nonetheless, those who came back from their journey to the United States and Europe with the Iwakura Mission, espe– cially O kubo Toshimichi, disagreed with Saigo–’s trip and ended up in cancelling the project. It was this violent conflict between the two parties that caused Saigo– and the others to finally leave the government. As to the interpretation of the crisis of 1873, historians are not unanimous. The debates on Saigo–’s real motivations for the negotiations with Korea do not seem to have come to an end. Until now, many have readily associated Saigo–’s position with the expression seikanron, an opinion which favoured the adoption of a hard-line policy towards Korea at the time of the crisis (literally meaning ‘Argument for a Conquest of Korea’). We must remember that the assessment of Saigo–’s ideas and actions by historians largely relies on the interpretation of Saigo–’s genuine motives. Indeed, Saigo–’s case provides us with a good example of the subtle relationships between memory and history. We can reasonably present an hypothesis that the writing of an ‘official history’ – a narrative chosen by Japanese history textbooks – might be influenced not only by a ‘collective memory’ – which may not necessarily be singular and may be constructed by the historians close to the State – but also by the balance of power between several ideological forces willing to impose each point of view. This chapter aims at exploring the process of interaction between

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‘memory’ and ‘history’ by considering various approaches to Saigo– Takamori. First, current divergences of opinion on Saigo–’s position in the 1873 crisis will be reviewed. Second, certain aspects of popular representations of Saigo– will be explored in order to grasp what has been the ‘collective memory’ of Saigo–. Lastly, by comparing representative remarks of intellectuals on Saigo–, we will endeavour to portray a typology of Saigo–’s image and its political usage. CURRENT DIVERGENCES WITH REGARD TO – SAIGO’S STANCE IN THE 1873 CRISIS Saigo– Takamori (1828–77) is known as a former samurai of Satsuma (Kagoshima) who made a tremendous contribution to the overthrow of the Tokugawa shogunate and to the restoration of the imperial system. Along with Eto– Shinpei, he did not join the Iwakura Mission for overseas inspection and implemented several crucial reforms as sangi hitto– (imperial adviser-in-chief). Following the 1873 crisis, he decided to retire from government and went back to his birthplace. In 1877, after the government had stripped the samurai of their privilege to carry swords, Saigo–’s followers rose in rebellion and he was obliged to become their reluctant leader. This insurrection called the Seinan War (literally South-west War, also referred to as the Satsuma Rebellion) became the bloodiest war that Japan had seen in centuries, killing more than 12,000 men on both sides. Eight months after the beginning of the war, Saigô was cornered and finally killed himself, which led his army to surrender to the government. He was denounced as a rebel and a traitor to the nation by the Meiji government. However, in 1889, twelve years after his death, the government pardoned Saigo– of all crimes and posthumously restored him to imperial court rank. A Comparison of Certain Paragraphs in Japanese History Textbooks In order to understand certain mechanisms of the political usage of memory as well as some aspects of the present representation of Saigo–, we need to have a close look at the way Saigo–’s personality, the so-called seikanron and the 1873 crisis are described in history textbooks for high school students. Do they all consider Saigo– as the main advocate of seikanron? If we presuppose that Japanese school textbooks accredited by the Ministry of Education are a mirror of the Japanese government’s opinion and thus versions of Japan’s ‘official’ history, it can be asked to what extent the passages truly reflect the controversy among historians as well as recent scientific research? Furthermore, what ideological background induced historians to adopt different interpretations of the 1873 crisis and Saigo–’s motivations? When we compare some of the history textbooks for secondary school students on this subject, we notice that there are slight differences of interpretation between them. There is one textbook, e.g. produced by

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the publisher Tokyo Shoseki, entitled Shinpen atarashii shakai rekishi, which has more than a 50% share of the junior high school history textbook market. This textbook does not mention the name of Saigo– as an advocate of seikanron nor the invasion of Korea. However, the link between Saigo– and seikanron is implicitly but clearly established.4 The next passage is taken from a senior high school history textbook, Sho–setsu nihonshi, published by Yamakawa Shuppansha. This textbook has a dominant 57.5 % share in this market: In 1873, the leaders of the caretaker government such as Saigo– Takamori and Itagaki Taisuke were in favour of seikanron. However, – their project failed because O kubo Toshimichi and the others who had returned to Japan opposed them strongly. (NB The caretaker government reached the following decision in the first place: Saigo– Takamori was to be sent to Korea in order to force her to resume commercial and diplomatic relations with Japan, and in the case the Korean government should refuse the Japanese offer, Saigo– might adopt a hard-line policy such as the use of military force as a last – resort. However, O kubo Toshimichi, Kido Takayoshi and others, after having returned from the Iwakura Mission, opposed the decision adopted by the caretaker government, giving priority to domestic policies. The controversy over military intervention in Korea – ended with the victory of O kubo, and the supporters of seikanron, – such as Saigo, left the government.) [. . .] Among the samurai who fought for the new government’s army at the time of the Boshin War, many remained discontented with the government’s position, complaining that their affirmations had not been taken into account. The 1873 seikan-controversy was supported by such samurai. Once seikanron was rejected, pro-seikan members such as Saigo– Takamori, Itagaki Taisuke, Eto– Shinpei and Soejima Taneomi, resigned from the government at the same time (1873 crisis).5 This version clearly asserts the following points: 1) Saigo– firmly supported seikanron in the strict sense of the term, i.e. Japanese military intervention in Korea. This interpretation does not reflect historian Mo–ri Tohishiko’s point of view that Saigo– wished to resume peaceful diplomatic relations with Korea; 2) he and other sangi resigned because of their defeat in this affair; 3) the term Meiji rokunen no seihen (1873 crisis), introduced for the first time by Mo–ri, is adopted in the textbook. However, the meaning given by the authors of the textbook is quite different to the one initially introduced by Mo–ri: the latter insists that – the real cause of the crisis lies in a power struggle in which O kubo tried to relieve Eto– Shinpei, the Minister of Justice, of his post, whereas the textbook shows that the crisis was triggered by a difference of concep– tions: O kubo favoured dealing with domestic affairs instead of foreign affairs.

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While Yamakawa’s textbook has an overwhelming share of the market, Nihonshi B (History of Japan B) edited by Jikkyo– Shuppan and Shinsen Nihonshi (New Selection History of Japan) published by Tokyo Shoseki, are in second and third place respectively, with about 6% or 7 % of the market. In regard to the three points asserted above, the other two textbooks are very much the same as the Yamakawa one except for the following aspects. Jikkyo– Shuppan’s textbook makes it clear that seikanron had been advanced by Saigo–’s group as a solution to calm down the social unrest provoked by several radical reforms and to divert the discontent of the former samurai class to international relations. This point of view presupposes that Saigo–’s real motive for seikanron lies in a rescue operation for former samurai. In addition, this interpretation seems to be all the more convincing since Saigo– and Eto–, regarded as seikanron defenders, became involved in the revolts led by former samurai.6 The Tokyo Shoseki textbook is also very similar to the two textbooks cited above. Yet some minor differences exist. Giving the portrait of Saigo– as well as a complementary explanation about the Seinan War and Saigo–’s popularity, the textbook conjointly implies the political importance of Saigo– in modern Japanese history and the influence of socially constructed ‘popular memory’ in official discourse.7 Lastly, let us examine the corresponding passage in a junior high school history textbook published by the Japanese Society for History Textbook Reform (Atarashii rekishi kyo–kasho o tsukuru-kai, commonly known as Tsukuru-kai). The textbook was given a lot of media coverage since it stirred a nationwide controversy at the time of the adoption of junior high school textbooks. Described as ‘revisionist’ by the opponents of the Tsukuru-kai, this textbook represents certain voices of the radical right in Japan. The passage in question is assigned more than one page of the book: Seikanron: However, in 1873, a growing number of samurai regarded the attitude of Korea as insolent when she refused the Japanese proposal to restore diplomatic relations and demanded that Korea should resume relations with Japan, even if it meant a resort to force. This is what we call seikanron. The samurai who became unemployed because of the abolition of han were all the more dissatisfied since the new conscription law hurt their pride. Some of them wished to find their raison d’être in the war against Korea. The man from whom these samurai expected most was Saigo– Takamori, chief of the government for the duration of the Iwakura Mission. Saigo–’s ideas were as follows: if the government had to pursue the reforms to construct a modern state, it was also important to keep the spirit of the samurai and to defend their role and honour in society. Saigo– strongly insisted that he should be appointed as an envoy to Korea. The other sangi, such as Itagaki Taisuke and Eto– Shinpei, also

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agreed and this appointment was officially decided on. Saigo– prepared himself for difficult negotiations and for the war with Korea. The split within the government and the Seinan War: However, having witnessed the strong military power of the Western countries, – O kubo Toshimichi and Iwakura Tomomi favoured domestic reforms and feared that the expedition might give rise to future Western interventions. Thus, they manoeuvred the court and the government into cancelling Saigo–’s mission to Korea, even though it had been officially decided during the previous cabinet meeting. Enraged, Saigo–, Eto– Shinpei and Itagaki Taisuke resigned from their government posts.8 It is fairly clear that the authors of the Tsukuru-kai textbook consider Saigo– as one of the crucial personalities of Japanese history: in the narrative of the passage quoted above, Saigo– Takamori evidently has a vital lead in the two events, as can be seen in the way the 1873 crisis and the Seinan War are narrated one after the other. On the same page, three iconographic sources of Saigo– are inserted. Moreover, the textbook encourages pupils to write a biography of Saigo– as a follow-up exercise. It is clear that Saigo– Takamori is one of the national heroes for the authors of the textbook. On the whole, this textbook chooses to study the history of Japan by describing the contributions of great figures. In Saigo–’s case, it is interesting to point out that the narrative about him is embedded in the framework of the praise of bushido– and Japanese traditional values. What one may extract from these texts above is that the term seikanron is readily used in connection with Saigo–. This point will be reexamined later. Despite this common ground, there are some notable differences, especially between the Tsukuru-kai textbook and the others. The Tsukuru-kai textbook praises Saigo– wholeheartedly without giving preference to either of the two versions of the image of Saigo–, i.e. that of Saigô being a seikanronsha (advocate of the seikanron) versus being a kenkanronsha (defender of a peaceful solution). Other textbooks, however, simply account for the conflict between the two groups among sangi. The causes of the split seem to be the same in all the textbooks: Saigo–’s group wished to resort to an intervention in Korea in order to – rescue the former samurai deprived of their privileges, while O kubo’s group opposed the ‘premature’ intervention and gave priority to domestic reforms. In short, the textbooks unanimously propose a comparison of the two political figures: if Saigo–’s group aimed at establishing a mil– itary state run by the samurai, O kubo’s group sought a capitalistic state based on absolute imperialism.9 Although the assessment of Saigo– varies depending on the textbooks, they unanimously regard him as a defender of seikanron. Interestingly, this seemingly accepted ‘fact’ has been rejected by a number of historians, especially by Mo–ri Toshihiko. The question is: why do the

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textbooks persist in adopting the image of Saigo– as a seikanronsha, although some historians presented a highly convincing hypothesis that Saigo– is not a seikanronsha? Since the image of Saigo– as a seikanronsha is used in all the textbooks, all the ideological stances seem to take advantage of this image. We shall examine several usages of this representation. For the time being, given that the only textbook of Tsukuru-kai, a right-wing association, makes no secret of defending Saigo– as the advocate of seikanron and as the saviour of the samurai, we can reasonably submit the hypothesis that the traditional and nationalistic image of Saigo– is maintained by the right, or at least by the radical right. To what extent do these interpretations reflect the results of the empirical study of the 1873 crisis conducted by specialists? We shall try to present some elements of the answer in the following sections. Collation of Several Hypotheses First of all, let us refer to the entry for ‘Saigo– Takamori’ in Kokushi Daijiten,10 the first reference book for Japanese history studies. The author of the entry is To–yama Shigeki, a Marxist historian and a leading specialist in Meiji history: [. . .] In June 1873, when the negotiations with Korea came to a deadlock after the (Japanese) government had tried to restore diplomatic relations time and again, and seikanron was brought up in a cabinet meeting, Saigo– implored, with great fervour, other imperial councillors to accept that he should be appointed as an ambassador plenipotentiary to Korea. There are divergences of interpretation with regard to Saigo–’s real intentions among the specialists: did he hope to persist in the diplomatic efforts in order to avoid the war at all costs? Or, did he wish to prepare a pretext for an overseas military expedition in order to divert the samurai’s discontent from domestic politics to international affairs? To–yama asserts that the specialists disagree on that question. It was Mo–ri Toshihiko who presented, in 1978, the argument that Saigo– had not been a defender of seikanron. Contrary to the term seikanron which became inseparable from the image of Saigo–, Mo–ri introduced the term kenkanron, which means that Saigo– longed to serve as a mediator between the government and Korea and thus to normalize the mutual relationship between the two Asian countries. Supported by a welldocumented and well-argued demonstration, Mo–ri’s theory turns out to be so convincing that it seems to be difficult to present an empirical study capable of effectively refuting it. His elaborate arguments have had a strong impact not only on the academic world but also on the historically interested public in general. On the other hand, the second evaluation of Saigo– underlined by To–yama in Kokushi Daijiten consists of showing him from the seikanron angle. We can say that this position

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has served as a scientific base for the text on Saigo– presented by a majority of current history textbooks. This thesis had also prevailed among the specialists. However, since Mo–ri published another interpretation, it has been less and less influential even in the academic world. Given that Mo–ri’s arguments have been largely accepted, how can we explain that To–yama’s contribution induces us to think that in 1985, the year when the volume of this encyclopaedia was published, two versions of the interpretation still coexisted? Here is a possible answer to this. Beyond the divergences of the results of scientific research, it may be observed that the ideological position of the researcher plays an important role in the assessment of Saigo–. Indeed, To–yama himself was a representative of those who support the image of Saigo– as a seikanronsha. Known as a Marxist historian, To–yama was reluctant to give a positive portrait of – , for the latter was considered a spiritual mentor for the nationalists, Saigo especially before 1945. Inoue Kiyoshi, another renowned historian of the Meiji and a Marxist – just like many other colleagues of his generation – tries to qualify the image of Saigo– as an advocate of seikanron – in his article from 1990:11 The major academic question is to know whether Saigo– was, in 1873, a defender of seikanron or not. Indeed, the view that Saigo– Takamori was a seikanronsha used to be largely accepted. Inoue Kiyoshi’s work Saigo– Takamori published in 1971, which sheds new light on several aspects, also presented Saigo– Takamori as a supporter of seikanron in 1873. Nevertheless, Mo–ri Toshihiko, in opposition to this generally accepted hypothesis, emphasizes in a series of his works such as Meiji rokunen seihen no kenkyu– (Yu–hikaku, 1978) that Saigo– aimed at restoring peaceful diplomatic relations with Korea. A large number of historians also defend this point of view. Furthermore, by connecting this view to the interpretations of the Seinan War, some historians stress that the war was not provoked by reactionary samurai, but it aimed at overthrowing the government monopolized by bureaucrats and to lead to the second Restoration. In this passage, Inoue, who used to describe Saigo– as seikanron advocate, draws back from his first analysis, being confronted by Mo–ri’s highly convincing arguments. Inoue’s appreciation also induces us to think that the ideological position of each historian more or less determines the point of view concerning Saigo–. The question given above: ‘Why has the scientific contribution presented by Mo–ri at the end of the 1970s not been reflected in the official history narratives?’ may be answered in this ideological context. Yet, it seems that several other factors should be considered in the construction process of Saigo–’s image. This point prompts us to ask a further question: ‘Why is Saigo–’s image as an advocate of the

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seikanron which used to be dominant among specialists still strong in the general public?’ Before proposing an explanation, we should compare Mo–ri’s stance with that of other historians – in order to have a better understanding of Saigo–’s image. As we have seen, Mo–ri overturned the interpretation which had been considered a historical fact for a long time by examining and using the information of primary sources in his counter-arguments. Thus, he demonstrated that Saigo– wished to take the initiative of establishing peaceful relations with Korea. Yet it seems that the most important contribution of his research are some interesting findings about the cause of – the violent confrontation between Saigo–’s group and O kubo’s group. – According to Mori, the crisis was in reality triggered by the power struggle between the natives of Cho–shu– (today’s Yamaguchi prefecture) and the natives of the other regions of Japan: the former wanted to corner the latter, especially Eto– Shinpei, Minister of Justice at that time and a native of Hizen (today’s Saga prefecture). Thus, the question of the seikanron – becomes an excuse for O kubo to dispose of his political opponents and to maintain the interests of the central government, at that time domi– nated by forces from the Cho–shu– faction (O kubo himself, however, was a native of Satsuma, today’s Kagoshima prefecture, just like Saigo–). Since Mo–ri’s research is a ‘milestone’ in Meiji historiography, most of the recent studies refer to this research and explain their stance for or against Mo–ri’s arguments. For example, Kang Pom-sok (1990),12 a Korean researcher who shares a similar point of view to Mo–ri’s, affirms that between the two authorities, Japan and Korea, there were no critical situations which were likely to arouse the seikanron at that time. He attributes the cause of the 1873 crisis to the confrontation between the leaders coming from Satsuma and Cho–shu– on the one hand, and those coming from Tosa and Hizen on the other, over the divergences between their constitutional projects. Thus, the question of the military intervention in Korea was merely an excuse for concealing the direct cause. According to Kan, unlike Mo–ri’s hypothesis, Saigo–’s strong motivation for being appointed ambassador to Korea may be explained by his intention to commit suicide in Korea and thus break the deadlock in the relations between Japan and Korea. Yoshino Makoto, another researcher on the seikanron issue, examines the moral codes of Saigo– expressed by the term meibun jo–ri with the intention of getting a better picture of the true motivations of Saigo–. According to him, we must transcend the dialectical dichotomy between the peaceful delegation and the military intervention, for Saigo– wished to act according to his conscience as a man of virtue who respected a code of practice governed by the Confucian concept of meibun jo–ri. In the logic of meibun jo–ri, however important the Japanese effort to seek a peaceful solution may have been, if Korea maintained her insolent attitude so far as to dare to assassinate the Japanese ambassador, it would have been clear to all that Korean leaders were being dishonest. At this

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very moment, Japan was compelled to resort to force in spite of her desire for peace so that the moral justice of the meibun jo–ri could be upheld. He – inveighed against the foreign policy towards Korea led by the O kubo government, which finally provoked the Kanghwa Incident against Korea in 1875, for this incident went against Saigo–’s moral principle. Yoshino concludes as follows: ‘Saigo–’s affirmations remained consistently unchanged.’13 The great merit of Yoshino’s argument is that he presents two ‘ideal types’ of Japanese political leaders at the very beginning of the Meiji era. One type is represented by Saigo–, who, in the decisions which have to be made in foreign policy, adopts an attitude based on the accomplishment of the meibun jo–ri, which was used as a mainspring to overthrow the bakufu and to restore the imperial regime. The – other type of political leader, symbolized by O kubo, insists on a modern conception of international politics based on a country’s power. Lastly, it can be observed that Yoshino does by no means study the validity of another aspect of Mo–ri’s hypothesis that the debates on seikanron hide the true reason for the confrontation, namely the internal struggle for – shu–. power aroused by the sangi coming from Satsuma and Cho As the studies above show, it appears that other researchers are content – ri’s arguments by treating either of the aspects concerning the to refine Mo – or the course of the 1873 crisis, without offering counterfigure of Saigo arguments strong enough for those held by Mo–ri to be supplanted. In order to give some answer to our initial question, it is necessary to evaluate the historical and cultural importance given to the figure of Saigo– among the Japanese population and to explore the functions of the narratives regarding Saigo–. Our study is particularly interested in the period between 1877 and 1910, when all the facets of Saigo–’s character had been formed. – THE EVOLUTION OF POPULAR REPRESENTATIONS OF SAIGO Saigo– Takamori was the object of some curious rumours, especially in 1877 and 1891. According to the rumour spread in 1877, a clear image of Saigo– in military uniform was visible inside a bright sparkling star. This began to spread in August 1877, a month before the complete defeat of Saigo–. The other rumour was spread during March and April 1891, when a Russian prince was about to arrive in Japan for an official visit. It was rumoured that Saigo– would return alive to Japan. It is said that these two rumours (or legends) about Saigo– have been the most significant and the most widely spread of all types of rumours diffused since the beginning of the Meiji era.14 One of the explanations lies in the fact that the rumours were magnified by way of shinbun nishiki-e,15 Japanese woodblock prints used to illustrate news. We can say that in terms of popularity, the shinbun nishiki-e were very similar to current tabloids. The shinbun nishiki-e were also characterized by their highly fictional nature. And this iconographic source concerning Saigo– had been

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repeatedly inserted into history books over decades. Some historians have been interested in Saigo–’s image based on shinbun nishiki-e16 and considering these studies, we would like to comment on four shinbun nishiki-e concerning Saigo– in one of the collections of the Tokyo University Digital Museum.17 According to Sasaki, it is estimated that there are five hundred nishikie treating the themes of Saigo– and the Seinan War. In terms of quantity, the figures are almost like those for the nishiki-e representing the First Sino-Japanese War. If, as mentioned, the content of this information was highly fictional, and the population, conscious of this fictional character, was not looking for objective information, what aspect then of nishiki-e made them so attractive to the population and what did they try to find in the shinbun nishiki-e representing Saigo–? Saigo–boshi – the ‘Saigo– Star’ Let us look at three shinbun nishiki-e. As a popular illustrated paper the shinbun nishiki-e was only interested in eye-catching stories that sold well. In other words, they give us some insight into the everyday life of ordinary people. Although the first two nishiki-e are not closely related to the appearance of Saigo–boshi – ‘Saigo– Star’, they clearly show that Saigo– had a certain popularity. 1) Kagoshima Kibun (engraver Tsujioka Bunsuke), 14 April 1877 (?)18 This nishiki-e depicts a scene of Saigo–’s short victory over the government in one of the first battles during the Seinan War. The text briefly describes the course of the war and calls Saigo–’s supporters traitors. Since he retained the title of general in the government army, Saigo– is dressed in an official (Western) military uniform. On a sign on the left-hand side, his rank ‘general’ is clearly posted. It can also be seen that Saigo– carries a banner with shinsei ko–toku. A slogan inserted very often in other nishiki-e portraying Saigo–, shinsei ko–toku sums up the people’s general wish for benevolent reforms, meaning a new egalitarian policy for people, which they think no one else but Saigo– is able to promote. In this context, Saigo–, still having a political legitimacy in the eyes of the public, symbolizes the ideal of a political reformer: a man who is capable of changing the present and of promising a better life. 2) Kagoshima Kakuken Seinan Shinbun No.5 (Matsumoto Heikichi), July 187719 This nishiki-e presents Saigo– composing a poem between two battles. – is dressed in an official military uniform, and behind him we can see Saigo the same Shinsei ko–toku banner, the same inscription ‘General of the Army’ as in the previous nishiki-e. Having a beard like a new modern leader of the Meiji era, he represents, in the eyes of the people, a man of power with Western taste rather than a man of tradition close to the population. The text briefly recounts the life of Saigo– and depicts him as an exceptional

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man. It seems that the people take a contradictory look at this man considered by all as inaccessible: despite his Western appearance, he must be the only political leader capable of changing the reality of daily life. 3) Tokyo Eiri Shinbun Saigo–boshi, 20 September 187720 This nishiki-e is directly related to the legend of the ‘Saigo– Star’, or ‘Saigo– Comet’. Prior to this publication, the legend had been already spread. One of the first nishiki-e on Saigo–’s metamorphosis published on 23 August 1877,21 shows a family looking at Saigo– from a balcony, while explaining in text that those people have spent nights there in order to get a glance at him – this story was pure fiction in which people were willing to believe. What did the readers expect from their image of Saigo–? What image did they project onto Saigo–? With these questions in mind let us turn to the print called Saigo–boshi from Tokyo Eiri Shinbun. Saigo– died on 24 September, this nishiki-e was thus printed just before his death. As the title indicates, there is a pun: the title Saigo–boshi means a final star, a star of death, and Saigo–boshi, the ‘Saigo– Star’. The text, taken from the readers’ column just as it was, consists of remarks by persons with different jobs and status. Far from being delighted with the appearance of the comet, the population seems to have mixed feelings about it: on the whole, the wartime period brings more disadvantages in their daily lives than the period of peace. For the population, the star turns out to be very disappointing. As they ridicule the comet, it seems that they take a rather cynical look at Saigo–, his army which destroyed the South of Kyu–shu– and – what is more – in a way also themselves because of their gullibility in having believed in Saigo– as a providential man. The rumour concerning the ‘Saigo– Star’ did not last for long. We can easily imagine that people grew weary of believing in something improbable. This phenomenon is closely linked to a special context where Saigo–, a former great Meiji leader, was suddenly deposed as a traitor. It seems that the population, tired of the transformation imposed by the government, saw a possibility of promising reforms in this dramatic turn of events. In contrast to the current image of Saigo–, his image was not that of a man of tradition in 1877 when he went into rebellion against the government. ‘Saigo– is Alive Overseas!’ There were many rumours surrounding Saigo–’s death. His head and the rest of his body having been buried separately, the legend that he was alive somewhere was widely spread. Once Saigo–’s reputation was restored by the Emperor in 1889, the cult of Saigo– intensified to such an extent that a rumour that he was still alive in Russia was spread in March–April 1891, just before the official visit of a Russian prince. Some journalists began to clamour for Saigo–’s comeback all the more because this coincided with the difficulties the government faced during the

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negotiations for the revision of unequal treaties. Let us take a brief look at a print that refers to the people’s expectation of Saigo–’s comeback. 4) Azuma Shinbun No.100 (Appendix), 1 May 189122 The rumour of Saigo–’s return from Russia abated little by little after the Russian prince’s arrival on 24 April. Yet we can still find a print which shows Saigo– reading a newspaper, in particular an article entitled – ‘Revision of unequal treaties’ signed by O i Kentaro–. Saigo–’s portrait resembles the portrait drawn by Edoardo Chiossone in 1883, or that of the famous statue erected at Ueno Park in 1898. This nishiki-e implies that Saigo– might be the one who is capable of saving Japan’s dishonourable situation regarding the unequal treaties. What message can we get from this rumour? In a word, we notice that Saigo–’s image had been replaced in the wide context of Japanese imperialism. Compared to the rumour of the ‘Saigo– Star’ spread in a purely domestic context, this rumour was based on an image of Saigo– the ‘imperialist’. Behind this rumour, we can see the people’s fear of Russian military power, and Saigo– was seen as a providential man capable of untangling the situation. With regard to the question whether the population considered Saigo– as a seikanronsha or not, it is true that at the time of the Seinan War, the people rarely perceived him from this angle.23 However, when the second rumour was spread, Japan had already set out on the colonization of Asia and prepared herself for a war against China. Therefore, it is natural that Saigo– was then appreciated by the population as a visionary leader in relations with neighbouring countries. Clearly, the diffusion of a seikanronsha image in the population had much to do with the Japanese orientation for expansionism during this period. This image was reinforced, especially by ‘ultra-nationalists’ of Gen’yo–sha (Dark/Black Ocean Society) and Kokuryu–-kai (Black Dragon Society), but also to a certain extent, by politically moderate intellectuals. Intellectuals: Expression of Popular Images of Saigo– Many of the intellectuals were impressed by Saigo–’s personality. Just after the Seinan War in 1877, Fukuzawa Yukichi paid homage to Saigo– in Teichu– ko–ron.24 With the rise of Japanese imperialism in the late ninenteenth century, not only the future ultra-nationalists but also a number of politically moderate intellectuals began to value Saigo–’s seikanron very highly. We can point out that after 1891, the year when a Russian prince made an official visit to Japan, there are noticeably at least two periods of the Saigo– boom: one in 1894–95 and the other in 1910. Firstly, let us have a look at a comment of Uchimura Kanzo–, a famous educator and Christian. When in 1894 Uchimura Kanzo– wrote a passage regarding Saigo– in his book Japan and the Japanese, later called Representative Men of Japan, he

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was obviously captivated by this man and insisted on a positive aspect of Saigo–’s seikanron, stating the following:25 [. . .] extend its conquest as far as Heaven would permit. And since great responsibility and utmost danger would attend such an embassy, he (Saigo–) himself would like to be appointed to that office. The conqueror would first lay down his life to open a way of conquest to his countrymen! Never in history was conquest undertaken in this fashion. In another passage, Uchimura continues: With the suppression of the Korean Affair ceased all the aggressive measures of the government . . . Yet withal also came much effeminacy, fear of decisive actions, love of peace at the cost of plain justice, and much else that the true samurai laments. It is evident that the context of the Sino-Japanese War 1894–95 largely inspired Uchimura with patriotism. Although he became a pacifist later at the time of the Russo-Japanese War, we can nevertheless say that even Uchimura had indirectly supported Japanese imperialism. Two major events serve to explain the growing popularity of Saigo– around 1910, that is the Japanese annexation of Korea and the Taigyaku Incident (Incident of High Treason). The latter marked a tragic chapter in the history of modern Japan, particularly that of Japanese socialism, for twelve socialists and anarchists, including Ko–toku Shu–sui, were executed. It is noteworthy that a number of men of letters who defended Ko–toku’s position established the connection between Ko–toku’s fate and that of Saigo–. Ishikawa Takuboku, a poet, Tokutomi Roka, a Christian novelist and Miyake Setsurei, an editor of a nationalist magazine, were among them. They thought that Ko–toku and Saigo– were both caught up in a perilous incident against their will, rebelled against the government and were accused of treason. Because of the narrative of a tragic national hero – was legitimized exploited by men of letters, the popular cult of Saigo further and reinforced among the population. Simultaneously, the annexation of Korea strengthened the image of Saigo– as a powerful advocate of seikanron. We have seen that it is debatable whether Saigo– had hoped to conquer Korea. Nonetheless, from 1910 onwards, it had been difficult to dissociate Saigo– from Japanese expansion of Korea in the collective memory and except during the period 1940–45, Saigo–’s life and his seikanron were sufficiently illustrated in history textbooks. It is important to stress that the role of ultranationalist groups such as Gen’yo–sha and Kokuryu–-kai played an essential role in creating a close link between Saigo– and seikanron. At the time of its foundation in 1879, Gen’yo–sha was nourished by a strong spirit of the Freedom and People’s Rights Movement ( Jiyu– Minken Undo–). Yet as the

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socio-political climate changed in the 1880s, the group gradually shifted to being associated with favouring the state’s right (kokken) instead of the people’s rights (minken), which supported direct action as well as Pan-Asianism. In this context, for those who wished to justify expansionism, Saigo– was an ideal person to embody a pioneer of the conquest. Thus, from 1910, the ultra-nationalists regularly paid tribute to Saigo–, the great advocate of seikanron, by organizing ceremonies dedicated to him in the form of Kensho–-kai. Seinan Kiden, a long story of the Seinan War accompanied by biographies of Saigo– and his soldiers, was written during the period 1909–11 by Kawasaki Saburo–, an active member of Gen’yo–sha and edited by Kokuryu–-kai. Thus, we can say that the ultra-nationalists created the collective memory of Saigo– as the first expansionist for political use, even though this was probably not in accordance with the facts. In addition to the two events of 1910, the year 1910 corresponds to what we call sanju–san kaiki of Saigo–, a major Buddhist ceremony organized thirty-three years after his death. On this occasion, a special issue about Saigo– was published at Miyake Setsurei’s initiative in his magazine Nihon oyobi Nihonjin. Thus, Saigo–’s archetypal image was created among the population, a national hero and the first defender of seikanron. CONCLUSION – Since 1910, Saigo Takamori has been constantly recalled not only by the pre-war ultra-nationalists but also by the population. For example, in 1917, Akutagawa Ryu–nosuke, the famous novelist, wrote a short story called Saigo– Takamori in which a narrator accidentally meets a living Saigo– on a train, who was supposed to have died in the Seinan War.26 The more Japan committed itself to the logic of expansionism, the louder the praise of Saigo– became from the ultra-nationalists. Thus, in 1925, To–yama Mitsuru, one of the founders of Gen’yo–sha and a power broker of post-war Japanese politics, published Daisaigo– Ikun, Great Saigo–’s Teachings. Indeed, it is said that To–yama identified himself as a second Saigo– whom To–yama viewed as a pioneer of Pan-Asianism. Also, Saigo–’s influence on Kita Ikki, the ultra-nationalist ideologue, is said to be significant. Led by Kita, young officers involved in the 26 February Incident (1936), the most outstanding coup d’état against the regime in the pre-war Sho–wa period, declared that their actions had been conducted in the wake of Saigo–’s spirit. Thanks to Saigo–’s statue in the popular Ueno Park, the figure of Saigo– remains familiar to many Japanese even today. Saigo– has been continuously referred to by novelists, intellectuals, businessmen and local historians, in short, by various elements of Japanese society. For instance, Eto– Jun, a renowned right-wing literary critic, showed a deep compassion and nostalgia for Saigo– the tragic national hero, the quintessence of the Japanese ethos.27 Saigo– is often mentioned in books intended for

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businessmen dealing with his human qualities such as honesty, uprightness, devotion, generosity and modesty. In a recent boom of bushido–, he is viewed as a model samurai whose quality is highly appreciated by today’s leaders in politics and business. Having studied several sources of information from which the collective – was represented, particularly during the period from 1877 image of Saigo to 1910, let us make an attempt to propose a tentative typology of popu– . We shall summarize the evolution of the popular lar images of Saigo image prior to 1910, then propose a typology of current popular images by classifying them into two groups, positive / negative judgements of – , and by specifying what social group tends to bear such an image: Saigo The usefulness of this classification lies in the fact that the strategy used by each social group becomes visible. Moreover, it becomes easy to see that a majority of the population bears a positive image of Saigo– as seikanronsha. It is manifest that there is an ideological gap when it comes to evaluating Saigo–: whereas the right wing tends to give a positive judgement of Saigo– and a majority of it, except for certain members of the Tsukuru-kai, considers him as a seikanronsha, the left wing has almost unanimously a negative point of view on Saigo– as a seikanronsha. In the light of this schema, we will try to answer our initial question: ‘Why do the history textbooks, apart from that of the controversial Tsukuru-kai, which appears to be rather ambiguous regarding Saigo–’s

Images of Saigo ¯ between 1870 and 1910 Modern reformer (1870s) Model samurai who confronted the Western powers (1890s) Seikanronsha (1910) – Due to the circumstances surrounding Japan, not only the ultra-nationalists but also the ordinary people tended to – as a seikanronsha. regard Saigo

Current images of Saigo ¯ – Positive judgements (by the majority) 1) Image of seikanronsha (legitimate right wing + politically traditionalist + radical right as Tsukuru-kai) 2) Image of kenkanronsha (Môri Toshihiko + historians of young generation + a part of Tsukuru-kai members)

– as a ‘man of → Overall image: Saigo tradition’ (businessmen + writers + novelists) – Negative judgements (by a minority) 1) Image of seikanronsha (left-wing intellectuals + authors of history textbooks other than those of the Tsukuru-kai) → Overall image: ‘outdated’, ‘reactionary’, ‘anti-reformer’ (neo-liberals?)

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motive, hesitate to adopt Mo–ri’s arguments, no matter how convincing they are, and instead, cling to the view of Saigo– the seikanronsha?’ One – had become an idol of the of the reasons is an ideological one: Saigo ultra-nationalists before 1945. To speak of Saigo–’s glory became an exclusive domain of the right wing and it is still a cherished habit of today’s left-wing historians to continue to undermine Saigo–’s value by insisting on the expansionist aspects of his life. The official history of Meiji has been narrated since the post-war educational reform by left-wing intellectuals preoccupied by the nationalistic image of Saigo– constructed by right-wing supporters. Another – less likely – explanation for historians’ reluctance to adapt their theories may be the difficulty of bringing changes to a long history of ‘official’ narrative based on a ‘winner’s logic’. There might be a risk of being labelled a revisionist. Last, but not least, the supremacy of the image of Saigo– as a seikanronsha in history textbooks can be explained by the weight of popular images of Saigo–. With the rise of expansionism, the image of a national hero compatible with that of a seikanronsha invented by ultranationalists, had integrated this discourse on Saigo–, and was transformed into another popular representation of Saigo–, which formed a lasting collective memory. Finally, Saigo–’s case demonstrates that collective memory may hinder the scientific writing of history. Also, under the pressure of collective memory, an official narrative cannot be easily modified, as each intermediary group contributes to the formation of a collective memory that often has a political interest in creating ‘their’ memory. NOTES 1

2

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As of March 2006, 291 publications concerning Saigo– have been listed in Kinokuniya Bookstore. It states: ‘[. . .] you must mention the personalities below and encourage pupils to learn about the personalities through their actions and representative cultural heritage.’ Monbu Kagakusho– (ed.), Sho–gakko– gakushu– shido– yo–ryo–, shakai, dai ni setsu, dai roku gakunen, December 1998, partly revised in December 2003. The Last Samurai (2003) featuring Tom Cruise as Woodrow Algren and Watanabe Ken as, supposedly, ‘Saigo– Takamori’. Shinpen atarashii shakai rekishi (Tokyo: Tokyo Shoseki, 2006), pp. 148–9. Sho–setsu Nihonshi (Tokyo: Yamakawa Shuppansha, 2006), pp. 250–1. Nihonshi B (Tokyo: Jikkyo– Shuppan, 2006), pp. 249–50. Shinsen Nihonshi B (Tokyo: Tokyo Shoseki, 2006), p. 177, pp. 180–1. Atarashii rekishi kyo–kasho (Tokyo: Fuso–sha, 2005), p. 152–3. See the scheme developed by Mo–ri. Mo–ri Toshihiko, Meiji rokunen seihen no kenkyu– (Tokyo: Yu–hikaku, 1985), pp. 29–30. To–yama Shigeki, ‘Saigo– Takamori’, in Kokushi Daijiten, vol. 19, p. 157. Inoue Kiyoshi, ‘Saigo– Takamori’, in Nihon rekishi denki so–ran (Tokyo: – Shinjinbutsu O raisha, 1990), p. 283.

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How did Saigo- Takamori Become a National Hero? 12

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Kang Pom-Sok, Seikanron seihen – Meiji rokunen no kenryoku to–so– (Tokyo: Simuru Shuppankai, 1990). Yoshino Makoto, Meiji ishin to seikanron (Tokyo: Akashi Shoten, 2002), p. 257. Sasaki Suguru, ‘Saigo– Takamori to Saigo– densetsu’, in Asao Naohiro (ed.), Iwanami ko–za Nihon tsu–shi, Vol. 16 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1994), p. 327. Specialists are divided, whether the term shinbun nishiki-e or nishiki-e shinbun should be used. In this article, I use the term shinbun nishiki-e. Apart from Sasaki’s article, the following studies should be mentioned: Kawahara Hiroshi, Saigo– densetsu (Tokyo: Ko–dansha, 1971); Mark Ravina, The Last Samurai: The Life and Battles of Saigo– Takamori (Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons, 2004), see especially the introduction; the legends are studied in relation to the prints. – ’, Tokyo University Collection presented for the exhibition ‘Nyu–su no tanjo Digital Museum, Institute of Multimedia and Socio-Information Studies, 1999. For an online version of the print, see: http://www.um.u-tokyo.ac.jp/ publish_db/1999news/04/404/images/227_01.jpg For the text see http://www.um.u-tokyo.ac.jp/publish_db/1999news/04/ 404/40408.html. However, it seems that a mistake has slipped into the page: the explanation has been mixed up with the one of the next nishiki-e. For an online version of this print, see: http://www.um.u-tokyo.ac.jp/ publish_db/1999news/04/404/images/228_02.jpg For an online version of this print, see: http://www.um.u-tokyo.ac.jp/ publish_db/1999news/04/404/images/229_01.jpg The nishiki-e in question is ‘Kagoshima kakuken seinan Shinbun (Zokusho– Saigo–boshi no zu)’. For an online version of this print, see: http://www.um.u-tokyo.ac.jp/ publish_db/1999news/04/404/images/231_01.jpg. Certain high-ranking officials, journalists and local elites, however, were the advocates of the seikanron at that time. To say nothing of Kido Takayoshi, Sada Hakubo– and Itagaki Taisuke it seems that such a discourse had been shared among local elites in Yamaguchi and Fukuoka since the late Edo period. See also Richard W. Anderson, ‘Jingu Kogo Ema in Southwestern Japan’, in Asian Folklore Studies, Vol. 61–2, June 2002, pp. 247–70. Some scholars emphasize the influence of Yoshida Sho–in, an ideologue of the late Tokugawa period. It seems that Nakae Cho–min was also an admirer of Saigo–. Uchimura Kanzo–, Daihyo–teki Nihonjin (Tokyo: Ko–dansha International, 1999), pp. 47, 49, 51. Akutagawa Ryu–nosuke, Akutagawa Ryu–nosuke zenshu– 3 (Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 1996), pp. 63–82. Eto– Jun, Nanshu– zan’ei (Tokyo: Bungei Shunju–, 2001), pp. 26, 262.

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PART 3

Popular and Intellectual Representations of Memory

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14

Literary Memories of the Pacific War – Fiction or Non-fiction? Some Criteria for Further Research on Japanese War Literature HARALD MEYER

INTRODUCTION: WAR LITERATURE IN JAPAN FROM THE END OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY TO THE POST-WAR ERA

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istorical memory cannot be reduced exclusively to the ‘memory’ reconstructed by historical research. Rather, different levels of memory have to be considered when discussing the construction of collective memory. Besides public memory, including the political and official spheres, there are also literary and individual levels to be taken into account. Japan offers a rich body of literary memories of the war written by Japanese soldiers or other individuals directly involved. These writings belong to the genre senso– bungaku (‘war literature’) and include elements of both fiction and nonfiction. Various forms of the literary reconditioning of war memories can be observed by the example of – Ooka Sho–hei’s Nobi (Fires on the Plain, 1948–51) and Reite senki (The – Battle for Leyte Island, 1967–69), for Ooka’s main writings represent two entirely different types of narration. The aim of this contribution is to suggest criteria for discerning differing methods in reconstructing and presenting memories of war in literature. So-called war literature belongs to one of the most important trends in post-war Japanese literature. All literary writings which deal with the Second Sino-Japanese War (1937–45) or the Pacific War (1941–45) are counted among this genre. However, as a modern trend in Japanese literature, war literature already existed long before the Second World War. At the time of the First Sino-Japanese War (1894–95), modern war writings

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first appeared in Japan. Kunikida Doppo (1871–1908), an important representative of Japanese naturalism, in 1894 wrote Aitei tsu–shin (Letters to My Dear Brother) – a lively and rather nationalistic description of the war against Manchu China.1 Masaoka Shiki (1867–1902) went to China as a war correspondent before he became famous as a Waka poet. In Jinchu– nikki (Diary From the Front Lines, 1895) he likewise drew a positive picture of the Japanese fight against the Chinese. A critical attitude was, on – ka (1873–1939). In the other hand developed by the novelist Izumi Kyo – Kaij o hatsuden (Telegrams from Haicheng, 1896) he described the abuse of a Chinese woman by members of the Imperial Japanese Army. During the Russo-Japanese War (1904–05) several magazines were created in which war-friendly works appeared. The magazine Senso– Bungaku (War Literature), which was in circulation from February 1904 until February 1905, was one such magazine disposed toward publishing fiction from the front lines. In this atmosphere, the narrative Nikudan (Human Bullets, 1906) was written by the young officer Sakurai Tadayoshi (1879–1965). The author reported in a heroic style on the heavy losses during the conquest of Port Arthur by the Japanese. However, numerous critical works also appeared after the Russo-Japanese War, including Ippeisotsu (One Soldier, 1908) by Tayama Katai (1871–1930), an important representative of the autobiographically inspired Japanese ‘I novel’ (shisho–setsu, also called watakushi sho–setsu). Therein he described the senseless death of a lonely soldier at the edge of the battlefield, for whom ‘superior’ values such as ‘honour’ or ‘patriotism’ are completely insignificant. Due to the strict censorship during the years of the Second SinoJapanese War and the Pacific War, only works which did not question the war efforts of the Japanese Empire could be published. In Mugi to heitai (Wheat and Soldiers, 1938) Hino Ashihei (1907–60) took a clearly positive stance towards Japanese nationalism. Nevertheless, he impressively described the sad and hopeless situation of soldiers, who sacrificed their lives for a higher purpose. Ishikawa Tatsuzo– (1905–85), who received the first Akutagawa Prize for his So–bo– (The People) in 1935, described in Ikite iru heitai (Soldiers Alive, 1938) the movement of Japanese troops on the northern front in China towards the south, and the cruelties inflicted upon the civilian population in Nanjing. Ishikawa was sent to China as correspondent for the magazine Ch u–o– Ko– ron, and although he did not openly criticize the Nanjing Massacre, he was punished by the Japanese authorities after the publication of his narrative. In the post-war period it had become possible to condemn the war and to frankly ask questions about the political and moral responsibility because of the newly guaranteed freedom of speech and opinion. In his short story Yo– hai taicho– (Captain Lookeast, 1950) Ibuse Masuji (1898–1993), who later became famous for his convincing literary treatment of the topic ‘atomic bombing of Hiroshima’ with his narration Kuroi ame (Black Rain, 1965–66), describes with dry humour the story of a first lieutenant of the Japanese army whose fall from a truck leaves him brain

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damaged. He is not released from his duties as an officer even after the end of the war, so he continues to pray towards the east, where the imperial palace is located. For this soldier the war continues endlessly. People around him think of him as a fool, but actually join him in his fantasy. – (The Rifle, 1952) of Kojima Nobuo (born in 1915), who was called to Sho– ju military service in 1942 and sent to China, describes the painful experiences of a Japanese soldier during the Second Sino-Japanese War. The protagonist of this short story preserves equally intimate feelings for his rifle and his former lover. He is ordered to brutally murder a Chinese woman, but at the moment of her death he believes she is his former lover. From then on the soldier hates his rifle, eventually using it to shoot a superior. Since the authors of so-called war literature were not forced to describe historical or real experiences, they frequently preferred to write fiction as seen above. But there are also non-fictional writings. ‘Senkan Yamato’ no saigo (The End of ‘Battleship Yamato’, 1952) for example, written by Yoshida Mitsuru (1923–79), is the author’s account of his 7 April 1945 escape from the sinking Yamato. The whole text arouses the impression of a factual and yet poetic logbook of the tragedy of this battleship, the sinking of which led to the deaths of over 3,000 crewmen. Yoshimura Akira’s Senkan Musashi (The Battleship Musashi, 1966) achieves a similarly high degree of authenticity. With this work, Yoshimura (1927–2006) succeeded in his breakthrough as an author of documentary literature. Based on historical documents and numerous interviews with former crewmembers, Yoshimura described the history of the Musashi from its building until the destruction on 24 October 1944 of this warship, which was the largest ever seen in the history of naval warfare. In 1972, the series ‘Collected Works of War Literature’ (Senso– bungaku zensh u–) was published in seven volumes. The majority of the works in this collection deal with the Second World War, amongst others some of the already mentioned works, Sakurai Tadayoshi’s Nikudan, Tayama Katai’s Ippeisotsu, Hino Ashihei’s Mugi to heitai, Ishikawa Tatsuzo–’s Ikite iru heitai, Ibuse Masuji’s Yo– hai taicho– , and Yoshida Mitsuru’s ‘Senkan Yamato’ no saigo. Despite such publishing activities, Japanese scholars and critics so far did not intend to make a typological differentiation of the various works within the genre of war literature. Before the outbreak of the Pacific War, Itagaki Naoko briefly sketched a classification of different types of war literature, but this was limited to the distinction between writings of soldiers, military correspondents and civilians.2 Moreover, Itagaki’s first comprehensive study of Japanese war literature does not deal with narrative modes or processes. The preconception that the biography of an author was necessarily identical to the plots of his literary output was a major lacuna in the criticism by literary scholars in Japan, but this kind of analytic mode proved problematic in the case of war literature. The authors’ selection of topics may have been strongly influenced by personal experiences and memories of war. However, does this assumption ignore the influence of narrative strategy and typological

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classifications in either the field of fiction or non-fiction? Let us address – this question on the basis of two representative examples: O oka Sho–hei’s Nobi and Reite senki – besides Furyoki (A POW’s Story, 1948) the most – important works of Ooka on the Pacific War. – – A COMPARISON OF OOKA SHOHEI’S NOBI AND REITE SENKI – Ooka Sho–hei (1909–88) is one of the leading writers of Japanese literature concerning the war in the Pacific. There are many reasons why – Ooka achieved such status a full two decades before his death. One is that the reassessment of the Second World War was probably the most popular topic for post-war Japanese writers. However, among all the – writers dealing with the trauma of war Ooka is particularly outstanding. The American Japanologist David C. Stahl tried to explain why in his – study The Burdens of Survival: O oka Sho– hei’s Writings on the Pacific War. – Without doubt, Ooka was a writer whose personal life and literary activities were closely linked to the Second World War and to the post-war – experience. Conscripted in 1944, Ooka received only three months of basic training and was immediately sent to the Philippines. Under heavy hostile fire in late January 1945 he fled alone into the jungle. Finally, in total despair he made two failed attempts to commit suicide, first with a grenade that proved to be a dud, and the second time with a rifle. Upon the second attempt he lost consciousness, and when he regained consciousness, he was being taken prisoner by the Americans. He was one of the few in his battalion who survived. However, survival – would turn out to be a very traumatic experience for Ooka. By choosing – to foreground the influence of personal war experiences on Ooka’s writ– ings, Stahl makes the assertion that Ooka’s success as a writer was based on the fact that he truly was a survivor of the war. Stahl primarily focuses on the survivor-narrator’s ‘deep-seated feelings of death guilt, self-recrimination and loss’3 and draws almost entirely on Kali Tal’s and Robert J. Lifton’s studies4 on the literature of trauma survivors for his – – analysis of Ooka’s writings. He takes a two-pronged approach to Ooka – – Shohei’s works, using Ooka’s biography to analyse his writings, and, on the other hand, his literature to illuminate his life. Stahl concludes: – Ooka ends his formal mission of survivor formulation by articulating how his countrymen can fulfil the outstanding debt they owe to the millions who perished in the flames of war. Through his own personal struggles, he learned that the only sure way to come to terms with the past was to squarely face the facts concerning the Pacific War and to work through deep-seated feelings of guilt, self-recrimination, and loss. And what holds true for the individual may very well hold – true for the group as well. Ooka’s journey of survivor illumination offers an inspiring microcosmic example of a viable means of collectively mastering the burdened past.5

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– Ooka’s self-reflexive and self-critical style may lend itself to this – approach. However, Stahl’s analyses of Ooka’s writings are limited to their content only, essentially understanding them as a mirror of the author’s personal experiences. Even though literary studies should be strictly based on a separation between the novelist himself and his writings, Stahl’s study tends to constantly draw detailed connections between the author and his literary output. In his book review on Stahl’s study, Steve Rabson focuses precisely on this: Stahl’s psychoanalytical methodology yields valuable insights into – Ooka’s work and the issues raised by the novelist’s wartime and post-war experiences. But these could have been conveyed without – drawing one-for-one equivalents between Ooka’s writing and his 6 presumed state of mind. The same kind of problem appears in the studies of Japanese scholars on – Ooka’s writings. Shibaguchi Jun’ichi, for example, refers to some differ– ences between the narrators in Ooka’s representative works, but does not provide insight into his various narrative techniques. Like Stahl’s study, Japanese research on war literature so far is preoccupied with content rather than narrative processes, and has not considered the various – theoretical issues involved.7 It certainly is hard to read Ooka’s writings on the Pacific War without keeping the author’s personality and life – in mind. Nevertheless I would suggest a reading of Ooka’s works that does not attempt to make direct connections between his literature and – his personal history. Although we have to concede that Ooka’s selfreflexivity and deliberate overlapping of events makes it difficult to find substantial explications of his writings on the Pacific War, it is still worth trying to make a strict distinction between the author’s life and his literary works. – Ooka’s most famous works Nobi and Reite senki differ in their content as well as in their narration mode. While Nobi is usually read as a sincere account of traumatic battlefield experience, the author used narrative techniques common in fiction to describe human despair caused by the war. The fictional Tamura, the insane narrator of Nobi, had suffered – from harrowing war experiences like Ooka himself. Due to the closeness between the author’s biography and his novel, there is probably a sub– liminal propensity to read Nobi as a detailed verbalization of Ooka’s own experiences. Yet, David Stahl also cautions us to avoid such reading, and describes Nobi or ‘Tamura’s memoir’ as ‘an unstable combination of confession, dissembling, omission and concealment’.8 Indeed, Nobi is – much more than a literary treatment of Ooka’s own frontline experiences. By the fictional example of Private Tamura it shows how human beings might act and react if caught up in extreme battlefield situations. The Japanese soldiers described in this war novel gradually slip into barbarism as all their social and moral ties to a civilized life crumble.

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Tamura constantly tries to resist this and finally loses his mind. Nobi gives us a fundamental insight, not only into the author’s personal war experiences, but, more importantly, into human nature in general. Although Nobi has to be clearly characterized as a work of fiction, it is, at the same time, an impressive piece of collective memory of the war activities in the Pacific. – In contrast to Nobi, Ooka made every effort in Reite senki to write nonfiction. This documentary narration offers a wide-ranging account of the battle for the Philippine island of Leyte, using all source materials that were available to him. Reite senki shows how Japan lost Leyte Island as a result of numerous reckless decisions by the Japanese headquarters. – Ooka concludes that the Japanese troops had actually fought bravely, and that losing the war was the responsibility of the military commanders who ordered ill-conceived operations, not of the common soldiers. Shibaguchi Jun’ichi summarized the tenor of reactions immediately after the appearance of Reite senki as follows:9 The critics all agreed that Reite senki is to be estimated as a voluminous work which is based on an immense number of historical documents, and that it fulfils the function ‘of comforting the souls of the dead soldiers’. Therefore, according to Shibaguchi, it is always added that Reite senki actually is no historical representation, but a literary representation of historical facts, which even exceeds the possibilities of the scientific historiography. In addition to the term ‘historical representation’ (rekishi kijutsu), the following are also used: ‘documentation’ (kiroku), ‘reportage’ (reporutaaju), ‘war report’ (senki) and ‘war history’ (senshi). Instead of the term ‘literary work’ (bungaku sakuhin), Reite senki is also characterized as ‘documentary literature’ (kiroku bungaku), as ‘war literature’ (senso– bungaku) and as ‘historical novel’ (rekishi sho– setsu). Be that as it may, it is quite difficult – to try to understand Ooka’s writing by classifying it using the above categories. Instead, we shall focus on the narrative techniques of literary war memories. SOME CRITERIA FOR FURTHER RESEARCH First of all, we can assume that there are two fundamentally different media used to represent personal experiences as well as ‘historical events’ – fictional and non-fictional narratives. Dorrit Cohn writes about the categorical difference between fiction and non-fiction: ‘[W]e cannot conceive of any one given text as more or less fictional, more or less factual, . . . we read it in one key or the other – that fiction, in short, is not a matter of degree but of kind, in first – no less than third-person form.’10 Barbara Foley also pointed out that ‘it is the configuration of the text as a whole, not the presence of isolable elements, which signals to the reader the author’s fictive or nonfictional intentions’.11 Labelling a work ‘fictional’ or nonfictional is actually dependent on the narrative techniques which are used. The presence or absence of certain techniques

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such as fictional dialogues and stream of consciousness are indicative of the author’s method in reconstructing and presenting a war reminiscence. Thus, Nobi and Reite senki may serve as examples of two entirely different types of narration within the genre of war literature. Three sets of criteria can be established in order to describe those dissimilar types. The first is the reference structure, i.e. the quantity and quality of references to a reality outside the text and to nonfictional writings. The methods for integration of elements of the reality outside the text can substantially vary. Therefore, number, density and distribution of reality references represent important criteria for the typological differentiation of literary works.12 In order to determine the proportions of the references to the reality outside the text and the fictional elements of a text, the quantity and quality of those references should be examined using referenes to historical persons, events and conditions. The references to the extra-textual usually occur infrequently in a given text, but in extreme cases, they can appear in great numbers. The second set of criteria concerns the selection structure, or the selection of what is told, i.e. the question whether fictional or factual elements dominate; the scope of reference to historical reality (time, space, characters, action/plot); and the extent to which the narrative is compatible with scholarly narratives.13 The formal questions about the selection structure and about the text repertoire are important, because they reveal the relation of a literary text to scientific historiography. In the case of the fictional pole, or literary narratives, there is limited compatibility, while the documentary-factual pole exhibits frequently a total conformity with the findings of scientific historiography. The final set of criteria is the narrative configuration, namely, the inclusion or exclusion of narrative forms particular to fiction such as dialogues, psycho-narration, narrated monologue and interior monologue (stream of consciousness); the identification, or lack thereof, of author and narrator; and whether the narrative confines itself to the events related or includes reflections on them. At the end of the seventies, Dorrit Cohn submitted a systematic analysis of the narrative techniques for the representation of internalness of novel characters.14 Cohn divided the narrative modes of the representation of consciousness into a) the psycho narration or thought report, in which the storyteller reports on the consciousness of a character; b) the narrated monologue or free indirect discourse, where the feelings and thoughts of a figure are integrated directly into the narrative procedure; and c) the interior monologue or quoted monologue, where the consciousness of a character is shown directly. The usage or nonusage of narrative techniques for the representation of consciousness is related to the condition of the narrator as well as to the narration mode.15 Where there is no identity between the author and the narrator, fictional narrative techniques, including dialogues, are frequently used to represent consciousness. Where author and narrator are identical, the opposite will be the case.

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– The result of analysing Ooka’s works with these criteria are two different types of narration in opposition to each other: At the one pole there is Nobi with its minimum of references (in quantity, quality and scope) to a reality outside the text; the inclusion of many fictional events; no concern at all for the norms of academic historiography; a narrator that is distinct from the author; the use of techniques of fiction to present the inner life of the characters; and a playful approach to what is told. At the other pole stands Reite senki with a maximum of references to events, persons and sources outside the text, a high degree of conformity to the norms of academic historiography, and the identity of author and narrator related to the rejection of fictional narrative techniques – and a serious approach to what is narrated. Ooka’s Reite senki is a hybrid piece of writing, which is only distinguishable from academic historiography by its lack of a scholarly apparatus or claim to add to our knowledge of the events.16 These two types of narration shall in the following be illustrated with examples from the text. The following passage from the end of Nobi translated by Ivan Morris gives us an idea about the narrative techniques of this fictional story. The interior monologue or quoted monologue is used to express the extreme feelings of a war survivor, who has resisted the temptation of cannibalism: The dead people are laughing. If this is indeed celestial laughter, how awesome a thing it is! At this moment a painful joy enters my body from above. Like a long nail, it slowly pierces my skull and reaches to the base of my brain. Suddenly I understand. I know now why they are laughing. It is because I have not eaten them. I have killed them, to be sure, but I have not eaten them. I killed them because of war, God, chance – forces outside myself; but it was assuredly because of my own will that I did not eat them. This is why in their company I can now gaze at that dark sun in this country of the dead. Yet perhaps while I was still alive as a fallen angel armed with a rifle I did really aspire to eat my fellow men as a means of chastisement. Perhaps my secret desire, when I saw those fires in the plain and set out in search of the people who must be beneath them, was precisely to fulfil this aspiration. If, at the very moment I was about to fall into sin through my pride, I was struck on the back of my head by that unknown assailant . . . If, because I was beloved of God, He vouchsafed to prepare this blow for me in advance . . . If he who struck me was that great man who on the crimson hilltop offered me his own flesh to relieve my starvation . . . If this was a transfiguration of Christ Himself . . .

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If He had indeed for my sake alone been sent down to this mountain field in the Philippines . . . Then glory be to God.17 In contrast to this, Reite senki never uses such narrative techniques of fiction, and is written in a way that comes very close to the style of aca– demic historiography. At the end of Reite senki, Ooka notes the enormous sacrifices inflicted on civilians by the fighting in the Philippines and the inequities wrought there by the post-war political order. Stahl translates the passage as follows: Although the invaders were unaware [of their role as victimizers], the fact remained that the Filipino people on whose soil the battles were fought were their victims. Since the Philippines was chosen by the Japanese and Americans as the site of their decisive battle, the land was ravaged and a great number of civilians were killed. And this was not all; after the war their country was reoccupied by the Americans, and they were put under an even more oppressive yoke of [neo]colonial rule. Since big landowners and procurement capital were protected, the industrialization of this commonwealth nation that had once been the most democratic in the East lagged behind that of subordinate countries that emerged after the war such as Korea and Taiwan. Today the Philippines is the country in greatest danger of having a premodern uprising or revolution. Along with Japan, a country of high economic growth that due to export capital, the mobilization of economic animals and the expansion of the Self-Defence Force is presently witnessing a revival of the old ideal of the Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere, the Philippines is fast becoming the most miserable nation in Asia.18 – The question why Ooka Sho–hei was using two completely different narrative techniques in Nobi and Reite senki to tell the story of the war in – the Pacific has yet to be answered. Why was Ooka writing two differing narratives on exactly the same subject, and why was he writing Reite senki after he had written Nobi? Or to put it another way, why did he write Nobi first, and not a work like Reite senki? Let us turn back to Stahl’s study once again, which gives significant insights into the author’s motivation for writing these works. One of the most impressive revela– tions in Stahl’s study concerns Ooka’s reason for writing Reite senki. After – having met with other war veterans in 1966, Ooka studied some – accounts of the battle for Leyte. Stahl explains that ‘Ooka was also shocked to learn about this time that bereaved family members were reading Fires on the Plain as a factual record . . .’ Stahl adds: ‘Having written for years about inferior Japanese soldiers who struggled egoistically to survive under abominable frontline conditions in the Philippines, he now felt strongly that it was his solemn moral obligation to correct the

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record by exposing the whole truth of Japanese battlefield experience in – the Philippines.’19 Stahl suggests that Ooka progressed from ‘exorcising the frontline experiences that haunted him’20 as a burdened survivor by writing Nobi to ‘ “repaying” those who died’21 in his place by ‘correcting the record’ with the publication of Reite senki. – Indeed, Ooka himself must have been very much aware that fictionalizing his war experiences gave him the distance necessary to emotionally explore his own misery. That is why he wrote Nobi in the first place. Once he himself reached a greater understanding of his own trauma, he could apply his knowledge to the writing of Reite senki using a com– pletely different style than that in Nobi. In Ooka Sho–hei’s case, his emotional treatments of the Pacific War occurred first with Nobi in the late forties and early fifties, and even in his other fictional narrative Furyoki that was published soon after the war. More rational handling of his war experiences followed later with Reite senki in the late sixties. CONCLUSION – Based on an analysis of Ooka’s main works Nobi and Reite senki, the narrative outlines of the genre senso– bungaku (‘war literature’) become recognizable. At the one pole are writings like Nobi with a narrative mode similar to fiction. This mode is marked by the impossibility of conflating the author with the storyteller; the application of numerous fictional dialogues; and by an emphasis on the representation of consciousness using techniques such as psychonarration, the narrated monologue and even the interior monologue. In addition to a minimum of reality references, which refer only to the most general aspects of historical events, there is also extensive fictionalization of historical spaces, times, figures and actions in such kind of writings. As further examples of the fictional war narrative, consider Kojima Nobuo’s Sho– j u– and Ibuse Masuji’s Yo– hai taicho– . At the other pole are writings like Reite senki which exhibits a factual mode of narration; is essentially distinguished by the accurate conflation of author and storyteller; and a consistent renouncement of fictional dialogues and the representation of consciousness. In addition to a maximal scope of reality references, which refer to carefully chronicled aspects of historical events, there is absolutely no fictionalization of historical spaces, times, figures and actions in this kind of writings. For further examples of this factual type of narrative, see Yoshida Mitsuru’s ‘Senkan Yamato’ no saigo and Yoshimura Akira’s Senkan Musashi. The analytical criteria suggested here for working out the two prototypes of the genre senso– bungaku can be used not only for a polarizing, but also for a scaling classification of texts. Between the two poles – represented by Ooka’s Nobi and Reite senki are narratives that do not assume a unification of the author and the storyteller, but in which fictional dialogues appear only sporadically, and the representation of

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consciousness is used only rarely. In such texts the scope of the reality references is quite large and the extent of the fictionalization of historical spaces, times, figures and actions rather limited. Although such narratives develop a documentary mode, they cannot be classified altogether as nonfiction, but must be rather described as documentary fiction. Yoshimura Akira’s Umi no shigeki (Drama of the Sea, 1972), a narrative centred on the naval warfare between Japan and Russia in 1905, can serve as a representative example for this type of narrative. The whole variety of narrative modes in Japanese war literature has not been fully explored neither by Japanese nor Western scholars. The aim of this contribution has been to present some new criteria for further research by concentrating on narrative aspects of the genre senso– bungaku. However, it has to be considered that the narrative techniques constitute only one part of the analysis of literary writings. Other important points, such as the relation between individual texts and the complete corpus of an author, or on works’ historical significance, to name just a few, also have yet to be addressed. Focusing on the development of a scale using the criteria of literary analysis also puts aside the question of the style of an author and his selection of themes. But still, if it comes to giving an overview of a genre and the belletristic modes of remembering specific aspects of Japanese history, the narrative configuration of writings has to be analysed in order to illustrate and explain different types of literary memories of the past. The field of literature has without doubt contributed a great deal to the construction of Japanese memory of the Pacific War and ‘deals with the past’ much more emotionally than the official record shaped by historians or government officials and politicians. In contrast especially to the official political responses to the war, which are still criticized by former enemy countries and Japan’s Asian neighbours even today for not earnestly addressing the past, war literature in Japan seems to be quite advanced and rather critical about the events of the Second SinoJapanese War and the Pacific War in particular. At least, this holds true – for the outstanding works of Ooka Sho–hei and other writers like Kojima Nobuo, Ibuse Masuji and many more not mentioned in this article, – among them representatives of the post-war generation such as Oe – Kenzaburo (b. 1935) who was awarded the Nobel Prize in literature in 1994. As individuals, in addition to literary writings, public memory of the war is to a great extent formed by those who experienced war and could write about it. The countless war diaries and personal accounts of Japanese men and women, soldiers and civilians, can be considered more ordinary, but have nonetheless greatly contributed to the public memory and should also be taken into account when discussing Japanese selfreflection about modern wars.22 Yet, in the case of war literature, the differences between less overtly artistic personal writings on war experiences or events, and a truly literary approach bear further consideration. Narrative configuration and techniques should be analysed first before

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explaining a writer’s message or position, keeping in mind the difficulty of discerning truth from fiction in the senso– bungaku genre. In doing so, one establishes a solid foundation for conducting further research on the literary treatment of war themes by Japanese writers. REFERENCES Hino Ashihei (1972), ‘Mugi to heitai’, in Hirano Ken et al. (eds), Senso– bungaku zensh u–, Tokyo: Mainichi Shinbunsha, Vol. 2, pp. 85–162 (first published in 1938). Ibuse Masuji (1969), Black Rain: A Novel, translated by John Bester, Tokyo: Kodansha International (reissued in 1994). — (1971), Lieutenant Lookeast and Other Stories, translated by John Bester, Tokyo: Kodansha International. — (1972), ‘Yo–hai taicho–’, in Hirano Ken et al. (eds), Senso– bungaku zensh u–, Tokyo: Mainichi Shinbunsha, Vol. 4, pp. 81–100 (first published in 1950). — (1989), Kuroi ame, Tokyo: Shincho–sha (paperback edition, first published in 1965–1966). Ishikawa Tatsuzo– (1972), ‘Ikite iru heitai’, in Hirano Ken et al. (eds), Senso– bungaku zensh u–, Tokyo: Mainichi Shinbunsha, Vol. 2, pp. 5–83 (first published in 1938). — (2003), Soldiers Alive, translated, with introduction and notes, by Zeljko Cipris, Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. – ka (1976), ‘Kaijo– hatsuden’, in Ky o– ka zensh u–, Tokyo: Iwanami Izumi Kyo Shoten, Additional Vol., pp. 33–60 (first published in 1896). Kojima Nobuo (1967), ‘Sho–ju–’, in Sh o– wa sho– setsu sh u–, (Gendai Nihon bungaku zenshu–; 88), Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo–, Vol. 3, pp. 205–10 (first published in 1952). — (1997), ‘The Rifle’, in The Oxford Book of Japanese Short Stories, edited by Theodore W. Goossen, Oxford: Oxford University Press, pp. 240–51 (reissued in 2002). Kunikida Doppo (1995), ‘Aitei tsu–shin’, in Teihon Kunikida Doppo zensh u–, Tokyo: Gakushu– Kenkyu–sha, Vol. 5, pp. 11–153 (first published in 1894). – dansha, Vol. Masaoka Shiki (1975), ‘Jinchu– nikki’, in Shiki zensh u–, Tokyo: Ko 12, pp. 77–98 (first published in 1895). – Ooka Sho–hei (1957), Fires on the Plain, translated from the Japanese by Ivan Morris, New York: Alfred A. Knopf. — (1972a), ‘Furyoki’, in Hirano Ken et al. (eds), Senso– bungaku zensh u–, Tokyo: Mainichi Shinbunsha, Vol. 3, pp. 53–83 (first published in 1948). — (1972b), ‘Nobi’, in Hirano Ken et al. (eds), Senso– bungaku zensh u–, Tokyo: Mainichi Shinbunsha, Vol. 4, pp. 101–91 (first published in 1948–1951). – — (1995), ‘Reite senki’, in Ooka Sh o– hei zensh u–, Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo–, Vol. 9–10 (first published in 1967–1969). — (1996), Taken Captive. A Japanese POW’s Story, translated by Wayne P. Lammers. New York, Chichester, Brisbane, Toronto, Singapore: John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

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Sakurai Tadayoshi (1972), ‘Nikudan’, in Hirano Ken et al. (eds), Senso– bungaku zenshu–, Tokyo: Mainichi Shinbunsha, Vol. 1, pp. 5–109 (first published in 1906). — (1999), Human Bullets: A Soldier’s Story of Port Arthur, with an introduction by Count Okuma, translated by Masujiro Honda, edited by Alice Mabel Bacon, introduction to the Bison books edition by Roger Spiller, Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press (first published in 1907). Tayama Katai (1972), ‘Ippeisotsu’, in Hirano Ken et al. (eds), Senso– bungaku zenshu–, Tokyo: Mainichi Shinbunsha, Vol. 1, pp. 111–23 (first published in 1908). — (1981), ‘One Soldier’, in The Quilt and Other Stories by Tayama Katai, translated and with an introduction by Kenneth G. Henshall, Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, pp. 149–65. Yoshida Mitsuru (1972), ‘ “Senkan Yamato” no saigo’, in Hirano Ken et al. (eds), Senso– bungaku zenshu–, Tokyo: Mainichi Shinbunsha, Vol. 3, pp. 293–356 (first published in 1952). — (1985/1999), Requiem for Battleship Yamato, Translation and Introduction by Richard H. Minear, Seattle & London: University of Washington Press, 1985 (hardcover), Annapolis: Naval Institute Press, 1999 (paperback). – sha. Yoshimura Akira (1972), Umi no shigeki. 2 volumes, Tokyo: Shincho – — (1994), Senkan Musashi, Tokyo: Shinchosha (paperback edition, first published in 1966). — (1999), Battleship Musashi: The Making and Sinking of the World’s Biggest Battleship, translated by Vincent Murphy, Tokyo: Kodansha International.

NOTES 1

2

3

4

5 6

All works belonging to the Japanese genre of war literature mentioned in the text are specified in the list of works cited at the end of the paper (above the notes). – , 1941), Itagaki Naoko, Jihen ka no bungaku (Tokyo: Daiichi Shobo pp. 24–34. – David C. Stahl, The Burdens of Survival: O oka Sh o– hei’s Writings on the Pacific War (Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2003), p. 8. Kali Tal, Worlds of Hurt: Reading the Literatures of Trauma (Cambridge University Press, 1996), Robert Jay Lifton, Death in Life: Survivors of Hiroshima (University of North Carolina Press, 1968), Lifton, The Broken Connection: On Death and the Continuity of Life (American Psychiatric Press, 1979). Stahl, The Burdens of Survival, p. 324. – Steve Rabson, ‘The Burdens of Survival: O oka Sh o– hei’s Writings on the Pacific War. By David C. Stahl. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press. Honolulu, 2003’, The Journal of Japanese Studies, 30.2, Summer 2004, pp. 526–7. See – also my review: ‘STAHL, David C.: The Burdens of Survival: Ooka Sho– hei’s Writings on the Pacific War. Honolulu: University of Hawai‘i Press, 2003’, Asiatische Studien, LVIII·2·2004, pp. 529–33.

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8 9 10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19 20 21 22

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– See for example Shibaguchi Jun’ichi, O oka Sho– hei to rekishi (Tokyo: Kanrin – – – hei’, Kokubungaku kaishaku to Shobo, 2002), Aihara Kazukuni, ‘Ooka Sho – – hei. ky o– zai no kenkyu–, 23.15, 1978, pp. 140–1, Ikeda Jun’ichi, ‘Ooka Sho “Nobi” ron no tame no kokoromi,’ Kokubungaku kaishaku to kansho– , 4, 1976, pp. 83–7. Stahl, The Burdens of Survival, p. 96. – Shibaguchi, Ooka Sho– hei to rekishi, p. 94. Dorrit Cohn, ‘Fictional versus Historical Lives: Borderlines and Borderline Cases’, in Journal of Narrative Technique, 19, 1989, p. 16. Barbara Foley, Telling the Truth: The Theory and Practice of Documentary Fiction (Cornell University Press, 1986), p. 60. On the reality references of fictional writings see Wiklef Hoops, ‘Fiktionalität als pragmatische Kategorie’, Poetica, 11/1979, p. 303 and most detailed Ansgar Nünning, Von historischer Fiktion zu historiographischer Metafiktion, vol. 1: Theorie, Typologie und Poetik des historischen Romans (Trier: Wissenschaftlicher Verlag Trier, 1995), pp. 221–7. On the selection structure and the text repertoire of literary writings see Wolfgang Iser, Der Akt des Lesens (München: Fink, 1976), pp. 120/143. Dorrit Cohn, Transparent Minds: Narrative Modes for Presenting Consciousness in Fiction (Princeton University Press, 1978). For a detailed analysis of the condition of the narrator in relation to the narration mode see also Käte Hamburger, Die Logik der Dichtung (Stuttgart: Klett-Cotta, 1977), pp. 72–3 and Franz K. Stanzel, Theorie des Erzählens (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 1979), p. 68. – For a more exhaustive study on Ooka’s main writings and the fictional pole and the nonfictional pole of the genre senso– bungaku see my article ‘Kriegsliteratur in Japan: Unterschiedliche Vermittlungsformen der lite– rarischen Geschichtsdarstellung am Beispiel von Ooka Sho–heis Nobi (Feuer im Grasland) und Reite senki (Bericht über die Schlacht von Leyte)’. Bochumer Jahrbuch zur Ostasienforschung, 29, 2005, pp. 183–206. – – hei, Fires on the Plain, translated by Ivan Morris (New York: Ooka Sho – Knopf, 1957), pp. 245–6. Original: Ooka Sho–hei, ‘Nobi,’ in Hirano Ken – – et al. (eds), Senso bungaku zensh u, vol. 4 (Tokyo: Mainichi Shinbunsha, 1972), pp. 190–1. – – Stahl, The Burdens of Survival, p. 318. Cited from Ooka Sho–hei, O oka – – Sho hei shu, vol. 10 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten), p. 547. Stahl, The Burdens of Survival, p. 214. Ibid., p. 118. Ibid., p. 215. See for example Petra Buchholz, Schreiben und Erinnern. Über Selbstzeugnisse japanischer Kriegsteilnehmer (Munich: Iudicium, 2003).

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15

The Nokorimono Mode: Remembering the Atomic Bomb in The Diary of Moriwaki Yo– ko ADAM LEBOWITZ

INTRODUCTION oriwaki Yo–ko’s diary is one part of the publication entitled The Diary of Moriwaki Yo– ko: Hiroshima Prefectural Girls’ HS #1, first year, sixth class (Moriwaki Yo– ko no nikki – Hiroshima daiichi kenjo– ichinen rokugumi).1 The thirteen-year-old girl was on a school trip with classmates in central Hiroshima on 6 August 1945 and died the same evening from burn injuries sustained in the atomic attack. The diary she wrote for a school assignment remained home that day – her last entry was for 5 August – and was kept by her family. Fifty years later her brother Hosokawa Ko–ji published it in 1996. Included in the volume is a body of work by family members, acquaintances and outside researchers commenting directly on her death and the diary. These additional writings – essays, a letter, poetry, a stage play, a musical piece, painting and photography – illustrate the meaning – ko’s diary and her death in atomic bomb memory. of Yo Having a diuric document related to historical atrocity suggests parallelism with the legacy of Anne Frank, but there is an important dissimilarity: the position of the writer. Written in hiding, it can be argued that the Frank diary comes from within the Holocaust event itself of which the writer Anne was fully conscious, hence the document can be said to specifically and materially refer to it. This is different from the Hiroshima diary. Although the writer experienced wartime hardship – an absent father, food shortages, severe physical labour – the diary was not the direct product of the atomic event. That is, the event did end

M

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the life of the writer but it was a future occurrence of which the writer had no prior knowledge. Therefore, in order to fulfil its referencing role the diary object must function within a special mode of remembrance. This study will attempt to analyse this mode. While references to Holocaust memory research will appear this is not meant to be a comparative study. Instead, the focus will be on the general challenges of atrocity articulation, Japanese ideas on language and memory, and how these ideas are manifested in the published edition of the diary. The conclusion will consider the mode of remembrance as a conceptual notion that can be applied to other contexts. THE ARTICULATORY POSITION Jonathan Culler notes that cultural studies is informed by the extension of literary methods of analysis to non-literary issues. If this is true, one example is scholarship concerning atrocity memory and presentation.2 The result has been a focus on the difficulty of establishing an enunciative positionality suitable for accurate mimetic representation. This is an effective approach to examining the problems associated with expressing the atomic bomb experience, because the positionality is an acute challenge for hibakusha survivors. In a collection of psychological portraits of survivors entitled Death in Life, Robert J. Lifton notes, ‘The ultimate counterfeit element for hibakusha is life itself.’3 That is, to be hibakusha is existential paradox and this contradiction results in bewilderment for hibakusha writers as they search for the descriptive voice that will correctly subjectify their experiences in literary medium. The problem of subjectivity resonates essentially with individuals who were present at the events and survived but also implicates others separated from the event’s moment of occurrence by either time or distance. For example, John Whittier Treat cannily observes the additional social risk of disrespecting the dead that post-event Japanese atomic bomb writers run by purporting to ‘understand’.4 In short, the intensity of the atrocity event renders mimetic representation problematic: Everyday language is incapable of describing extraordinary events. Here, two discussions offering theoretical perspectives are summarized. Concerning Holocaust representation, Ernst van Alphen writes of language’s ‘semiotic incapacity’;5 that is, there is no symbolic order that allows the event to be represented and therefore experienced, because experience is a form of representation and ‘to be part of an event or a history is not the same as experiencing it’.6 Similar to the hibakusha in Lifton’s study but with an important difference, van Alphen argues that the representability is not simply a post-event issue but arose initially ‘during [his emphasis] the Holocaust itself’. That is, concentration camp inmates underwent a fracturing of the conscious self,7 resulting in an ambiguous perspective that is non-subjective. Therefore, individuals who have lived through and survived ‘have

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difficulty experiencing the events they were part of because the language at their disposal offered them only two possibilities: to take the role of either subject or object in relation to the events. But the actuality of the Holocaust was such that this distance from the action was not possible; there were not unambiguous roles of subject or object.’8 Treat’s approach to atomic bomb literature compares with van Alphen’s but concerns the different possibilities of representation available in Western and Japanese genres of literature and their limitations. Genres are, he writes, dependent upon a specific ‘figure’ of the Hiroshima or Nagasaki event. The problem is that this figure is never able to communicate the totality of the experience because some element will necessarily be foregrounded to conform to the norms demanded by genre. The very notion of metaphor, which denotes subjectivity automatically, is problematic because ‘while it ambitiously aspires to mark the whole of the atrocity, simultaneously risks distraction through its substitution of one thing for another’.9 Objective accounts that avoid metaphor such as first-hand testimony can never be totally separated from the manner they were recorded, and pure statistics, albeit precise, are rarely able to convey understanding.10 The novel, although a popular vehicle for fictive imagination about the bomb, is partially disabled by the traditional debate about its ability to portray historiography validly. In addition to this problem, there is the question echoing the semiotic problem mentioned above: ‘The liberalism of traditional fiction is put to the test: how do we recognize as universal the scene we are presented?’11 As a possible solution to the problems surrounding the enunciation of atrocity both van Alphen and Treat suggest Hayden White’s ‘middle voice’ strategy. Adopted from Ancient Greek grammar, the middle voice is an alternative position that is neither subjective/active nor objective/ passive but positionally somewhere between. For Treat a new literary genre would prescribe the usage of the middle voice and he is sceptical, whether it is achievable in practice, as is van Alphen. However, certain strategies of social discourse in the Japanese language might actually reflect it. One manifestation is the importance of consanguinity to atomic bomb survivalhood. Descendants are labelled nisei- or even sansei-hibakusha, literally second or third generation survivors, similar to the way foreign-born Japanese progeny are named (and accorded citizenship). Like nationality, being blood relation to a survivor places the individual in a special middle position that is simultaneously connected with yet outside the event itself. Consanguinity suggests a certain conceptualization of the atomic event, and further discussion of this practice, including the Japanese grammatical principles undergirding it, can illuminate the context in which Yo–ko’s childhood diary was published and its perceived importance vis-à-vis the atomic event. In fact, this analysis will reveal how the diary itself will come to occupy a slightly different kind of existential middle position from which the atomic event can be explicated, to the

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extent that it can be. Interestingly, this explicative process can be identified with Nietzsche’s theory of ‘effective history’ (versus ‘wirkliche/ traditional history’) summarized by Foucault. Simply, while ‘wirkliche’ interpretation ‘aims at dissolving the singular event into an ideal community’, ‘effective history’ contests this teleological process and ‘deals with events in terms of their unique characteristics . . . (which) respond to haphazard conflicts’.12 The eruption of these conflicts in Nietzsche’s nomenclature is Entstehung, or ‘emergence’, more specifically referring to the ‘non-place’ or interstice ‘indicating the adversaries do not belong to a common space’.13 If Entstehung is considered the atomic event, the function of the middle position is to straddle this interstice and to belong to both adversarial worlds – pre- and post-atomic bomb Japan. Yo–ko’s diary is embodiment of the middle position and functions as a memorable, experiential and comprehendible trope for the atomic event. LANGUAGE AND KNOWLEDGE James E. Young calls attention to the ‘grammar of being’14 in the usage of the words ‘Holocaust’ and ‘Sho’ah’ for the systematic murder of European Jews during the Second World War. The nomenclature is from the Old Testament and indicates one kind of memorialization strategy: interpreting the event within a context of religious belief. Jewish and Japanese cultures of course are different, and it is not the aim of this analysis to locate a liturgical exegesis for the structure of atomic bomb memory. However, the Diary publication – of which Yo–ko’s diary is but one part – as a whole bespeaks a memorialization process mediated by a specific grammar. The function of this grammar is to transform the experience into knowledge transmittable to and absorbable by the whole of society, i.e. the knowledge must be generalized or conceptualized. Mieke Bal defines concepts as ‘things always-already engaged, as interlocutors, with the larger culture from which they have emerged’.15 It follows that the obverse of a concept’s general knowledgability is an erasure or elision of its original context. Sakai Naoki, alluding to Jacques Derrida, believes this to be the basis of meaning in spoken language: The possibility of the reiteration of meaning is based on the premise that meaning will be understood without reliance on the enunciator (hatsuwasha) or the location (bamen) of the utterance. If meaning is to have conceptualization (gainensei), the only way for it to become generalized (ippansei) is to forfeit (so– shitsu) the individual characteristic (kobetsusei) of the location of enunciation (hatsuwa-ko– i) . . . Insofar the enunciator and enunciation erase (sho– ko) the individuality of the context (bunmyaku) meaning can be achieved. It is a condition of meaning.16

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Sakai speaks of loss and erasure in a figurative sense, but it comes to take more literal significance in the transformation of Yo–ko’s diary into a memorative object from the atomic event. A discussion of the Japanese linguistic corpus – its normative grammar – that functions to identify knowledge as general and concept is appropriate here. Although the purpose of Araki Hiroyuki’s Yamato kotoba no jinruigaku (The Anthropology of Japanese) is informed by a nihonjinron affinity to affirm cultural ‘uniqueness’ his methodology generates valid conclusions. Close readings of Many o– sh u– (The Book of 10,000 Leaves) and Genji Monogatari (The Tale of Genji) – archetypical canons of Japanese literary culture arguably comparable to the Torah for Jewry – reveal grammar dichotomizing knowledge into two types: general and specific. Both these types are dependent upon a different word for ‘thing’: mono and koto. Grammatically, mono can function as a noun, a suffix or a prefix. Prefix examples include: mono-no-do– ri no wakatta hito (‘someone who knows the right way’); mono-wakari no ii hito (‘a good person who is aware of what is happening’); and mono no wakatta hito (‘someone who knew what was going on’). Araki considers the poetics of two passages: Mizu-dori no tatamu yoso’oi imo– to nora-ni mono-iwazu kinite omo ikanetsumo. (So put into a flutter with love he comes, like a waterfowl he hastily prepares for departure saying nothing even to his wife.) (Manyo– shu– 14–3528) Mada, ito, chiisaku ohashimashi goroni, ware mo, mono-no-kokoro mo shirade, mitate matsurishi toki, ‘Medetano, Chigo no O-sama ya’ to mitate matsurishi. (Even when Onna-Ichi-Miya was a child, Kaoru although one himself would pause and gaze at her without discrimination and say, ‘Oh, how noble she is.’) (Genji Monogatari, ‘Dragonfly’) Mono in mono-iwazu (‘saying nothing’) are the normal expressions for a spouse departing for an extended period.17 In the second passage Kaoru is still in pre-adolescence and therefore mono-no-kokoro shirade (‘knows nothing of the affairs of the heart’).18 In contrast to the immutable and universal essence of mono, koto is more ‘in the moment’ and site specific. In speech acts it indicates immediate reasons when placed at the end of sentences: Kono shukudai wa ashita made ni yatte oku koto (I have to get this homework done by tomorrow). A kotowaza is a short and pithy proverb or saying; monogatari are legendary, epic stories engendering organic verisimilitudes. According to Araki the fundamental ( gensokuteki) and principle ( genriteki) sense inferred by mono can also denote theistic augmentiation (shinrei).19 To connect with Sakai’s ideas concerning knowledge, the erasure or death of context that accompanies conceptualization complies with the mono’s all-knowledgability that is generative (gen) within its own self.

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Popular and Intellectual Representations of Memory THE NOKORI-POSITION

It was established earlier that a subjective position comparable to Hayden White’s middle voice capable of enunciating the atomic event must fulfil the following conditions: it maintains the disparate nature of pre- and post-atomic existence, delineated by the atomic event as Entstehung (‘emergence’); and the voice speaks simultaneously from both these positions. Given these descriptions it might appear a ‘double voice’ is more in order rather than a middle voice, and a doubling aspect of the position will be shown later. Now it is necessary to explicate in more detail the subjective position in literary practice and its ethical implications. Sakai Naoki’s ideas concerning the early post-war poets of the arechi (Wasteland, taken from the title of T.S. Eliot’s poem) school are very relevant here. Many of these poets were ex-soldiers who had survived the battlefield and defied the imperative of national identification through self-sacrifice; they were iki-nokori, literally ‘living leftovers’.20 The embarrassment of return was in part towards living society, but more importantly towards the dead, especially towards the comrades-in-arms who were killed and could not return. The soldier-survivor had to find a new social role as they entered post-war Japan and found it as testamentary executor (yuigon shikko– nin), an expression used by Ayakawa Nobuo in a poem: Tatoeba kiri ya / arayuru kaidan no ashioto no naka kara/ yuigon shikko– nin ga bonyari to sugata no arawasu./ – kore ga subete no hajimari de aru. (From the mist, for instance, or from footsteps at every stairway, emerges an obscure figure of testamentary executor – with this everything begins.)21 To be an executor was to continue the memories of fallen friends not by speaking for them but by making others aware of their silence: in the words of poet Tamura Ryu–ichi ‘revive the dead’ (shisha o yomigaesaseru). It was also to face issues concerning history and subjectivity. For poets of the arechi school the defeat should have meant a signal change with the past. In fact it did not because ‘the past was integrated into the present without causing much fundamental disruption to the system of collective representations’,22 mirroring the semiotic concerns faced by Holocaust survivors and writers of atomic bomb literature. The refusal to take a subjective stance in the liberal ideology that was a key element in the ‘reconstruction’ of Japan was not due to out-dated nationalist idealism. The problem was that the past had become part of the present minus any sense of historical discontinuity.23 The maintenance of this discontinuity was in Sakai’s words an ‘ethical imperative’;24 this point and the idea of being iki-nokori are important because they are relevant to another writer working in a different genre and style. Political scientist Fujiwara Ki’ichi’s comments concerning the – documentary novelist Ooka Sho–hei (Fires on the Plain, Leyte Diary) paral– lel Sakai’s. Former soldier and POW Ooka was also iki-nokori, and even if

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the novelist was not explicitly concerned with positionality he did feel a responsibility (sekinin) towards the dead: ‘As much as he was for better or worse left alive (ikki-nokotte shimatta), he wants to leave behind (nokoshite okitai) a portrait (sugata) of the dead, for if he does not (nokosanakereba) then he himself cannot die peacefully.’25 Through the ingemination of the word nokoru and its transitive form nokosu Fujiwara specifically emphasizes its transcendental nature between the living and the dead. It compares with the yuigon testamentary position arechi poets seek to attain: significantly, nokoru · nokosu ( ) can be written alternately as with the first character from yuigon ( ). Considered as position of enunciation, to be nokoru is to be imprinted with the event that others – the dead – did not live through and encompass both subjectivities: pre- and postevent. From an ethical standpoint to be iki-nokori is to owe some debt to the dead, and also to speak (kataru) of the event as story (monogatari) to the post-event living. Moreover, the multivalence of the nokori concept allows it to pertain to non-living objects including books, just as the word mono can mean people and things. This includes the diary of Morikawa Yo–ko. Conceptualized as nokorimono it attains a special connection to the atomic event, as the next part of this analysis will reveal. – THE DIARY OF MORIWAKI YOKO The additional material included in the Diary elucidates through exposition and illustration the diary’s iconic significance concerning the atomic bombing of Hiroshima. Dust jacket (front: Yo–ko’s photographic portrait; back: photos of deformed uniform and diary page) Frontispiece (oil painting depicting fiery conflagration) Introduction by brother Hosokawa Ko–ji Photographs (family snapshots; diary and pen; deformed uniform, headwear, lunch box, other effects; father’s 6 August 1946 diary entry; memorial tablet; Ueda Hatsue’s letter; contemporary picture of final work at duty location; Atomic Dome) Part One: The Diary Of Moriwaki Yo– ko Text of Yo–ko’s diary 6 April to 5 August 1945 Precious Daughter (musical composition by father Ataru) Text of Ataru’s 6 August diary entry Ueda Hatsue’s 7 August 1945 letter What Happened that Day (Kojima Kazuko) – Friendship Etched in Stone (Oyama Masako) Part Two: Yo– ko, Rest in Peace Meeting Yo– ko’s Diary and Mr Hosokawa (Kamei Hiroshi) The Girls in Their Summer Uniforms (reader’s theatre script)

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First Girls’ Prefectural HS and Hiroshima Minami HS (Yamazaki Masafumi) –) My Hiroshima (Kamei Kenzo Little Sister (Hosokawa Kazuko) The Message of Yo– ko’s Diary (Koroyasu Miki) Family Ties (Hosokawa Yo–) Yo– ko, Rest in Peace (Hosokawa Ko–ji) Afterword (Kamei Hiroshi) The contents are a memorial map of sorts: Part One establishes the diary’s direct connection to the event as ‘left over’ (nokori); and Part Two illustrates the diary as an object of common knowledge (mono). Both processes are alluded to in two photographs on the back cover (Fig. 15.1). At the top is the charred and wrinkled school blouse Yo–ko wore on the day of the bombing, and below is a page from her diary. The blouse is easily recognizable as a schoolgirl’s because of the pinafore collar and the white school pin standing out against the dark cloth. The visible deformation of the blouse visibly identifies it as nokori, and the blouse’s arrangement suggests an invisible wearer highlighting Yo–ko’s absence and therefore erasure of the diary’s original authorship. In other words, the two photos viewed together identify the diary as a mono concept. Older brother Hosokawa Ko–ji’s Introduction can be read as a statement of editorial intent to enunciate the atomic event and his sister’s diary through nokorimono praxis: When I see the diary Yo–ko left behind (nokoshita) I remember the sad figure of my mother (d.1980, age seventy-six) reading it. This was never easy to watch so I acted as if I did not notice. In August 1988 her diary became publicized as the subject of an NHK documentary special entitled The girls in their summer uniforms (Natsufuku no sho– jo– tachi) about first-year student atomic fatalities from Hiroshima Prefectural Girls’ HS #1. Through this production I met Kamei Hiroshi, a teacher from Ho–sei University Girls’ HS in Tokyo. Until then I had hardly ever spoken (katatta) of my injuries nor of the death of my sister. Not that I was hiding the fact I was a hibakusha nor refusing to speak (kataru) on purpose, but they seemed to be memories just better not dealt with. Meeting with Kamei-sensei was a turn-around for me. I realized it was my job as a survivor (ikinokotta mono) to speak (katari) of my atomic experience and leave behind (nokoshite) a record to be disseminated and I regretted shirking it. Every year on 6 August I participate in the memorial ceremony held at the high school for the girls who died, and the names inscribed on the honour roll – the surviving (ikinokotte) parents of those who died – are

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Figure 15.1: Moriwaki Yo–ko’s diary, back cover.

becoming older and their numbers are dwindling. More importantly, some are the last surviving members of entire households wiped out.26 The theme is affirmed in the next arrangement of photos. Following snapshots of family members there is the diary cover, Yo–ko’s fountain pen and the last entry from 5 August. The next photos identify her as the atomic fatality through nokorimono personal effects: her uniform blouse and protective headgear bearing scars from the blast; her tin lunch box also warped and deformed from the heat, with an explanation on its discovery by her brother among the burnt remains of

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a bridge; and her first-aid kit, tickets, and money. The section is concluded with two interior shots of the Atomic Dome in Hiroshima to make her death congruent with the universalized Hiroshima (written in katakana) as symbolized by this most famous of nokorimono. The arrangement of the two parts provides not only a memory map but also a direction for that map – from nokori to mono – and the latter part of the Introduction leading to the diary text itself is a conciliation of the former with the latter. Therefore, Hosokawa writes of ‘clues’ for the upcoming dropping of the bomb in the text referring to the regular sightings of B-29’s that began in April. On the day of the bombing the girls on work duty ‘met their fateful moment’ (unmei no shunkan o mukaeta).27 Implicit in this interpretation, which Hosokawa acknowledges a few paragraphs earlier, is that life (inochi) until this moment is also ‘left over’ (nokosareta).28 This interpretation infers narrativity to the diary but it is inaccurate to say he is trying to bring together the pre- and post-bombing periods; as Sakai noted, it is necessary to write about both while maintaining a disconnection. In fact, the narrativity implied within the diary text appears to contrast with the lack of it between the periods before and after the atomic event. The tensions within Hosokawa’s essay are strongest when he writes of the very ‘everydayness’ of the diary entries – going to school, eating, sleeping. Even though this ‘life’ can compare to ‘life’ anywhere it is not the same because it is in reality ‘dead’ and disconnected. The historical realities are of course present, especially in the aches and pains of overwork and malnutrition, but these only highlight the ordinary quality of a life that is not contiguous with the present through death. This ordinariness is heightened because the diary is reproduced without deletions or editing and all details about meal and sleeping timings are preserved. Her ordinariness becomes accentuated when she describes emotionally jarring events in plain language: 10 April (Tuesday) Rain School Today was the first day classes started. First and second periods were sewing. Third period was literature. Fourth period was art class. Fifth period was grammar. The classes in this school are completely different from those in the elementary school. I must not fall behind. Home Awoke 5:00 Slept 22:00 Study 1 hr Housework: Meal preparation Today it rained and was very dark. On the way home from school I saw my relative little Mei. She is in the fourth grade of the primary school in Fukuro Town. Very

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soon she is going to be evacuated to Futomi in the country away from her parents and she looked very sad. However, this is for victory. Mei chan, be brave. 13 April (Friday) Clear School Today I saw one of those hated B-29’s for the first time. It left a long, beautiful smoke trail, circled once in the sky above Hiroshima and then left. I felt really sad. The air raid signal went off again and we went home at noon. Home Awoke 5:00 Slept 21:30 Study 1 hr Housework: Meal preparation I had to wait before telling anyone about that B-29 we saw today. After returning home and finishing lunch I went to Tamada sensei’s house. He is an instructor at Ogosojima Primary School. Tomorrow he is going away to navy basic training. He probably cares much about his family. As for myself, I will not worry about Father and try to support Mother as best I can. 9 July (Monday) Clear School Today Yoshimura sensei told us about incendiary bombs. He showed us one that was hollow inside, and said that they are nothing to be frightened of if you put them out soon. I agree with him completely. Home Awoke 5:20 Slept 21:00 Study 1 hr Housework: Meal preparation Today Tsukiji-sensei told us how to prepare meals using only a little rice. First you steam potatoes on top of the rice and mash them down, sprinkle some oil on top and then layer it with pickled radish or vegetables and roll it up like sushi. I want to try it the next time we are able to get some potatoes. More should be said about reading the diary as tragic narrative. The first and last entries might encourage this kind of reading: 6 April: Today was the entrance ceremony for the Sho–wa 20 (1945) school year. I have become what I always longed to be, a student of Hiroshima Prefectural First Girls HS #1. As a pupil of this school in Japan, so as not to be an embarrassment I will live each day fully with all my heart and always give the best I can (issho– kenmei).

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5 August: Yesterday Uncle came over for a visit and it was very lively in the house. I thought it would be so nice if it were always like that. Tomorrow I will do clean-up after a housebreaking. I will put my all into it (issho– kenmei). Housebreaking, or kaya so– kai, was a traditional form of fire protection in urban areas. Houses surrounding an important structure were taken down to prevent the spread of conflagration in case of an aerial incendiary attack. It was dirty, dangerous work even for adults. Hosokawa admires his sister’s undeniable fortitude and endurance; the expressions for ‘do my best’ (issho– kenmei, ganbaritai) show up with regularity. Of course, the government mandated this attitude even when defeat was evident and to expect children to resist is unrealistic. Furthermore, as homework the teacher checked the diary and it cannot be read as a private confessional. – ko detailed: Even so, Hosokawa points out the home-front hardships Yo walking 25 km round trip to work assignments; having Sunday treated as ‘Home Preparedness Day’, entailing more work; the malnutrition and daily ailments (she complains of feeling run down in about one third of the entries), separated families (the father in China and brother in – shu–). School was cancelled due to air raids almost daily in the last half Kyu of the diary. Indeed, Hosokawa may be trying to make some comment about the idea of national sacrifice – writer and critic Nosaka Akiyuki sees her a victim of it29 – but his tone is less bitter than acerbic; conversely, his pride for his sister and her classmates is not nationalist. Overall, the essayistic message is politically disinterested and Hosokawa’s story as read in the Diary is personal rather than national loss, or even tragic. DEATH AND THE ERASURE OF SELF – ko’s death directly. In The remaining components of Part I concern Yo conformity with the idea discussed earlier about the elision of context as a precondition for the conceptualization of knowledge, the physical death of Yo–ko enables her diary to become not only nokori (left behind) but also mono, that is, ‘thing’ or generally accepted truth. The details of – ko her death are recounted in the letter of Ueda Hatsue who nursed Yo at a makeshift aid facility at a school following the blast. Music teacher father Ataru’s musical elegy is included and a letter to his daughter written as a 6 August entry in the diary. The short, concise pieces written for the publication by childhood acquaintances concluding Part I are also elegiac and interesting for their on-site description of the bombing. Kojima Kazuko was a year ahead of Yo–ko in school and on a training assignment the day of the attack some distance away from ground zero. Looking over the city centre from a mountaintop, she writes of the strange character of the eastern sky (iyo– ni kawaru higashi no sora) and the extreme disaster area (daisanji) that Hiroshima became. Afterwards, she writes, Yo–ko’s corpse (itai, literally

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‘left-over body’) was returned to her home.30 The second piece is by Kajiyama Masako who has become a noted songwriter. Hospitalized with acute appendicitis several days before the bombing she was recovering at home while the rest of her classmates were on work duty the morning of 6 August. She writes about the deaths of staff and classmates from her school and about the memorial stile at the location where until that day the school stood, engraved with the names of her friends including Yo–ko who left behind (nokoshita) her diary. Taken together both these pieces can be read as denials of contiguity between pre- and post-bomb life broken by the atomic event itself. This is consistent with Nietzsche’s ‘effective history’ with the bombing acting as the point of ‘emergence’ (Entstehung). Not only suggested in the extreme language Kojima uses to describe the explosion,31 Kajiyama’s opening statement reflects this interpretation – ‘We entered Hiroshima Girls HS #1 in April, Sho–wa 20, completely unaware in several months the bomb would be dropped and the war ended.’ – as does the disappearance of her school to be replaced by a stile. Quoting a song verse the named deceased lack even remains (igai, literally ‘remaining bones’). Having been erased entirely the school is now a tale spun by the wax tree overhanging the stile (monogatatte kuremasu).32 THE NOKORIMONO MODE AND ATOMIC REMEMBRANCE Part II of the Diary further illustrates remembrance of the atomic bomb through the conceptualization of Yo–ko’s diary. The first piece is the script of a reader’s theatre entitled The Girls in their Summer Uniforms (Natsufuku no sho– jotachi) written and performed by students from Diary co-editor Kamei Hiroshi’s Ho–sei University Girls HS class inspired by their study trip to Hiroshima. Kamei is Yo–ko’s age and he describes in a preface to the play his school years dominated by labour assignments. Had he been on the other side of the mountain range separating Hiroshima from his native Shimane, he writes, he would have suffered the same fate. The study trips he has guided to Hiroshima for over twenty years are a requiem (chinkon) for the students of his generation and it is his duty (gimu) to have the diary published and read by his students believing themselves unconnected (muen) to the war. Summer Uniforms was performed at the annual high school festival in 1995 commemorating fifty years since the war’s end. The play, a series of schoolgirl dialogues set in 1945 linked by narration, merits study because thematically it coherently interprets the nokorimono mode in the conceptualization of the diary. That is, the diary, along with school uniforms, is used as a trope for memory; as the opening narration states, ‘We have read their diaries . . . we feel we have crossed time and generations to become friends with these girls.’ On stage, selections from Yo–ko’s diary and from her classmates’ are incorporated into vignettes about entering school and sewing their uniforms.

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Narrator They finished making their uniforms in early July. Although the colour is perhaps somewhat unusual everyone is very satisfied with the results. As they wrote in their diaries: Yo– ko Today I worked on my summer uniform. I cut the cloth and sewed the front. I feel happy but also a little funny. It makes me laugh thinking of everyone wearing the same uniform and going to school together. Keiko I put the finishing touches on mine today. I did all the work myself. When I think of how splendid it looks it makes me so happy and even a little attractive. Hitomi Today I stayed home all day to work on my uniform. I tried it on this evening. It made me extremely happy because it is the first thing that I have ever made. – ko as a charIn some sections, entire conversations are created with Yo acter, such as the inside of a bomb shelter: Keiko:

There are so many raids recently . . . yesterday, today even . . . Student A: What do you want to be when you grow up, Miss Moriwaki? Yo– ko: Just like my father at home . . . er, he is a soldier in Shanghai now, I want to be a music teacher. When I grow up . . . Student B: Eh, you do too? Me too, I would like to be a schoolteacher, definitely . . . I have already made up my mind. The dialogue based on diary entries can be compared to the elision of context that is requisite for conceptualization. This process – erasing the source – is indicative of a larger process concerning Moriwaki Yo–ko and atomic remembrance. The notional Yo–ko in the play is of course based on the real person, but she herself has become conceptualized. She is even provided with a virtual ‘death’ as a voice from beyond the grave: Narrator: At 2:45 am, a single B29 took off and made its way to Hiroshima. There is one bomb as its payload. On that day the girls are on work detail taking down a building in the city centre. It was only 800 m away from the epicentre of the blast. Yo– ko: It was a clear, cloudless blue sky. As I looked up I could see something glinting in the sun. It floated down, down, down with a parachute. Keiko: Without thinking I raised up my arm and tried to grab it . . . it looked so pretty like a little treasure. A present, for us? I thought . . .

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Her final vocalization as ‘left behind’ concept creates a mode assumed by the high school actors. While previously the voices of Hiroshima students in wartime they now return to their normal roles as students in the present in an appeal for peace. As a reader’s play there is no costume change or other staging effects to suggest a character transformation, and the similar dialogic style suggests no explicit change in vocal modulation. This doubling of position is a literal presentation of what the nokorimono mode narrative voice attempts figuratively. From this positionality, it is possible to speak of the atomic event in the post-bomb period by conceiving oneself as being ‘left behind’ (nokori) as well. As if to accentuate this point, throughout the play script there are snapshots of the Ho–sei University HS students from their study tour wearing their school uniforms, with the last shot a group nokorimono portrait in front of an old-people’s home in Hiroshima, elderly hibakusha women and girls posed side-by-side (Fig. 15.2).33 FAMILY AND NOKORI TRANSFERENCE The last pieces were written for the Diary by family and acquaintances – ji’s of the editors and are elegiac responses to loss and remembrance. Ko wife Hosokawa Kazuko’s touching essay describes being able to identify the remains (itai) of her five-year-old sister killed in the attack only by the tags on her yake nokkota (‘burnt remaining’) clothing.34 This story

Figure 15.2: Hosei University students and elderly Hiroshima hibakusha. Photo, courtesy Komei Hiroshi.

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underscores the importance of clothing as a trope of remembrance in the Diary as in the play above and in the discovery of Yo–ko’s uniform removed for work duty and discovered by her brother in the aftermath of the bombing. The next two essays are by the adult children of Hosokawa Ko–ji about being post-event-born nokori. In Yo– ko’s Diary Speaks (Yo– ko no nikki ga kataru koto) Koroyasu Miki is concerned with duty: ‘(The diary) speaks the unadorned, unfading truth to the next generation. I believe this is the obligation (shimei) brought to us being left-behind (nokosareta).’35 The title of Hosokawa Yo–’s interesting essay describing life as a ‘secondgeneration’ survivor (nisei hibakusha)36 is kizuna (‘bond’). The bond implied is a consanguine connection between generations and also the physical connection with catastrophe. While recounting the years before his father Ko–ji decided to talk of the atomic bombing and the death of his sister, Hosokawa Yo– actually offers the clearest solution for the problem that the Diary as a whole seeks to address, and was mentioned at the opening of this paper: what is the enunciative position of atrocity? The answer is to bring atrocity inside, to literally embody it and to become the nokori concept made flesh. In other words, the only way to give shape (keiyo– ) to a life-shaking experience and to therefore comprehend it is to accept it as common knowledge mono within the self: when Ko–ji talks of his sister, Yo– observes, Ko–ji is actually talking about himself. The nokorimono mode allows for a consanguine basis of identity, which means the atomic experience can be inherited by further generations. Yo– admits this thinking may be outside verifiable scientific fact ( jissho– ) but he believes in the authenticity of the feeling ( jikkan).37 Both essays close with the writers identifying their graduating class from Minami High School which replaced the destroyed Girls #1 HS. – ji writes about meeting Kojima Kazuko and Ueda Hatsue Hosokawa Ko in his last essay Yo– ko, Rest in Peace (Yo– ko, yasuraka ni). He feels a debt of gratitude to both women. Ueda had nursed Yo–ko in her last moments and contacted the family who could bury her and give her a funeral. Hosokawa is thankful to Kojima for attending the funeral and pinning – ko’s kimono. The school badge is an imporher own school badge to Yo tant piece of identification in Japanese society. Due to shortages, Yo–ko’s class was given tin badges. Kojima was a year senior and had the traditional silver one. Interpreted through the nokorimono mode, Yo–ko’s possession of a real school badge finally completes her conceptual, timeless image as a student of Hiroshima Girls HS. CONCLUSION: THE NOKORIMONO MODE IN OTHER GENRES AND THEIR IMPLICATIONS The nokorimono mode explicated in the Diary is not exclusive to it, and the appearance of this mode concerned with the topic of loss in different genres can confirm its verity as a descriptive concept. Paintings that sug-

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gest the descriptive possibilities of the nokorimono mode visually are Tsukasa Osamu’s series entitled Nokosareta katachi (The Shape of Being Left Behind, also known as Remains).38 The atomic moment is not visualized directly but represented through objects and vistas distorted by the event. In two works, items from daily life – a distorted green glass bottle and a charred teacup – are rendered realistically against fiery red or yellow backgrounds suggesting they have just achieved nokorimono status. Two other works depend upon a darker, vaguely sinister blue background that looks like an injured sky. One painting is informed by surrealism: a black draped platform stage has a damaged Buddha’s face on one side and a deathly white bird on the other. The other seems more abstractexpressionist: over the blue sky, drips of opaque black paint fall unevenly from the top to a flat, bare, black landscape at the bottom of the canvas. These scenes – as opposed to the glass and cup – are the present and they directly engage the viewer. The empty platform stage is depicted from the audience’s viewpoint; the dripping landscape could be a view from a window. Therefore, the viewer is directly part of the nokorimono environment and by association ‘left over’ from the atomic event. The role of the mode in textual representation might be more challenging to consider, especially in light of Treat’s initial argument mentioned earlier concerning the limitations of textual genres. The nokorimono mode is able to sidestep difficulties in representation in part it because it presupposes that the atomic event itself is not representable. That is, it functions to explain from the outside versus represent from the inside, to remember rather than to represent. However, the nokorimono mode comes with its own political implications when employed in other narratives. These implications surface in two Japanese texts about the Holocaust and Anne Frank: Ogawa Yo–ko’s documentary travelogue Anne Furanku no kioku (Memory of Anne Frank) and Watashi no Anne Furanku (My Anne Frank), a children’s novel by Matsutani Miyoko with illustrations by Tsukasa. Near the end of kioku, Ogawa and her editor ‘D’ visit Auschwitz and are moved especially by the piles of the inmates’ ‘left over’ objects – shoes, eyeglass frames, brushes, dolls: ‘Looking at the children’s items, in some small way I felt the Nazi scheme was not simply to kill but to root out all existence of life.’39 Next, they use the tourist lavatory: I was washing up when suddenly I heard D’s voice calling out. ‘Hey! The door won’t open . . .!’ She is usually calm and not easily flustered but now she was pounding on the inside of the stall. I pulled on the knob from the outside and the door opened unexpectedly easily. It probably was not installed very well. D regained her composure and put her editorial face back on. ‘It’s a good thing we were together,’ we both agreed. It was said that the only way out of this camp was through the chimney; we both visualized the consequences if one of us was trapped inside (219–220).40

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The scene compares with one appearing in Matsutani’s story. The text is a letter to Anne Frank written by a young woman named Mikiko upon her visit to Auschwitz. She too is struck by the accumulated store of left-over material especially the hair: Just as it was cut, red hair, chestnut-coloured hair, grey hair streaked with white, even a young girl’s braids . . . Suddenly, a thin man in a black suit in his fifties walked straight up to us. His hand shot out to touch my hair and I let out a sound. Fear raced through me: Was this man a neo-Nazi come to cut my hair and take me to the gas chambers? Actually this man in black was here to guide us to the next exhibit. His eyes full of apology he pointed to the back of the room. Here in a case was a bolt of light-brown cloth woven from the hair.41 (212) These two examples demonstrate both a key feature and an important problem of the nokorimono mode when used as a descriptive trope. In both scenes there is an immediate transportation of the narrator to the event of emergence that created the nokorimono objects. The narrative and subjective voice identifying the nokorimono is brought under its canopy and absorbs its essence; in other words, just as the viewer in Tsukasa Osamu’s paintings is included in the scope of the nokorimono environment portrayed, the narrator in text becomes imbued with nokori-ness that identifies the object portrayed as such. This can become problematic in Japanese writings about the Holocaust when comparisons are drawn with the atomic bombing.42 Overall, it can be said the nokorimono descriptive mode denotes emotional content and implies the existence of a significant incident ( jiken) in history. The political view of conflict situations can be interpreted from the usage or non-usage of the mode. These issues are especially resonant in genres concerned with the objective reporting of history such as journalism and textbook writing.43 The political implications are important to consider as the government participates in the ‘war on terror’ and re-militarizes in the twenty-first century. As Japan’s military becomes increasingly active, usage of the nokorimono mode documenting such actions will be an important measure of empathy and compassion perceived in incidents of human conflict. NOTES 1

2

3

This study will differentiate between the two by referring to the diuric document as the diary in lower case form, and the publication in capitalized italic (Diary). Jonathan Culler, ‘What Is Cultural Studies?’, in Mieke Bal (ed.), The Practice of Cultural Analysis (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1999), p. 343. Robert Jay Lifton, Death in Life: Survivors of Hiroshima (New York: Basic Books, 1991), p. 201.

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The Nokorimono Mode: Remembering the Atomic Bomb 4

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John Wittier Treat, Writing Ground Zero: Japanese Literature and the Atomic Bomb (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), p. 33. Ernst van Alphen, Caught by History (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1997), p. 42. Ibid., p. 44. In medical terms this is demonstrative of Lifton’s ‘psychic numbing’. Primo Levi in Survival in Auschwitz describes Jewish camp inmates as Musselmann (Muslim), so separated were they from normal identity. See Lifton, Death in Life, p. 501. Alphen, Caught by History, p. 47. Treat, Writing Ground Zero, p. 47. Ibid., pp. 49–51. Ibid., p. 66. Donald F. Bouchard (ed.), Language, Counter-Memory, Practice: Selected Essays and Interviews by Michel Foucault (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1977), p. 154. Ibid., p. 150. James E. Young, Writing and Rewriting the Holocaust (Bloomington: University of Indiana Press, 1988), p. 89. Mieke Bal, Traveling Concepts in the Humanities (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2002), p. 9. Sakai Naoki, Shizan sareru Nihongo/Nihonjin (Tokyo: Shin’yo–sha, 2001), p. 194. Araki Hiroyuki, Yamato kotoba no jinruigaku (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha, 1985), p. 93. Ibid., p. 101. Ibid., p. 105. Sakai Naoki, Nihon shiso– to iu mondai (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 2003), p. 255. Sakai Naoki, Translation and Subjectivity, (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997), p. 182. Ibid., p. 183. Ibid. Ibid., p. 189. Fujiwara Ki’ichi, Senso– o kioku suru – Hiroshima/horoko– suto to genzai (Tokyo: Ko–dansha, 2001), p. 113. Hosokawa Ko–ji and Kamei Hiroshi (eds), Moriwaki Yo– ko no nikki – Hiroshima daiichi kenjo– ichinen roku-gumi (Tokyo: Heiwa Bunka, 1996), p. 6. (hereafter Diary) Diary, p. 13. Diary, p. 8. – sen nikki o yomu (Tokyo: NHK Books/Ningen Ko – za Series, Nosaka Akiyuki, Shu 2002), Chapter One. Nosaka believes, had the government in Tokyo taken the chance to surrender offered by the terms of the Potsdam Agreement, the atomic attacks would not have occurred. He condemns politicians for not – ko and classmates steadfastly tried to do so. ‘doing their best’ while Yo

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Diary, pp. 120–1. Ibid. The kanji for g o– ’on (thunderous sound) is followed by hiragana pronunciation of the word in parenthesis. Words not in everyday usage are usually explained in this way. Diary, p. 122 Diary, p. 145. Diary, pp. 158–60. Diary, p. 162. Diary, p. 165. Diary, pp. 164–5. The paintings appear in a collection entitled Hiroshima and Nagasaki: The Atomic Bombings As Seen Through Photographs and Artwork, Vol. 5 (Tokyo: Nihon Tosho Centre, 1993), pp. 175–179. In addition to being a painter, illustrator, and graphic designer Tsukasa Osamu is an accomplished writer whose novel about early post-war life Kage ni tsuite won the 20th Kawabata Prize. His other books include Kataru gei and Senso– to bijutsu and his prolific work about conflict, art, and memory merit further research. – ko, Anne Furanku no kioku (Tokyo: Kakegawa Bunko, 1995), p. 218. Ogawa Yo Ibid., pp. 219–20. Matsutani Miyoko, Watashi no Anne Furanku (Tokyo: Kaiseisha, 1979), p. 212. David G. Goodman and Miyazawa Masanori argue the strain of victimization empathy equating the Holocaust with the atomic bombing is not only materially inaccurate but also morally inappropriate as it undercuts confronting Japanese atrocities committed during the Second World War. See The Jews in the Japanese Mind (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2000), Chapter 6: ‘Identification and Denial: The Uses of the Jews in the Postwar Period’. Oppositely, if nothing is perceived to have taken place then nothing is ‘left behind’, that is, an object present before a ‘non-incident’ is of course in the same state. This is an important strategy in historical revisionist movements whose aim is to ‘disprove’ claims of Japanese atrocities during the Second World War such as the Nanjing Massacre and sexual slavery (jûgun-ianfu). Although groups such as the Japanese Society for History Textbook Reform (Atarashii Rekishi Kyo– kasho o Tsukuru-kai) are ostensibly arguing in the name of ‘balance’ (ko– hei), denying the existence of atrocity because there are no nokorimono – people or things – bespeaks a lack of compassion for the victims and an inherent chauvinism. A counter-example that through on-site photography emphasizes the existence of ‘unerased’ (kesanai) nokorimono evidential of Japanese military atrocity in China is Ueha Osamu and Nakahara Michiko’s Sho– wa shi no kesanai shinjitsu (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1992).

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16

Becoming Insects: Imamura Sho–hei and the Entomology of Modernity BILL MIHALOPOULOS

Insects, animals and humans are similar in the sense that they are born; they excrete, reproduce and die. Nevertheless, I am myself a man. I ask myself what differentiates humans from other animals. What is a human being? I look for the answer by continuing to make films. – hei1 Imamura Sho

he Insect Woman (Nippon konchu–ki) was released for general viewing – hei (1926–2006), in 1963. Directed and co-written by Imamura Sho the film follows the life of Tome, the illegitimate daughter of a peasant woman: her childhood years spent in the shadow of an amoral mother and devoted but half-wit father, the birth of her own daughter out of wedlock, her mobilization by the state to work at a textile mill for the war effort and consequent affair with the managing foreman (a wounded soldier no longer able to return to the front), through to her career as a Tokyo prostitute and madam of an organized prostitution ring. In short, the subject of the film is how a naïve country girl becomes transformed by her relations with others into a cold-blooded predator. At the heart of The Insect Woman lies an exposition of the tragic ambiguity of modernization. Tome’s life-story centres on how she gains her freedom from rural poverty and the oppressive relations that subjugate her to the will of the parasitic family household (ie) through economic independence. Tome’s hard-fought autonomy is the result of the new forms of life that appeared in Japan due to the mass mobilization of women during the Pacific War, and to the economic and social reforms implemented by American occupiers after Japanese defeat. And yet, the

T

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processes that give Tome her independence lead to her corruption and degeneration from a naïve country girl to a callous exploiter of other women. Tome’s life-story stands as a metonymy for the transformations in Japanese character and sociability from the interwar years until the second decade of post-war recovery and growth. The Insect Woman unflinchingly traces the correlation between the transformation in the psychological processes of the Japanese and the history of Japanese encounters with modernity. The film lays bare the violence of ‘Progress’ and cultural development. In terms of collective experience, the film tells how the rural poor such as Tome have been doubly colonized: by the myths imposed on them in the name of the emperor and by the forces of the market unleashed and nurtured by American occupation. On the personal level, the film investigates how desire submits to its own repression. To use Imamura’s own words, the film deals with the ‘terrifying fact that a woman’s energy does not do much to change her situation, but instead it makes her turn in circles, such that she remains what a woman was, and still is, in Japanese society: submissive, dominated and sentimental.’2 The relationship between desire and repression is introduced in the opening frames of the film. The first shot is of an insect struggling to climb over an obstacle in its path and repeatedly failing. The second shot is the title, Nippon konchu–ki, (literally, ‘[A] Record of Japanese Entomology’), transposed across a still frame of the insect caught in struggle. The two opening shots of the film set the question that the film investigates: what forces of socialization turn Tome into the quite peculiar and specific social animal that desires and loves the power that dominates and exploits her? TWO JAPANS Imamura has often expressed his debt to the work of Yanagita Kunio (1875–1962), the father of Japanese folklore studies, for inspiring him to make a cinema that was both unique to Japan and relevant to the Japanese people.3 Yanagita acted as a muse for Imamura in three significant ways. First, analogous to the concerns that drove Yanagita to record Japanese myths and folktales before they were erased from living memory, Imamura too believed that Japanese life was being emptied of all meaning by the never ending series of pre- and- post-war reforms aimed at rationalizing ( g o– rika suru) existing Japanese practices and customs. Second, Imamura’s fascination with studies in Japanese folklore was fired by Yanagita’s most famous concept j o– min (literally, the common person), which Imamura took as standing for the everyman living in the villages of Japan. Akin to Yanagita, Imamura understood the Japanese village as the universal mode of life that historically comprised the spiritual backbone of Japan, but which was almost impossible to articulate because it existed everywhere, and yet, nowhere.4 Third,

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Imamura accepted as true the essentialist belief prescribed to, and circulated by, Yanagita that Japanese society was constituted by diametrically opposed forms of life existing coevally in the same bounded space of the Japanese nation-state. One realm was the visible world of power and authority. This realm featured in history textbooks where all its cultural artefacts and monuments were proudly displayed in the iconic accounts of the deeds of national heroes, the wars they fought, and the institutions they created. The other realm was the unseen domain of the agricultural village, which was outside the purview of central authority, and, as a result, unregistered in the history of the nation-state. Although the people that inhabited the unseen realm of the village did not have the means to articulate themselves, they were the ones that applied the indigenous Japanese culture, coaxing forth spontaneous social organizations based on wisdom cum intelligence that had its roots in the vestiges of an archaic Japanese experience, which preceded all rational consciousness.5 Following the cues of Japanese folklore studies, The Insect Woman constitutes the Japanese village as a topos free from the commands and obligations imposed upon Japanese life by the twin forces of modernization: the nation-state and capital.6 The Insect Woman presents the agriculture based mountain village as a remnant from a more original time of Japanese existence when the Japanese people were transparent to one another. The village as a space for the spontaneous enjoyment of life is exemplified in the bond Tome enjoys with Chu–ji, her stepfather. The association between Chu–ji and Tome is based on the impulsive attraction of a female body to a masculine body, and not on the culturally mediated relations founded on the prohibitions of incest and the exchange of women, which inscribe social identity and function to bodies as mother/sister or father/brother and prescribed marriage with others.7 Both Chu–ji and Tome are innocent because they feel nought but delight in their attraction to each other. Chu–ji and Tome do not feel any shame in their attraction to one another because, as Walter Benjamin has perceptively pointed out, shame is primarily a social feeling. Shame is something that one feels in front of others, when either judgement is passed, or when the judgement is internalized and the individual becomes conscious of the barbs of his disgrace.8 As such, embedded within the narrative of The Insect Woman is a diagnosis of how, in modern culture, there lies the character of the law, shrouded by a veil of disingenuous objectivity, eagerly waiting to replace the real activities of eating, sleeping, shitting and fucking with demands and recriminations in the name of the good and praiseworthy. Unlike Yanagita’s inspired studies in Japanese folklore however, village life in The Insect Woman is not shrouded in a nostalgia for a lost past and a simpler existence compared to the complexity and alienation of modern city life. Rather, the film aims to convey the whole experience of Japan’s encounter with modernity over the past forty years through

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the juxtaposition of Tome’s psychological make up as a member of her native village community and as a city dweller. Whilst a member of the village, Tome’s life is given structure and meaning by a vital primitivism: the active, unconscious and mutable forces that occupy her body, such as intuition and the vestiges of ancient history in the form of custom and habit. The village is formed around the constellation of spontaneous relations that emerge between people. In that sense, the village is self-fashioned and self-regulated by the villagers’ needs. To be sure, the village is not a just or virtuous place as witnessed by the poverty and greed that animate the behaviour of Tome’s family members. However, the spontaneity upon which the village is organized allowe relations of intense affection and compassion with others similar to the one Tome enjoys with Chu–ji. Tome’s relations with others are transformed however, when she moves to the city to seek freedom from her poverty. In the city, Tome ceases assessing her association with others based on emotional attachments and begins to centre her decisions on calculations and trade-offs with exclusive reference to the means/ends of making money. Accordingly, as the money economy of the city turns Tome’s sex into a ‘thing’ of equivalent value to other items for sale, she in turn becomes increasingly indifferent to others, and starts treating people as objects to be used to attain wealth. Here lies the ultimate tragedy of Tome as an individual, and the Japanese people as a collective. For Tome to attain freedom from scarcity and her parasitic family, she must become uncaring to others. Her success depends on becoming ruthless. The very process that gives Tome autonomy also fashions her cruel indifference to others. On the collective level, the direct implication of the film is that the post-war reforms, which assimilated Japan into the global money market under the auspices and hegemony of United States (dominated) multinational firms, did not herald unprecedented freedom for the Japanese people, but rather initiated a radical transformation in personality, which left the Japanese indifferent to everything but the love of money.9 Another way The Insect Woman departs from the work of Yanagita and folklore studies is in the belief that male and female characteristics historically produce distinct and separate realms of social life. In nearly all his films, Imamura has consistently emphasized how the essential biological differences between men and women create distinct forms of social life because of the fundamental difference between male and female attitudes as to how best to live out earth bound time. Masculine civilization creates the world of power and authority. The male world (otoko no sekai) is characterized by a quality of restlessness coupled with an ambition to achieve fame and to cheat death by gaining a place in history. The tragedy of masculine restlessness, however, is that men estrange themselves from their real needs due to their absolute and inflexible investment in their creations and artefacts, such as their morality and codes of honour, institutions of power, and the division of

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labour.10 Woman’s culture, on the other hand, is situated in the unseen realm and incorporates the world of reproduction, domestic labour and the ephemeral pleasures of the body. As such, rural women such as Tome are bearers of indigenous knowledge free from external mediation and embodied quintessential Japanese qualities.11 As Imamura has often stated, motherhood allowed women to retain their intrinsic inner harmony and unity with the past due to the desire embedded in their sexuality to create a home. Similar to many other women that inhabit the films of Imamura Sho–hei,12 Tome and her daughter Nobuko are instinctively connected via their generative powers and biological impulse to reproduce to a storehouse of existing customs that bind people together in communities and give continuity to Japanese life. This intrinsic quality of women to reproduce and nurture is exemplified in the scenes Tome shares with Chu–ji and when she gives birth to her daughter, and in the pivotal role Nobuko plays in financing and building an agricultural cooperative with like-minded young men. DOCU-FICTION In The Insect Woman, Imamura takes up the problem of the relationship between truth, memory and history by emphasizing the populist premise embedded in Yanagita’s folklore studies that the grounding of truth or value is located in those most dispossessed and distant from authority.13 This line of questioning is prompted by Imamura’s ambition to produce a cinema capable of discerning the real from the ideological investments of the Japanese nation-state, coupled with his desire to work outside the cinematic boundaries and clichés of melodrama, a genre perpetuated by the Japanese studio system.14 Initially, Imamura was disinterested in making the movie. His main objection was that he did not want to shoot another melodrama. He wanted to escape the heavy sentimental moralism found in most Japanese films produced at that period. Imamura changed his mind about the project upon meeting with the woman whose life-story provided impetus for the initial screen scenario. The real-life prototype of the main character of the film, Tome, was working as a chamber maid in a Japanese inn used by Nikkatsu crews during shoots in Minami Senju–, a working class suburb of Tokyo.15 The vitality of the real-life Tome proto-type to adapt and cope with ongoing existential challenges inspired Imamura to attempt to create a new form of cinematic enunciation appropriate to her indomitable spirit and lack of embarrassment that comes from accepting circumstances as they are.16 Imamura and his production crew experimented with ways in which they could tell the life-story of Tome so as to discover the conditions of action of the modern Japanese subject.17 The first step was to modify the script. Imamura and his co-writer, Hasabe Keiji, rewrote the script of The Insect Woman as a ‘fly on the wall’ documentary to capture the naked

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immediacy of experience of Tome’s life.18 By opting to present the fictive life of Tome as a documentary, Imamura not only collapsed the distinction between falsehood and reality, he also generated a fiction that epitomized the lived situation of post-war Japan, while coevally charting the emergent lines of transformation. As such, The Insect Woman offered a glimpse of the new forms of life appearing on the streets of post-war Tokyo whilst distinguishing the history of this transformation in terms of what the Japanese are and are ceasing to be. In terms of cinematic effect, the blurring of the standard divisions between true and false, reality and fiction provoke the audience to put its own experiences of life – war mobilization and massive dislocation, overwhelming defeat, American occupation, and ongoing economic recovery – to work so as to make sense of the film. Imamura’s production crew were also technically innovative. In order to achieve the effect of immediacy, Imamura decided to part with Nikkatsu studio procedure and shot the film entirely on location.19 He also chose not to record the sound track after the completion of the final print, as was the norm for Nikkatsu productions. Instead, the actors were fitted with wireless microphones and sound recording was synchronized with filming.20 The experiment in synchronized audio-visual recording proved successful. The coarse, raw sound quality of the wireless microphones added to the sensation of immediacy.21 Moreover, in the editing stage, Imamura inserted a series of freeze frames to interrupt the narrative flow of the film. The freeze frames are untimely, unanticipated and work to reveal how an investment in a singular desire at a specific moment by Tome colours, shapes and gives meaning to her whole existence. The freeze frame captures how Tome organizes and elects her life choices from unconscious investments. The still frames dramatically highlight how the interested and impersonal forces of family, nation-state and capital steal Tome’s body and encode it to be a good daughter, dutiful Japanese subject and ruthless business woman. In short, the freeze frames act as snap shots of Tome’s internal colonization and how the twentieth century measure for being a ‘virtuous’ Japanese was based on sacrificing oneself for the good of family and nation-state, or on the insatiable desire to make money.22 COEVAL HISTORIES The Insect Woman opens Japan to the existence of multiple pasts, presents and possible futures that are incompatible and outside the narratives of official history that form the conditions of shared memory. The lived experience of Tome offers new spatial and perceptual situations that challenge the notion that the nation-state is the fixed and immutable point of reference of all things Japanese. In conception and praxis, Tome’s life-story offers form and expression to the multiplicity of experience that does not fit into categories of the one and many, and

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underscores the fact that subjectivity is not some fixed and secure property found in the homogeneous space and time of the Japanese nation-state.23 By presenting Tome’s life as a ‘fly on the wall’ documentary, Imamura brilliantly discloses the existence of different temporalities that comprise the whole of Japan. Throughout the film, Tome occupies a space outside the nation-state. The events and details that make up her life are never subsumed into the official version of the history of Japan. Tome is continually situated in a marginal social space – the mountain village, domestic servant to a United States soldier and madam of a prostitution ring – with a measure of autonomy from the norms and cultural values espoused by the voices of authority. Imamura presents this gap between Tome’s lived experience and ‘official’ national narrative by inserting into the film actual radio broadcasts and news footage of ‘significant’ historical events that befell the Japanese people from 1930 to 1962. For example, the radio broadcast of the fall of Singapore, a euphoric moment in the efforts of the Japanese state to ‘liberate’ Asia from the yoke of Western domination, is no more than background noise for Tome, who has just discovered that she is an object of exchange between her mother and Honda, a local landowner from whom her mother leases their land. Tome is ordered by her mother to work for the Honda household and cohabit with Honda’s third son in exchange for Honda’s deferring on a family debt. The novelty of The Insect Woman is that the film grasps the Japanese past from the point-of-view of Tome. The lived experience of Tome becomes a point of projection to rival the viewpoint of official narratives of history as played out in the montages of the inserted newsreels. The superimposition of newsreel montage onto Tome’s life turns the entire medium of film into an aspect of the problem of memory and point-of-view. The doubling of two perspectives reveals the breach between subjective personal memory and the ‘objective’ collective memory of the nation-state. This is exemplified in the scene where Imamura inserts actual newsreel footage to place Tome at the site of the train wreck near the village of Matsukawa in Fukishima prefecture in August 1949, which led to the arrest and imprisonment of leaders of the railway union for alleged sabotage. In the narrative of the nation, the ‘Matsukawa Incident’ was the first instance of violent opposition to the anti-communist measures of the United States occupation, and the earliest flashpoint of an ongoing public struggle by leftist intellectuals to democratize Japan. Yet the train derailing holds no significance for Tome. It is no more than an unwanted nuisance that has to be circumnavigated if she is to reach Tokyo to take up work. In a later scene, newsreel footage of the 1952 May Day unrest against United States-led SCAP (Supreme Commander of the Allied Powers in Japan) occupation is followed by a medium shot of Tome riding a tram. From the window of the tram, Tome sees a military truck overturned on

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the side of the road. She turns towards the camera and utters to no one in particular that one would imagine that a war was going on. The indifference of Tome to the clash between the May Day demonstrators and the Japanese authorities is in stark contrast to national history, which recognizes 1952 as the end of foreign occupation and the enduring humiliation of defeat, as well as the year when full sovereignty and democracy were returned to the post-war Japanese nation. Imamura also inserts newsreel footage of the Ise Bay Typhoon of 1959 (over 5,000 dead or missing), and of Japanese citizens taking to the streets in May 1960 in acts of civil disobedience against the cynical, undemocratic tactics of Prime Minister Kishi in ratifying the United States–Japan Security Treaty. In both instances, a key event in national history imparts no meaning to Tome’s life. The fury of the typhoon does not register with Tome who is distraught by Karazawa’s directive to rendezvous with and sexually gratify an important client. His directive pierces Tome’s self-deception of her relationship with Karazawa as one based on mutual respect and exclusiveness. Likewise, the antiampo/Kishi demonstrations are no more than a momentary irritation that lengthens Tome’s return journey home. MONEY AND GENDER The Insect Woman offers a diagnosis of the transformation in Japanese character due to the changes of orientation in life imposed by United States-guided post-war economic recovery. Echoing the work of an early diagnostician of urban life, Georg Simmel, The Insect Woman chronicles how the intensification and spread of commodity relations in post-war Japan transformed the outer and inner life of the Japanese. Simmel’s opus The Philosophy of Money and The Insect Woman locate in the modern money economy a powerful internal contradiction; namely, how money robs things of their innate value and distinction by making everything interchangeable with money. As a result, money cheapens things and removes their intrinsic significance because ‘the more objects are produced for the sake of money and are valued in terms of money, the less can the value of distinction be realized in men and objects’.24 When personal qualities such as affection and sex are offered for money, the pricing of these things trivializes what is offered, which in turn degrades and cheapens the value of what is being purchased. In that sense, money is the economic counterpart of prostitution. As Simmel noted some hundred years ago: We experience in the nature of money itself the essence of prostitution. The indifference as to its use, the lack of attachment to any individual because it is unrelated to any of them, the objectivity inherent in money as a mere means which excludes any emotional relationship – all this produces an ominous analogy between

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money and prostitution. Kant’s moral imperative never to use human beings as a mere means is blatantly disregarded by both parties in the case of prostitution [italics in the original].25 Parallel to the work of Simmel, The Insect Woman too offers a sustained critique of the intimate relationship between a money economy and prostitution. The progression of Tome’s life from village to city re-enacts the great social transformation undergone by Japanese social life. Postwar reconstruction based upon a free market economy freed the rural poor such as Tome from the determinate conditions of existence in the village. However, upon relocating to the city, the rural poor had to accept new and increasingly exploitative living conditions. Extracted from the country and relocated to the city, Tome finds her life stripped of all meaning and her every day determined by the need to find money to reproduce her existence. City life for Tome means becoming an object to be bartered to the highest bidder, and she soon turns to prostitution. The unfolding of Tome’s life reveals how money and prostitution share the same essential qualities: both are mere means, and, as such, unsatisfactory mediators of personal relationships. Moreover, money and prostitution are both inherently indifferent to personal relationships, and reject from the outset any association beyond the initial monetary transaction. Prostitution, akin to money, reduces all social relations to the generic content of the exchange.26 Although never explicitly articulated in the film, Imamura hints that the superiority of Japanese men over Japanese women lies in unequal exchange. The reason for this asymmetry, suggests Imamura, is because women inhabit a masculine culture not of their making, which forces them to invest all their resources and personality in relationships with men. Women are dependent on these associations for social value and purpose. Consequently, when women invest in a relationship with men, it is an all or nothing situation.27 A rare instance in which Tome feels secure and fulfilled is when she becomes madam of a prostitute ring, backed by, and in the service of Karazawa, whom she misrecognizes as a faithful lover rather than the parasite cum sexual-economic predator that he is. Men such as Karazawa, on the other hand, invest less of themselves in relations with women. Karazawa’s association with Tome does not define his social reputation, which is based primarily on his activeness and success in the male dominated world of work and finance.28 Japanese culture does not stigmatize men such as Karazawa who enjoy sexual extravagance outside marriage, because the ability of men to function as providers is still reconcilable with loyalty to family and wife. For women, the reverse is the case. As we see in the life-story of Tome, once women engage in any kind of sexual extravagance outside of marriage they run the risk of having all their individual and social qualities becoming subsumed into the stigma associated with being named ‘whore’.29

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The trials and tribulations that compose Tome’s life illuminate how Japanese culture is masculine in terms of its actual historical formation. The primary source of misery for Tome is that the roles prescribed to her by men are severely restrictive. For example, during the war Tome worked at a textile mill. She became the floor organizer of the mill union to please and promote the foreman, Matsunami, who was also her lover. Tome’s liaison with Matsunami ended badly, however. Tome was discarded as a lover and fired from the mill by Matsunami upon his promotion to a management position because of her position as union organizer. Moreover, Tome became the madam of a prostitution ring at the encouragement of Karazawa, her financial backer cum amour. Karazawa was attracted to Tome by the potential windfall of his investment in the prostitution ring rather than any personal affection or concern for Tome’s well being. Inevitably, Karazawa discarded Tome for her daughter, Nobuko, who had come to Tokyo to raise money for an agricultural cooperative she and a group of like-minded associates were hoping to establish. The asymmetrical relations between Tome and men as personified by her bitter experience with Matsunami and Karazawa are also socially reproduced in institutions. Although Karazawa profited handsomely from Tome’s enterprise as a prostitution madam, he evaded punishment. Tome, on the other hand, became the target of a police investigation and ended up serving time in gaol. Tome’s relations with men present us with a chilling critique of how women are deprived of any spontaneous self-determination because culture confronts them in a reified form. As a consequence, Japanese men are culturally encoded to see women as things, as means or instruments to be utilized and, equally disturbingly, to punish women for not valuing their sexual honour, the mark of distinction most valued in a wife.30 Tome’s life-story is also an account of how the cultural asymmetry in relations between men and women is internalized as a natural order of things by Japanese women. The conscious investments Tome makes in her relationships with Matsunami and Karazawa are nothing more than the rationalization of male desire. That is the hard luck of Tome. Despite her energy and indomitable will, she fails to escape her lot, destined to spend her life going round and round in circles. Tome remains submissive, dominated and sentimental in her relations with men because she loves the power that the alignment of capital and masculine values gives her. Tome’s life is tragic because she desires the very things that dominate and exploit her.31 HOPE The Insect Woman offers a diagnosis of the tragedy that has befallen postwar Japan by identifying how women such as Tome, the bearers of indigenous culture, are transformed into a new cruel, indifferent species of Japanese because of the intensification of commodity relations in

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post-war Japan. The cure posited by The Insect Woman to this malaise is the transmission of culture and solidarity across generations. This is best illustrated in the repetition in, and difference between, the lives of Tome and her daughter Nobuko. Similar to Tome, Nobuko’s goal is autonomy. She too is not averse to selling her body for economic self-sufficiency. Nonetheless, there is a stark difference between Nobuko and Tome. Nobuko never loses her awareness of who she is (a peasant woman), and the reasons why she is selling her body – to obtain money to invest in an agricultural cooperative with her lover and his like-minded associates. The fact that Nobuko never allows the extraneous value of money to distort the beliefs that orient her behaviour and decision-making is dramatized in the scene where she has sex with her mother’s amour Karazawa. Knowing of Nobuko’s desire for money, Karazawa promises Nobuko money for a boutique – also the aspiration Tome has for her daughter – if she agrees to remain in Tokyo as his mistress. Nobuko agrees to have sex in exchange for an advance to make a down payment for a store. On receiving the money however, Nobuko absconds to the countryside and uses the money she obtained from Karazawa to start an agricultural cooperative. Nobuko can turn her back on Karazawa’s promises because she has a radically different vision of social life based on community through shared labour and goals rather than the individual pursuit of profit. Nobuko, her lover and his like-minded friends aim to build a new future by building a cooperative based on long-established principles of Japanese agrarian life: self-organization, consensus, voluntary association and mutual aid. To my understanding, the message embedded in The Insect Woman is that autonomy is immanent in the customs and traditions that constitute the community and cultural life of the Japanese village, as they are values indigenous to Japan, and thus precede and transcend the forces of the market economy and the authority of the modern nationstate. The egotistic sentiments that make up the kernel of post-war individualism only hold a false promise of freedom. Post-war individualism is no more than the product of a market driven economy and society, which reduces all forms of life to units of equivalence and exchange. The scepticism concerning modernization as the elixir of all our ailments is interrelated with another theme prominent in The Insect Woman, namely, the limitations of ‘progress’. The history of post-war recovery as experienced by Tome is not about the advancements made by democratization and the genesis of a new, mature Japanese speciesbeing that has overcome all militaristic tendencies, but about how to make the best of given circumstances. The movie reveals an entrenched scepticism towards any vision of progress, as such prophecies are fatally compromised by the constitutive role they play in the inhumanity and cruelty of modern institutions developed in the name of a future happiness. Imamura is distrustful of such histories because past subscriptions

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to a promised future have led the Japanese people to willingly sacrifice their present, only to be repaid by the state in the currency of war, death and destruction. NOTES I would like to thank Thomas Lamarre and Josef Progler for all their help in the writing of this paper. 1 Quote taken from Gilles Laprévotte, ‘Shohei Imamura: Human, All Too Human,’ in James Quandt (ed.), Shohei Imamura (Toronto: Toronto International Film Festival Group, 1997), p. 101. 2 Max Tessier, ‘Shohei Imamura Interview,’ in Quandt (ed.), Shohei Imamura, p. 61. Wittingly or unwittingly, Imamura points to one of the fundamental ambiguities in the voluntarism that defines the relationship between individual autonomy and society in modern politics. That is to say, the modern self only obeys those powers to which it has chosen to grant its consent. – hei, Toru: Kannu kara yamiichi e (Tokyo: Kousakusha, 2001), 3 Imamura Sho p. 40. – : Imamura Sh o– hei to wa nani mono 4 Muramatsu Tonomi, Imahei hankach o – – (Tokyo: Nippon Hoso Shuppan Kyo–kai, 2003), p. 104; Mitsuru Hashimoto, ‘Chiho–: Yanagita Kunio’s “Japan” ’, in Stephen Vlastos (ed.), Mirror of Modernity: Invented Traditions of Modern Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), pp. 138–40. 5 I am indebted to the work of Harry Harootunian and the cultural politics of Japanese folklore studies. See Things Seen and Unseen: Discourse and Ideology in Tokugawa Nativism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988) and Overcome by Modernity: History, Culture, and Community in Interwar Japan (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000) especially chapter five: ‘The Communal Body’. – Kaneto and Imamura Sho–hei, ‘Gendai eiga to sei’, in Imamura 6 Shindo Sho–hei (ed.), Ko– za Nihon eiga, no. 8 – Nihon eiga no tenbo– (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1988), pp. 145–6. 7 The classic study on how systems of relations produce individuals is Claude Lévi-Strauss, Structural Anthropology (London: Allen Lane, 1968). 8 Walter Benjamin, Illuminations (New York: Schocken Books: 1968), pp. 129–30. 9 For the relationship between Japanese business and US sanctioned efforts to incorporate Japan into the global market see the study of Simon Partner on the rise of the Japanese electronics industry from the mid 1950s. Simon Partner, Assembled in Japan: Electronic Goods and the Making of the Japanese Consumer (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999.) 10 The tragedy of masculine restlessness is the core theme of Pigs and Battleships (Buta to gunkan), a Nikkatsu feature film directed by Imamura and distributed for screening in 1961. 11 Ibid.

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Notably the female protagonists of Pigs and Battleships (1961), The Profound Desire of the Gods (Kamigami no fukai yokubo– , 1968) and History of Post-war Japan as Told by a Barmaid (Nippon sengoshi: madamu omboro no seikatsu, 1971). See Victor Koschmann, ‘Folklore Studies and the Conservative Anti– and Establishment in Modern Japan’, in Victor Koschmann, Ôiwa Keibo Yamashita Shinji (eds), International Perspectives on Yanagita Kunio and Japanese Folklore Studies (Ithaca, NY: Cornell East Asia Series, 1985), p. 131–64. In the academy, Irokawa Daikichi and Amino Yoshihiko are the two most notable names who have appropriated the populist premise in Yanagita’s studies to challenge the privileged position of the Japanese state in Japanese historigraphy . – Shobo–, 1997), Sato– Tadao, Imamura Sho– hei no sekai (Tokyo: Gakuyo pp. 70–3. The break from the genre of melodrama entices Sato– to herald The Insect Woman as the first experiment in neo-realist cinema by a Japanese director. Imamura Sho–hei, Eiga wa ky o– ki no tabi de aru (Tokyo: Nihon Keizai Shinbunsha, 2004), p. 115. Friedrich Nietzsche calls this spirit amor forti (‘love of what is’): ‘Not merely to endure that which happens of necessity, still less to dissemble it . . . but to love it.’ Nietzsche sees the quality of amor fati as a sign of a healthy life and a way of escaping hatred toward the living world (ressentiment). Nietzsche argues that electing to concentrate on the present circumstances, and choosing to accept the material at hand and to use our gifts to shape it, allows the creation of new aims and values for life. Such a view towards life breaks the modern person’s futile effort to change the past, which tragically leaves her caught in a self-destroying rage at the world because she lacks the power to undo past mistakes and injustice. Friedrich Nietzsche, Ecce Homo (London: Penguin Books, 1991), p. 38. – dansha International, Audie Block, Japanese Film Directors (Tokyo: Ko 1978), p. 228. Sato–, Imamura Sho– hei no sekai, pp. 68–9. Nikkatsu studios were famous in the sixties for releasing low budget double features every week. The duty of most directors working at Nikkatsu was to meet tight schedules and not exceed the set budget. Imamura was renowned within the upper echelons of the studio for not working to financial restraints. In fact, to punish him wilfully exceeding his budget for his 1961 feature Pigs and Battleships, Nikkatsu did not allow Imamura to direct another feature film for two years, forcing Imamura to relocate his young family from Tokyo to Mishima, Shizuoka prefecture, in order to make ends meet. Imamura Sho–hei, Toru, p. 40. Yokota Tomiko (ed.), Imamura Sho– hei no eiga – zensagyo– no kiroku (Tokyo: – , Imamura Sh o–hei no sekai, p. 74; Imamura Haga Shoten, 1971); Sato – – Shohei, Eiga wa ky o ki no tabi de aru, p. 118. Imamura, Eiga wa ky o– ki no tabi de aru, p. 118.

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The narration of the film is broken by a freeze frame with a voice over of Tome’s internal resolution to pursue her own self-interest: ‘I worked for family and country. Now I will keep my diary alone.’ See Harry Harootunian, ‘Shadowing History: National Narratives and the Persistence of the Everyday’, in Cultural Studies, No. 18, 2, 3 (March/May, 2004), pp. 181–200. Georg Simmel, The Philosophy of Money (London: Routledge, 1990), p. 391. Ibid., p. 377. Ibid., pp. 376–80. Ibid., p. 378. Ibid. Ibid., pp. 392, 394. Ibid., pp. 383–4. Max Tessier, ‘Shohei Imamura Interview’, in Quandt (ed.), Shohei Imamura, p. 61.

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17

Memories of a Liberal, Liberalism of Memory: Tsuda So–kichi and a Few Things He Forgot to Mention JOËL JOOS

INTRODUCTION uring one of the history textbook trials that historian Ienaga Saburo– (1913–2002) waged against the Ministry of Education of Japan, an intriguing argument arose between the contending parties. It concerned one particular passage regarding the origin of Japan’s ‘foundation myths’. Ienaga’s textbook had stated that the myths as found in Japan’s earliest scriptures, the Kojiki (712) and the Nihonshoki (720), were fabrications by the ruling class of the time, the result of an effort to legitimize unification under the Yamato dynasty. Ministry officials had objected, demanding a revision, without which no permission for textbook use would be granted. To corroborate his assertion, Ienaga referred to the works of Tsuda So–kichi (1873–1961), a historian of ancient Japanese society who had expressed serious doubts on the historicity of the myths as early as 1913. Notwithstanding some upset reactions here and there and the criticism of specialists such as Kuroita Katsumi (1874–1946)1 or Watsuji Tetsuro– (1889–1960),2 most scholars had come to accept his views in the following years and it was only in the late 1930s that the extreme right-wing took on Tsuda’s analysis. Strangely enough, in order to strengthen their case, the officials of the Ministry’s kentei (examination, or factually censorship) bureau referred to the same Tsuda So–kichi, but this time to what he had written after the war, when he explained the origins of the myths as follows: ‘The history of the divine era was told from the viewpoint of the rulers so

D

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as to tell the story of the true source and origin of their status.’ Ienaga was quick to point at the irony: post-war Education Ministry officials rejected Tsuda’s 1913 views and mobilized those of 1948 to prove their point.3 Rather than on the arguments of the Ministry, I wish to focus on the views of Tsuda. Why would a historian criticize mythical history before the war, and then change his standpoint to support it after? Did not the post-war bring the freedom to uphold his pre-war views, a stance for which he had ended up being prosecuted in the late 1930s? Had not the post-war academic world and the field of history in particular broken away from the bad memories, the ‘slavery’, as political scientist Maruyama Masao (1914–96) called it,4 of ultra-nationalism? TSUDA, A JAPANESE LIBERAL Is there a label that befits a historian who was active between roughly 1910 and 1960 in the field of ancient thought, society and literature, publishing on the mythology of the so-called divine era, on Edo period (1603–1867) commoner literature, but also on the relation between Taoism and Confucianism in ancient China? A scholar who forwarded his daring conclusion that the myths were fabrications in 1913, less than a year after the death of the Meiji emperor? A scholar who was persecuted for these same views in the late 1930s, on the eve of the 2600th anniversary of the ‘Foundation of the Land’ by Emperor Jimmu – whose historicity his work had denied? A scholar who was invited into the Japan Academy in 1947, when it was still officially called the Teikoku Gakushi’in (Imperial Academy), and was the first historian ever to be awarded a Cultural Medal, on 3 November 1949 (tencho– -setsu [Emperor’s Birthday] or Meiji-setsu [Meiji Day] until July 1948)? A scholar who stood trial while bombs fell on Pearl Harbor, who rejected the idea of Asian brotherhood at a time when Prime Minister Konoe Fumimaro (1891–1945) expounded his idea of a New Order in East Asia (3 November 1938), but also stated his deep affection for the imperial institution in early 1946 when it was still far from certain if the Emperor would stay on his throne or be accused in the Tokyo Trials? A scholar who went on to criticize many occupation period reforms for lacking a sound base in Japanese society or tradition and rejected the protests against the Peace and Secutiry Treaty of 1951 as well as those against its renewal in 1960, considering these rallies ‘misguided by bad journalism’? The answer seems to be: a liberal. Tsuda would not have opposed being called a liberal, although not in the meaning it carries in the present-day United States. Indeed, liberalism is a vague and a broad term and it seems that its contents have changed with every era and every region where it has surfaced and still does. Pre-war Japanese liberalism is known to have put far less stress on a strict separation between nation and state, individual and public sphere, freedom and tradition than most of its counterparts in nineteenth century

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Europe.5 It is also clear that Tsuda’s initial espousal of ideals of scholarly freedom and political independence make way for a more conservative, a more ‘organistic’ style of argument, to use Hayden White’s expression,6 in the later stages of his career. What then does it mean when Tsuda is being called a liberal in a twentieth century Japanese context (pre- and post-war, respectively)? Or put otherwise: when looking at the career of Tsuda So–kichi, what is it that has led people to conclude that Tsuda was a liberal? I intend to take a closer look at one side of this equation: has Tsuda talked about himself as being a liberal? I shall take a brief glance at how he has talked about his own scholarship and at the extent to which freedom is consciously present in his works, as a future-oriented, a ‘fertile’ concept. TSUDA’S SELF-IMAGE What did Tsuda have to say about his own career, the nature of his thought and how it changed, the many vicissitudes of history it had to deal with for over more than four decades? We can find out by tracking down his direct comments, the forewords to his own texts, the papers he published on the method he used, etc. We can also distil an essential insight out of his writings on other topics. There is, in other words, no part of his oeuvre that could not be used. In Japan, many have carried out a partial analysis of Tsuda’s works, mostly focusing on his pre-war production, especially the work on the ancient myths. It was Ienaga Saburo–’s 1972 Tsuda So– kichi no shiso– shiteki kenkyu– (Studies on the Thought of Tsuda So– kichi) which has offered the most complete overview so far of Tsuda’s oeuvre, including an intriguing comparison between the pre-war and the post-war Tsuda. Tsuda himself has left us with a rough assessment of his own career in a handful of writings.7 Starting from his elementary education, he describes the educational and academic path he followed over a span of more than fifty years in a rather dispassionate manner. His days at Tokyo Senmon Gakko– (since 1902 Waseda University) were filled with visits to the library, at a distance from social or political campus life. It is only after helping Shiratori Kurakichi (1865–1942) with the compilation of a textbook for European history in 1895 – Tsuda admits having had trouble understanding the original European sources – that he started his career as a teacher, eventually ending up at the Research Section of the Southern Manchurian Railway Company (Mantetsu) in 1907 and, this time as a professor, at Waseda University after 1913. Nowhere does he hint at a strong tie – except for the personal one to Shiratori – to any of the institutions he worked for or at and he describes himself as ‘a man of private learning, not a man of official academics, just me on my own’.8 In his typical detached manner, he recapitulates the ‘fifty years of [his] life as a scholar’ ( gakkyu– seikatsu goju–nen) and the shifts during his career, for instance that of the early 1920s towards the study of

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Chinese intellectual history, as a ‘coincidental succession’, arguing that his life course therefore ‘stands in no relation at all to the tendencies of scholarship or any social trend [. . .], my attitude was free, my way of thinking was free. The result of my approach as of nature led to conclusions that were different from existing discourse.’9 Before the war, no indications are found that he had the intention to directly engage in debates with other scholars. After the war in particular, Tsuda did not fail to point at ‘developments in the field’ that forced him to alter certain viewpoints, but it is not made clear what views were changed in what manner in reaction to what new insight. It was during the war that Tsuda met with circumstances that forced him to shed light on his position within the intellectual landscape: his trial. In the document he presented to the court,10 a genealogy is offered of existing research concerning certain aspects of his own myth research: the role of Amaterasu (the Sun Goddess), the existence of Takamagahara (the Heavenly Plain), etc. Including Meiji period (1868–1912) scholars such as Taguchi Ukichi or Miyake Yonekichi in his overview, Tsuda showed not only in what way his views were not to be considered defaming but also how solid his grasp was of preceding research in the field. It is only after the war, however, that such a list was included in one of his publications, Nihon koten no kenkyu– (Research on the Japanese Classics, February 1950),11 but even at this stage any other Taisho– period (1912–26) or Sho–wa period (1926–89) research is not mentioned. Ienaga has gone further than Tsuda himself in ‘mapping’ the latter as a scholar and linking him up to intellectual developments of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Ienaga did not refrain from calling Tsuda ‘a towering peak’ in the intellectual landscape of Taisho–, possibly with greater significance than Yoshino Sakuzo– (1878–1933),12 be it that Ienaga allowed Tsuda’s status to rest upon his independent spirit rather than any active engagement in politics. Indeed, most observers would argue that Tsuda was not a politically interested scholar, which is exactly why scholar Kojitani Yasunao13 challenges this view (Tsuda as an if-not-naïve-then-innocent academic14) in very severe wordings, be it from the opposite side: Tsuda embodied much more of the questionable legacy of the pre-war era than he was willing or able to admit. Also Oguma Eiji sees very little room for doubt about the ethno-nationalist premises on which Tsuda founded his research.15 The pre-war Tsuda was held in high regard. Before the war, the ancient state was off limits for ‘historical materialist’ research, any attempts in that direction being nipped in the bud.16 Until the very last, therefore, Tsuda’s challenging work survived as a last line of defence, the creation of what seemed a kindred spirit. Tsuda’s prosecution only added to that sense of a tacit alliance. Yet, at the same time as Nanbara Shigeru and Hani Goro– organized a petition at the University of Tokyo in support – agreed to of Tsuda after his indictment, a scholar like Watsuji Tetsuro testify in court as a witness for the defence and Nishida Kitaro– visited

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the Minister of Justice at his private home, making a direct appeal to have Tsuda cleared of charges.17 The trial, which was the outcome of a – ki campaign started by ultra-nationalist ‘scholars’ such as Minoda Kyo and Mitsui Kayuki, for one brief moment brought together those scholars who had retained a degree of independence vis-à-vis the system. Strangely enough, and then again not, defeat and the turmoil of the first post-war years would turn things completely on their head – Tsuda’s views drove a deep wedge in the intellectual landscape and hardly more than a handful of scholars stood by his side until his death in 1961. In most English language literature so far, the image of Tsuda as a liberal scholar, as a somewhat naïve but staunch defender of academic freedom has prevailed – coinciding more or less with the ‘pre-war’ part of Ienaga’s work.18 Japanese historians have, no need to say, had a more direct interest in making sense of Tsuda’s historical scholarship. As it turns out, many of the great names of the immediate post-war academic scene – many of them Marxists – have tried to come to terms with Tsuda’s legacy in the immediate post-war era. It was clear to them that Tsuda could not be ignored, if they wanted to address crucial topics such as the origin of the Japanese nation and the significance of the imperial tradition as a part of national life. In order to defuse the arguments used by pre-war imperial ideology, namely that the first emperor had been a descendant of the Sun Goddess and that his offspring had ruled ever since, they could not but turn to Tsuda, who had already done so thirty years before. Or so it was thought. If Meiji was the concretization of an Edo ideal – Hirata Atsutane (1776–1843), Aizawa Seishisai (1782–1863) amongst others – Tsuda’s ‘intellectual struggle’ should basically be seen as one directed against the thinkers of a pre-Meiji era. Indeed, as a historian he was sceptical about Meiji’s underlying ideology – direct imperial rule. In this respect he can be considered a critical thinker. But Tsuda’s critical stance did not reflect in political discourse, let alone action. To mid-Sho–wa era Marxists, it was exactly this inability of Taisho– liberalism to convert theoretical insight into political force, an aporia that was about to – live on in post-war conservatism, that was alarming. Ishimoda Sho (1912–86) was one of those who engaged in intense debate with Tsuda,19 but also Inoue Kiyoshi, Hani Goro– or Takakura Teru expressed sharp criticism. While most of them recognized the scholarly qualities of Tsuda and his writings, few turned a blind eye to the weaknesses that underlay his approach – his ‘culturalism’, his lack of attention for the complexities of politics, economics or conflict in general. Partly due to a certain rigidity in his personal style, partly because of the frustration felt after Tsuda’s reluctance to support a reformist agenda, the post-war left soon eschewed Tsuda as an ‘old liberal’. The once so promising tide of ‘Tsuda historiography’ (Tsuda shigaku) ebbed away, leaving a few disciples stranded, gasping for air, in vain. An inexorable oblivion set in.

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Popular and Intellectual Representations of Memory THE TURNING POINT: TSUDA’S TRIAL

The single most dramatic event in the career of Tsuda was the trial of 1940–42, in which he was accused of lèse majesté. It was his finest hour, but at the same time it was the final step out from beneath the academic foliage that had tempered the brutal glare of ideology, a sun now in its zenith. If found guilty, he could have faced stiff penalties: a maximum prison sentence of eight months was demanded by the prosecution – not a pleasant prospect for a seventy-year old in times of total war. In the event, he did not end up in prison, but great harm was done: his books were no longer publishable, he had to quit his post as a university professor, most of his creative energy was being absorbed by the legal and financial troubles a trial entailed. Before long, he left Tokyo for Hiraizumi in the remote prefecture of Iwate, only to return in the spring of 1950. At first sight, it was the climax of a process in which Tsuda had maintained his independence as a scholar, a somewhat passive but nonetheless rare enough stance in the stormy years of early Sho–wa. A closer look reveals that in many respects the process ended in an anti-climax, the significance of which became clear after 1946 only. How did Tsuda himself look back upon this ordeal? Was it, apart from the risk of being thrown in prison (Tsuda was married but had no children), such a devastating experience for this historian? In post-war reminiscences Tsuda referred to his own trial as a misunderstanding, a mistake by the Home Ministry and that of Justice, temporarily blinded as they were by the actions of a small group of ill-willing right-wing activists with supporters in high places – in short, as the result of ‘bad journalism’ rather than totalitarian ideology.20 Why this leniency from his prosecutors? A few facts may help put his clemency in perspective. Tsuda’s books could no longer be published indeed, but they had not been published in great numbers anyway: for his myth related research, sales figures amount to a few hundred copies, one thousand at most over a period of thirty years. The guilty verdict, passed in early 1942, explicitly lifted the ban on three of his four books, only his New Research on the Kojiki and the Nihonshoki (1919) remained prohibited.21 In light of the accusations, this was a very remarkable outcome, although it should be added that no publisher would seriously consider (re)publishing the works of a ‘tainted’ author.22 Be that as it may, Tsuda did quit his job, but was sixty-seven at that time – his career was not exactly nipped in the bud. The trial was a legal procedure and executed accordingly, with painstaking attention for detail, including the rights of the defendant, however limited: trial sessions were relatively short, did not take place on consecutive days and left plenty of time for the defendant to state his case. Tsuda never saw the inside of a prison. To the frequent despair of his lawyers, Tsuda saw the trial as an opportunity to make his scholarly insights understood by the judges and the prosecutors, with mitigated

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success at that: one of the prosecutors had to visit Tsuda in private, before the actual proceedings, to comprehend at least a bare minimum of the scholarly insights offered in his writings.23 In a memoir published after the war, one the judges, all of whom were much younger than Tsuda, explains that they all felt as students being lectured rather than as austere tools of justice.24 Tsuda described the atmosphere in court rooms as nagoyaka (‘congenial’). Moreover, by leaving Tokyo after the trial, Tsuda escaped the worst bombings and the darkest despair following defeat. Tsuda’s experience of 15 August 1945 – the Emperor’s announcement of ending the war – began with a morning stroll and ended with the further reading of the Chinese classical texts he was working on – the imperial broadcast at noon hardly more than yet another episode in a war that seemed so far away.25 Tsuda missed out on the death throes of the old regime, as well as the labour pains and the first cry of the new post-war order. Put briefly: for Tsuda, the trial may well have been far less harsh an ordeal – in a physical, psychological and intellectual sense – than post-war imagination has assumed, and to a certain extent still does. Nevertheless, in spite of Tsuda’s apparent indifference and the bare fact that he never met with the violence that many other ‘dissenters’ had to undergo, the event had a portentous outcome in terms of ‘memory’. The trial dragged Tsuda into the footlight, where he could no longer maintain his stance of a neutral observer, a scholar outside of politics. For Tsuda, the trial was the harbinger of an era – post-war included – in which neither he, nor any other historian, could afford to simply hang on to the past. Even (or especially) at the right side of the political spectrum, the search for continuity was a desperate one, and conservation never a given. Past symbols had to be given new meanings and, conversely, old discourses could only persist if they were connected to new symbols. Tsuda tried to save his pre-war oeuvre from the jaws of reformism, or worse: [socialist] republicanism, by insisting that Japan’s oldest tradition – the imperial instutition – was in essence a democratic one – the panacea to Japan’s post-war uncertainties. It should not surprise then that, while his claim on ‘common sense’ did not convince many of his contemporaries in the scholarly field, Tsuda was in high demand in mainstream publications (for example in journals such as Chu–o– Ko– ron, Kokoro, Fujin no Tomo). Embraced by mainstream conservative forces, he forsook the progressive potential of his pre-war oeuvre, to which end he created a new post-war self. Let me give one example: his post-war observation that in their brutal methods and demagogic aims labour unions hardly differed from pre-war militarism26 is more than a declaration of allegiance to the camp that did not equate reform with progress and liberty. It is a surreptitious appeal for a restoration of a pre-1930s social order and at the same time a serious distortion: never would the pre-war Tsuda have taken to heart the fate of Japan’s labouring class.

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Popular and Intellectual Representations of Memory REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST

Since the early 1990s much has been published on the issue of memory, on what it means to remember, to memorize, to commemorate. On the one hand, important advances have been made in knowledge about the neurological mechanisms of memory, on the other hand, more than ever, memory lies at the heart of any consideration concerning human and therefore ‘social’ or ‘cultural’ life. To speak with Jan Assmann, culture is memory.27 Just as culture itself, memory no longer is a static, ‘essentialist’ concept, a storehouse where things of the past are kept safe and once in a while taken out, a repository of stone-carved truths. Rather, it is understood to be a continuous process of selection, separating that which will be remembered from that which will not, and moreover, a continuous redefinition of the criteria steering that process.28 Huyssen puts it this way:29 The temporal status of any act of memory is always the present, and not, as some naïve epistemology may have it, the past itself, even though all memory in some ineradicable sense is dependent on the same past or experience. It is this tenuous fissure between past and present that constitutes memory, making it powerfully alive and distinct from the archive or any other mere system of storage and retrieval. From a lamentable state of affairs or a sign of weak-mindedness, forgetting is suddenly turned into a prerequisite for a normal functioning in society, because after all, of the multitude of impulses we have to process, most cannot be retained meaningfully. To a great extent, our memories, knowledge and, yes, culture itself, cannot but rest on a set of expectations that alleviates the burden of evaluating every single item in an unmanageable ocean of information – expectations that fundamentally are more rigid than the surrounding seas of innumerable, ephemeral ‘phenomena’. At this point, there is no essential difference between individual and social memory. The present bosses the past around like a spoiled child his nanny: dependent yet unruly. All of this does not mean that there is no truth, that there are no distortions of truth – it does mean, however, that historical meaning is not a hidden treasure that lies buried in a closed, fixed past. Not the given that Tsuda’s memory turned out to be selective, but the fact that Tsuda failed to explicitate that his selection was part of a larger historical context is what harmed his status as an intellectual and, more importantly, as a scholar of history. Not only that he changed the outlook of many of his pre-war publications once the war was over, but that he did not include any reference to what he left out and why, almost inevitably led to his exclusion from post-war memories of post-war historical thought. Memory invests in those events of the past that resonate ‘best’

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with the present and that help to accumulate a symbolic capital (‘victimhood’, for instance) that holds most promises for the future. None of the ‘memories’ that have marked the Japanese post-war discovered such benefits in Tsuda: the left saw its initial hopes thwarted by Tsuda’s anti-leftist stance, the (extreme) right had no interest in holding on to a historian with a trial record for lèse majesté, the conservative mainstream soon found alternatives for what may have been a venerable, but at the same time a complex and therefore boring doctor – mainstream media tend to be very bad at going beyond the ‘past as a caricature’. POST-WAR TSUDA: REVISION, PERSISTENCE OR ‘COMMON SENSE’? Returning to Tsuda, how did Tsuda remember his past, also the nondramatic one, which means: the rest of his oeuvre (which displays a chronic lack of drama)? After the war, Tsuda became more famous than he had ever been before, ironically enough because many at the progressive side associated his ordeal with that suffered by Marxists, severely persecuted for their opinions after 1928 in particular. Wartime newspapers had reported in the scantest of manners on the trial, which was ‘closed to the public’ immediately after it started. The end of censorship allowed media to introduce Tsuda’s case. Obviously, it was assumed that in any of his upcoming publications he would offer a clear judgement on the old regime. His contribution to the new yet regarded journal Sekai of March 1946, on the necessity of maintaining academic independence in the face of political pressure and ideology, was read by most as a criticism of ultra-nationalism, although some lines did not seem to exclude the left per se.30 So far, so good. The real surprise came the next month, when Tsuda published an article in the same journal, arguing that the imperial tradition had to be maintained and that it was compatible with democracy – as it always had been and would be. Put on paper in January 1946, at a time when the directive for the establishment of a war crime court was issued and it was still unclear what the consequences would be for the emperor, Tsuda must have been well aware of the implications of his stance. A new constitution still was a faraway notion. Together with that of Maruyama Masao, published in the same journal one month later (Cho– kokkashugi no ronri to shinri [The Logic and Psychology of Ultra-nationalism], May 1946), Tsuda’s article can be considered one of the initial sparks that lit the post-war struggle over Japan’s immediate past and that of its monarchy in particular. As far as the unexpected views of Tsuda were concerned, things would only get ‘worse’. His pre-war works were republished on an unprecedented scale, and their author being very much alive and kicking, there was plenty of opportunity for him to assist in the editing process. Tsuda was, in other words, in a position to contribute not only to the new creation of a new history for Japan but for himself as well. The result was, again, hardly what anyone expected. It was as if the Tsuda of the

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wartime trial had taken over, the Tsuda who needed to convince His Emperor’s Court that his works were not meant as the critical texts for which people had held them for three decades, that they were not about challenging hierarchies, not even past ones. Tsuda made some drastic revisions, but did not relate them to the social or political context of his time. He mentioned scholarly advances that forced him to add or delete important chunks of his previous views, but never pointed out which ones, what authors he had lent his ear to. He reshuffled the many papers he had produced in the pre-war period and insisted that his alterations were of a scholarly nature, but the changes in tone, structure and contents pointed into one direction only: a revision in line with his trial ‘apologia’ rather than with the anti-establishment tone of his pre-war oeuvre, to which he added a series of explicit criticism against leftist scholarship. The post-war period with its relative freedom of speech did not incite Tsuda to build forth on the critical potential of the pre-war work that had been recognized by many – not in the least his pre-war ultra-nationalist critics – and still is considered a milestone in modern, liberal historical scholarship. The revisions he applied led many to conclude that Tsuda had performed a henbo– (a volte face) or even a tenko– (recantation) in the vein of some leftist thinkers during the war. It was as if the pressure exerted on him in the late 1930s was having its effect a decade later. Tsuda himself claimed that there was no such thing as a rupture, that he had never changed his ideas, that the reediting was a kaihen, that is a ‘spatial’ rather than an ‘essential’ intervention. But Tsuda was doing more than retelling the past. By doing what he did, that is by stating that he was not going beyond what he had said three decades before, he recreated a pre-war self impervious to the profound challenge that the occurrence of Sho–wa militarism and even Taisho– liberalism posed to the Meiji constitutional regime, a pre-war self enclosed in a self-drawn circle – from 1946 back to pre-1913. Let us mention some examples of the re-interpretation of his pre-war works, the revisions which are referred to by Tsuda himself as sizeable yet not essential changes, as adaptations to new scholarly developments – without mentioning that most new insights in the field were coming from leftist scholars, none of whom he mentions by the way. First of all, there are the changes that Tsuda makes in his research on mythology, republished in 1947: most of the changes identified by Ienaga (1972) are alterations or straight omissions of passages referring to the gap between the emperor and the people in ancient society, or those that stress the fictitious nature of the early imperial lineage. They are changed into a greater emphasis on the link between nation and emperor, its unchanged qualities, its importance as a functional idea rather than as a remote fact that may or may not have happened. Secondly, there are the changes found, and there are many of them, in Bungaku ni arawaretaru waga kokumin shiso– no kenkyu– (Studies on the

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Thought of Our People as Expressed in Literature), his magnum opus published between 1916 and 1921 and considered a milestone in its own right.31 Its sheer scope made it more difficult for Tsuda to make alterations that would affect the message – behold the coming-of-age of the Japanese nation! – reverberating throughout the five separate volumes. Still, whereas the pre-war version admitted that, for instance, in the early stages ‘it seems that even the family system was hardly developed’,32 the post-war version offers elaborate explanations on the closeness of family bonds. One finds passages in the pre-war version explaining that the ‘national awareness’ of ordinary people was very shallow in ancient society and the kokumin (the politically aware nation) was not unified, that are replaced by post-war descriptions on the realization of an unconscious shinnen (belief, ideal) through an eternal state. Some pre-war passages do not veil the fact that the rule of the warrior class presented a clear danger to the imperial tradition, but they too are replaced by post-war sentences that see in Edo the embodiment of an ideal division between a cultural emperor and a political ruler, the sho– gun. In his opinion, Japan’s Tokugawa officials could just as well have modernized Japan successfully – had it not been for the ‘political criminals’ (seijijo– hanzaijin)33 commonly referred to as the Meiji ‘men of purpose’ (shishi) that had usurped the emperor to fulfil their continental craving for direct imperial rule. Another highly visible and direct change in historical interpretation is found in Tsuda’s somewhat more theoretical essay Rekishi no mujunsei (The Contradictory Character of History) mentioned by both Ishimoda and Ienaga.34 Whereas the pre-war text left open the option of idealism and even Utopia as valid heuristic or even socially significant tools, did not exclude the Marxist interpretation and found room to envision actions that break away from past models, the post-war version meticulously removed any reference to revolution and progressive ideals, replacing them with a strong faith in the force of tradition and an interpretation of life – daily life ‘as it is’ – as the only true driving force of history: the text included in the Collected Works of Tsuda is a post-war version, a fact Tsuda gives only the briefest of attention: ‘additions of some extent (ookare sukunakare) have been made in every part of this volume’.35 Ienaga on the other hand has identified a total of no less than nine issues on which Tsuda drastically changed his position after the war: issues relating to emperor, historical view (rekshikan), class and revolution, ruling class and subjects, social perspective, the appreciation of the pre-modern, foreigners, Christians and Japanese culture in a broad sense. What is remarkable is that Tsuda does not mark any of these changes as such – the war experience and the possible effect it may have had on an intellectual historian such as himself is not treated as a scholarly significant rupture. Another example that is noteworthy in this inquiry into Tsuda’s ‘memory creation’ is supplied by the two versions of his essay Shina shiso– to Nihon (Chinese Thought and Japan), the 1938 and the 1959 versions,

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respectively.36 Published around the same time as when Prime Minister Konoe Fumimaro made his notorious ‘New Order in Asia’ radio address, the 1938 version had been controversial in itself. Whereas the Prime Minister formulated a theory of Asian solidarity in the face of a Western challenge, Tsuda openly declared that there was no such thing as a common Asian culture and that terms such as to– yo– (East) or to– a (East Asia) pointed at a geographical area at most and certainly not a cultural identity. It can be assumed that not his myth research, published three decades before, but this text, which denied the very basics for the justification of protracted war in China, was the real reason why Tsuda was singled out for prosecution hardly more than one year after its apparition – a persecution started by ultra-nationalist groups with obvious links to the Army and local Reservists’ Associations (zaigo– gunjinkai). Even if undercutting the war effort in an ‘ideological’ sense, however, it was not a pamphlet for peace either. The spearhead of Tsuda’s criticism was pointed at the Chinese in general rather than the Japanese government. It argued that the Chinese owed it to themselves, that is to their obsolete moral notions, their decrepit intellectual traditions, that they were weak and divided and unable to modernize their society. In that respect it was very much in line with the general rancour towards China of that day. But while the events of 1945 brought a sudden break in Japan’s dealings with China, Tsuda’s attitude remained unaltered. The unchanged or even intensified bitterness with which he condemned China after 1911, 1915 or 1931 only widened the gap that existed from the start between Tsuda’s past-oriented China scholarship and the events on the mainland, chaotic yet with parties staking their all on their nation’s future. No need to say that Tsuda felt most uneasy when China figured as one of the ‘victor nations’ at the Tokyo trial: ‘absurd’ (hiri).37 When Mao Zedong addressed the crowds at Tienanmen Square in Beijing in 1949, it became very hard for anyone to maintain that China was incapable of change: especially in progressive circles, for a while at least, it seemed as if China was as much on track towards modernity as Japan had ever been. If Tsuda was considering republication of this book, he had to offer other views. Tsuda did republish but circumvented the pitfall: he claimed that communism did not mean a real change for China. Exactly because China had no democratic tradition, lacked any social cohesion or true morality that could offer alternatives to communism, or even dilute or prevent it, communism could thrive. It was not a rupture, it was a continuation, a mutual reinforcement of all that was bad in communism and all that had gone wrong in China over the last century. Not surprisingly, Tsuda’s scholarship on China was soon relegated to the research rooms where it long before had seen the light of day, fodder for specialist research on early Confucianism or Taoist ritualism but with a dwindling appeal beyond that. The irony of it all was that the predictive merit of Tsuda’s forecasts for the future of China proved inversely proportionate to his reputation as a scholar.

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WHAT LIBERALISM? What does all of this tell us about Tsuda as a liberal? First of all, it is clear that his pre-war ‘liberalism’ differs from his post-war one, not only because of the different political views the latter reflected but because of the fact that the latter considered it necessary to actively interfere with political discourses at all. After 1947 in particular, the year in which a new Guideline for Education ( gakushu– shido– yo– ryo– ) was issued, Tsuda did not refrain from publishing biting criticism on the new approach to history education, on language (spelling) reforms and the neglect of traditional cultural life in particular. It goes without saying that the same Tsuda did refrain from similar activities in the pre-war years, even if he did spill occasional criticism in more limited circles.38 The history textbook to which he contributed in 1902 was not in the least controversial.39 It starts out in a very orthodox manner, that is referring to the descent upon earth of the heavenly grandchild, Japan’s first Emperor Jinmu and his qualities not only as a ruler but as a forefather of the one family of which all other Japanese families are subsidiaries, the imperial household. Tsuda certainly was no supporter of the Imperial Rescript on Education (1890), but his viewpoint on the desirability of the Meiji political structure remains an ambiguous one. Whereas he never challenged its achievements in terms of domestic modernization and international status, he did not hesitate to call ‘unfeasible and basically flawed’ the whole project underlying the Imperial Rescript on Education, that is investing an essentially a-political symbol such as the Japanese emperor with concrete power.40 The publication of his 1913 work on the non-historical nature of the same myths he had written about in 1902 did not cause any noticeable tension, friction or frustration. After all, Tsuda’s scholarly work was a sort of esoteric text, not meant for popular consumption. His defence at the trial before the Tokyo District Court rested for a large part on this distinction and the argument that Tsuda had respected it at all times was to a large extent accepted by the judges. In the postwar times, however, Tsuda did cross that line time and again, making full use of the new freedom brought by reform, the freedom to criticize reform. – kichi Marxist historian Inoue Kiyoshi (1913–2001) has called Tsuda So 41 a ‘tragic scholar’ and there is truth in that statement, even if we should acknowledge that he shared his fate with many other ‘old liberals’. What makes Tsuda’s case particularly remarkable is the ease with which the idea of freedom is turned into a static concept, a condition which he claims is neither found in post-war reforms nor in post-war scholarship. How can freedom come from the reforms implemented by an occupational force, how can freedom exist in the views of a historical materialism that stresses economic determinants, historical necessity, regularities of class behaviour, unavoidable conflicts? In a piece called Hitsuzen, Gu–zen, Jiyu– (Necessity, Coincidence, Freedom)42 he stresses that

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there is no freedom in a system that discounts the historical role of the individual. As Tsuda sees it, freedom can only exist when enough room is left for the appreciation of individual initiative, for the living human being itself and for a certain degree of sheer ‘coincidence’ (gu–zen). For Tsuda it seems that freedom is sufficiently available in traditional Japan. The pre-war Tsuda – for instance in his work on literature – is known to have included rather critical remarks about the insensitiveness of the ruling classes. The post-war Tsuda on the other hand retreated to a basic idea, a premise that was found in his pre-war works as well, and which – astonishingly enough – the war experience did not force him to reconsider, namely that the Japanese nation arose out of a peaceful, ethnically and linguistically unified social order and that in essence, it could not profit from overly ‘abstract’ foreign concepts and policies. Even while criticizing specific governments for their lack of judgement, it is on the basic premise of the imperial tradition transcending all political divides that his argument rests that this tradition is compatible with democracy – of course, and here lies the paradox, as long as that democracy does not challenge this premise. But the imperial tradition is not ‘just’ compatible with democracy: in its tradition of tolerance and affection for the ordinary people, who never felt the need to revolt as a result of this benevolence, the imperial tradition is democratic. In that respect, the authoritarian Meiji state was a product of the machinations of men inspired by Chinese ideas of rule rather than a true understanding of Japan’s proper traditions. Not unlike Watsuji Tetsuro–,43 the key moment identified by Tsuda as constitutive of Japanese subjectivity is the moment the Yamato state acquires selfconsciousness as a ‘national’ body. Nothing else than the process of the encapsulating of the minzoku (ethnic nation), which Tsuda uses as a geographical-cultural-ethnical and not a political category, into the kokumin, the political nation, over a period of more than ten centuries, was the underlying theme in his work on literature.44 And while before the war, there was room for descriptions of struggle, suffering and ideals, the post-war version turned the whole process into a gradual expansion of the promise that Japanese identity holds within itself, i.e. the consciousness of belonging to a nation not as the product of a struggle for freedom, but as the fruit of the rulers’ benevolence, with the emperor as an invisible guide. A line had been crossed. In 1955, Tsuda had already rejected the term ‘jiyu–’ (freedom) as inappropriate in the Japanese context45 and the lecture he gave at the Jiyu– Gaku’en (Freedom Campus) in Nagano on 26 October 1958 under the title ‘Jiyu– to fujiyu–’ (To Be Free And Not to Be Free) was published two years later in Shiso– , bungei, Nihongo (Thought, Literary Art, Japanese) under the title Aikoku-shin (Patriotism).46 Japan, and also Tsuda, had always been as free as could be expected and had been allowed by the respective requirements of the era.47 It is at this point that the oxymoron of ‘Tsuda’s liberalism’, his rather ill-conceived ‘liberalism of memory’, implodes – the quest for

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freedom turned into a meaningless flight away from what is given, by nature. CONCLUSION Historical memory sometimes makes strange leaps. It is only after his death that pre-war versions of Tsuda’s works appeared, at a moment when the post-war image of Tsuda had already taken over the way in which he was (to be) remembered, namely as a conservative remnant of a not very appealing past. In the scholarly field, it was Ienaga who rekindled a certain interest in Tsuda, but it goes without saying that his interpretation too was based on premises and prospects: Ienaga did not hide his intention to show that pre-war Japan had been capable of great democratic, truly liberal accomplishments, on which the post-war could (and partly did) build. Ienaga ‘uncovered’ a past that went from immediate post-war over Taisho– straight to early Meiji – in other words: there had been, was and would be a viable democratic ‘tradition’ in Japan. The post-war Tsuda had to be separated from this promising legacy – in a most unambiguous manner: ninety pages of minute comparison and the harshest of verdicts, tenko– . The least one can say is that Ienaga has shown us that Tsuda’s legacy was not an easy one to forget. NOTES 1

2 3

4

5

6

7

8 9 10 11 12 13

14

–, Kuroita Katsumi, Kokushi no kenkyu– kakusetu no bu (Tokyo: Bunkaido 1913), p. 8. Watsuji Tetsuro–, Nihon kodai bunka (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1920), p. 3. See Ienaga Saburo–, Tsuda So– kichi no shiso– shiteki kenkyu– (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1972), pp. 596–8. See Maruyama Masao, Maruyama Masao shu– (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 17 vols, 1995–1997), vol. 3, p. 365. Germaine Hoston, ‘The State and the Fate of Liberalism in Prewar Japan’, in Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 51, no. 2 (May 1992), pp. 287–316. Hayden White, Metahistory – The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth-Century Europe (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1973), p. 15. Tsuda So– kichi zenshu– (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 33 vols, 1963–1989), vol. 24, pp. 1–105 (below abbreviated as TSZ). Ibid., p. 99. Ibid., pp. 100–101. Ibid., pp. 573–618. Ibid., vol. 2. See Ienaga, Tsuda S o– kichi no shiso– shiteki kenkyu–, pp. 339–53. Kojitani Yasunao, Nihonshi no shiso– (Tokyo: Kashiwa Shobo–, 1997), pp. 129–67. John Brownlee, Japanese Historians and the National Myths (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1997), pp. 186–200.

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16 17

18

19

20 21

22

23

24

25 26 27

28

29

30 31

32 33

34

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Oguma Eiji, A Genealogy of ‘Japanese’ Self-Images (Rosanna: Trans-Pacific Press, 2002), pp. 237–59. Oguma Eiji, ‘Minshu’ to ‘Aikoku’ (Tokyo: Shin’yo–sha, 2004), p. 309. See Yusa Michiko, Zen and Philosophy: An Intellectual Biography of Nishida Kitaro– (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2002), p. 305. See Brownlee, Japanese Historians and the National Myths; Etsuko Hae-Jin Kang, ‘Tsuda Sokichi on China: The Antithesis of the East Asia CoProsperity Sphere,’ in Journal of Oriental Studies, vol. 35, no. 2 (1997) pp. 131–45; Tam Yun-tai, ‘Rationalism vs. Nationalism : Tsuda Sokichi (1873–1961),’ in John Brownlee (ed.), History in the Service of the Japanese Nation (Toronto: University of Toronto – York University, 1983), pp. 165–88. See for instance ‘Tsuda shigaku to Ranke,’ in Tenbo– , no. 37–9 (JanuaryMarch 1949), pp. 15–26. Also in the famous Rekishi to minzoku no hakken (Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1952), pp. 58–84. See also Sengo rekishi-gaku no shiso– (Tokyo: Ho–sei Daigaku Shuppankyoku, 1977) See TSZ, vol. 20, pp. 336–46. Kakekawa Tomiko (ed.), Gendaishi shiryo– , vol. 42 – Shiso– to– sei (Tokyo: Misuzu Shobo–, 1976), pp. 1024–89. Tsuda’s contribution to Kawai Eijiro–’s 1940 Gakusei to rekishi for instance had already been removed from the tome, even it did not bear upon his emperor views. See Tsurumi Shunsuke and Amino Yoshihiko, Rekishi no hanashi (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbunsha, 2004), p. 10. In a rough draft (12 pages) of a piece entitled (preliminary title) Shuppanho– ihan jiken no shinso– , found in box No. 25 of a set of thirty-five filled with ‘not yet ordened’ (miseiri) material kept at the Tokubetsu Shiryo–shitsu of Waseda University’s central library, Tsuda laments how he has helped the prosecutor by providing a summary of his views, only to see it being distorted and misinterpreted. Yamashita Asakazu, ‘Recollections of the Tsuda Trial,’ in Hanrei Taimuzu, vol. 14, no. 13, 1963 , pp. 129–33. TSZ, vol. 23, pp. 283–91. TSZ, vol. 20, pp. 538–41. Jan Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis (München: C.H. Beck, 1992), especially pp. 15–86, 130–60. Niklas Luhmann, Die Gesellschaft der Gesellschaft (Frankfurt/M.: Suhrkamp, 1997), pp. 576–94. Andreas Huyssen, Twilight Memories: Marking Time in a Culture of Amnesia (London: Routledge, 1995), p. 3. See TSZ, vol. 28, pp. 110–32. For the pre-war version see TSZ, separate vols 2–5, for the post-war version see vols 4–8. See TSZ, vol. 2, p. 30. See for instance TSZ, vol. 8, pp. 217–28, originally in Kokoro, vol. 11, no. 7 ( July 1959). See Ienaga, Tsuda So– kichi no shiso– shiteki kenky u–, pp. 563–7; see Ishimoda, ‘Tsuda and Ranke’, pp. 19 and following.

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Memories of a Liberal, Liberalism of Memory 35 36 37 38

39 40 41

42 43

44

45 46 47

307

See TSZ, vol. 20, p. 2; for the text: pp. 172–94. See ibid., pp. 195–235. See ibid., p. 539. See for instance his ‘Gakusei no shibo– to gakumon no kenkyu–’, which was first published in the Waseda Daigaku Shinbun of 26 April 1939 (no. 135) and contains a direct appeal on the government for better support for fundamental research. Tsuda warns that scholarship should be able to conduct its research freely, lest Japan goes down the same road as Germany (which is not mentioned explicitly!). See TSZ, vol. 23, p. 455. See TSZ, vol. 23, pp. 553–602. See TSZ, vol. 8, pp. 217–28. Inoue Kiyoshi, ‘Shiminteki gakusha no higeki’, in Sekai Hyo– ron, vol. 4, no.1, pp. 21–9. See TSZ, vol. 20, pp. 3–123. See Watsuji Tetsuro–, Kokumin to– go– no sho– cho– (Tokyo: Keiso– Shobo–, 1948), pp. 27–88 in particular. Tajiri Yu–jiro–, ‘ “Kokumin” to iu shiso– – Tsuda So–kichi o megutte’, in Nihon Shiso– shi, no. 63 (2003), pp. 3–27. See TSZ, vol. 21, pp. 74–82. See TSZ, vol. 23, pp. 430–47, and vol. 21, pp. 272–86. See TSZ, vol. 8, p. 380, on the ‘freedom’ that prevailed in the late Edo period.

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PART 4

Realms of Memory – Centre and Periphery

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18

New Dimensions in Sino-Japanese Relations and the Memory of the Sino-Japanese War of 1894–95 VALDO FERRETTI

O

nce more mass demonstrations both in the streets of Beijing and in Tokyo in April and May 2005 respectively have aroused comments in the international press about the antipathy towards Japan, which still seems strong among the Chinese public. The memory of the Second World War and the way in which bloody episodes related to it are still narrated or reconstructed in Japanese schoolbooks made their appearance once more in the form of slogans. One was reminded of the fact that the normalization between the two countries in 1972 had not cancelled all the 1930s grievances and that the making of history is not independent of the perception of topical affairs. The reasons for the revival of such an atmosphere may be linked to contrasting factors. As far as China is concerned the main cause may to some extent be due to the unrest mounting among the populace in spite of the astonishing recent economic growth, while the image of Japan has been notoriously affected over the past decades by the strong official support that criticism in the media has received. Claims focusing on the memory of the crimes ascribed to the Japanese Army during the Asia-Pacific War have engendered recurrent controversies and sometimes have gone along with diplomatic friction.1 Moreover, it looks as if another, this time more cultural, plot has been thickening while the face of China has been changing from its communist physiognomy to that of an economic giant on the road to becoming a world power. Especially around the turn of the century, in the year 2000 approximately, a shift could be noticed. Some observers and scholars in the

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People’s Republic of China started to observe that pre-war nationalism in Japan had faded and that collaboration in the political or in the economic field could be positive,2 but in Japan an opposite development began to take place. It was not just the young generation who gradually indicated that the historical verdict of the Second World War did not matter to them, but it seems as if a new retrospective look at the overall course of Sino-Japanese relations in the period from the Meiji Restoration up to the invasion of 1937 had been cast by the academic culture as well. In this connection at least three aspects appear to be evident. Conservative Japanese commentators and analysts, in particular, openly blamed the way Chinese textbooks have presented the relationship between both countries during the fifty years preceding the Pacific War. They countered the charges often made by the Chinese about Japanese textbooks by taking revisionist attitudes and laid pressure on newspapers or periodicals to feature historical controversies accordingly.3 That development, however, should be placed in the context of the objective progress of research, fifty years or more after the events under discussion, as in the meantime a large number of sources and new materials had come to light or was being studied by professional scholars. More profoundly, another factor has probably coloured the reappraisal of controversial events. Since the end of the twentieth century the full spectrum of Sino-Japanese relations has probably met with an overall transformation, which can be compared only to that which took place a century before. The rapid growth of Chinese regional influence and economic power during the 1990s has eventually worried the government of Tokyo, inducing it to form a stronger alliance with the United States in 1996–99 and to react firmly on the eve of the anti-Japanese demonstrations in Beijing and Shanghai in spring of 2005 when an official diplomatic protest was delivered by the Japanese Foreign Ministry. Here one may find the background to the firm reaction taken by Japan against Beijing claims over Taiwan and war responsibilities. It can be traced back at least to the eve of the visit of the Chinese President Jiang Zemin to Tokyo in 1998. Therefore behind the quarrels, which were reflected in the media, one may discern the attitude of historians today and the ongoing transformation in the geopolitics of the Far East at the same time. After the Pacific War, both Tokyo and Beijing appeared as two somewhat minor members of both blocs, rivals on a global scale, which obliged secondary powers to assume the same attitudes as those of the world powers. Moreover, more than ten years after the end of the Cold War, Japan and China have assumed the roles of two much more independent entities, which are able to balance or to engage each other on both sides of the Chinese maritime frontier, i.e. along the strategic line on which the growing weight of the latter is gravitating. On a few issues, running from problems concerning Taiwan, the Dyao-yu (or Senkaku) or even the Spratly Islands, and also the visibility of the Korean nuclear problem, and the

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strategic value of the sea lines crossing the Malacca and Taiwan straits, the impression is, that nowadays relationships between both countries reflect the usual, or traditional, security needs of two states with neighbouring territorial waters. SINO-JAPANESE WAR, 1894–95 In that framework, the retrospective view of the Sino-Japanese War of 1894–954 deserves special attention. It had traditionally been considered an early precedent connected with Japanese imperialism of the 1930s, but such an interpretation, which had fuelled a sense of guilt among some liberal-minded intellectuals in Japan, has been under attack during the disputes of the last few years. At a scholarly level, its significance was recently revalued also on the occasion of the centennial anniversary of 1994–95, given its objective importance as an historical turning point. It has been reaffirmed in fact that following the Treaty of Shimonoseki of 1895, which put an end to that conflict, Japan established her mastery over the seas, where up to then a relative primacy of the Middle Kingdom had existed in the form of the traditional tribute system, which linked neighbouring countries to China. Maybe the most representative example of this use of history in connection with present issues and scenarios was an article signed by Komori Yoshihisa and published in Sankei Shinbun of 3 October 2001, as the third item of a series dedicated to the history of Sino-Japanese relations, where the authors addressed a list of objections to textbooks for Chinese elementary and middle schools.5 Moreover, before analysing its contents, I would like to quickly recall the fact that the Sino-Japanese War arose from the so-called Korean question. War was declared early in August 1894, after Japanese and Chinese troops, which had entered Korea following the popular revolt of the so-called Tong-Hak, later clashed in some scattered incidents. It was also consequent on the failure of diplomatic attempts to set up a joint scheme of military and administrative reforms to be suggested to the local government plus Beijing and Tokyo not withdrawing their armies after the Korean peasant riots had been suppressed. Komori stated that the charge made against Japan of having launched an attack on China by invading the kingdom of Korea did not make sense because, he wrote, at that time Korea was in a ‘state of colony’ to China and was not an independent country. Chinese books overlooked, in his version, the pressure of Russia and of European powers on Japan, when in the spring and summer of 1894 it was negotiating from a difficult position the revision of the unequal treaties with the Western countries going back to the bakumatsu period. He also stressed the general opinion that China, before the defeat suffered in 1894, was generally considered a greater military power than Japan herself. Chinese schoolbooks, he said, depicted the militarism and the capitalistic nature of the imperial system as the mainspring of Japanese

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aggression, but they were neglecting the fact that Korea was an economically backward country, unable to attract the attention of Japanese financial capital. In a final kind of quip, Komori used the matter of the so-called massacre of Port Arthur, which has sometimes been compared to the Nanjing Massacre (Nankin Daigyakusatsu) of 1937, albeit on a lesser scale, stressing the groundless historical details offered by Chinese school texts. It seems to me that the Sankei Shinbun article was noteworthy. On the one hand, as the author himself noted, the image of Japan that he criticized largely coincided with the one that left-wing Japanese historians had often created.6 Of course it differed from the attitude of a conservative newspaper like Sankei Shinbun. On the other hand, some points in the Komori talk are objectively weak. It is true that Korea was in 1894 a vassal state of the Qing Empire, which was trying to make its control tighter in the 1890s, but it does not make sense to speak of the Hermit Kingdom as a colony of China. In the traditional Confucian World Order, still dominant in East Asia at the close of the nineteenth century, an expression like ‘colony’ hardly made any sense. Other remarks, however, are accurate. It is true that Japan was trying to deter possible Russian advances in the Far East, while she had to act against the general background of rivalries among foreign powers in China. It is also difficult today to accept the view that Japan’s interest in Korea had primarily economic reasons, given the financial limits of imperial Japan. Moreover, the final words about the massacre of Port Arthur seem somehow ambivalent. Granted that we know little about the number of victims, that reliable information is poor or that the numbers were well below the sacking of Nanjing of 1937, whatever it was, it is certain that abuses were committed by Japanese troops and that the culprits were not punished, in spite of an inquiry which was set up by military authorities later.7 Apart from that, however, some findings of recent scholarship seem to back up Komori’s words. Generally speaking, it is true that before the war, many Western observers, and some Japanese military leaders among them, had been impressed by the huge reforms undertaken by China under the self-strengthening ( jiqiang) movement. At the time of the Franco-Chinese War of 1884–85, the Japanese had rejected offers to collaborate with French diplomats, among other reasons because they ultimately feared that to link Korean to the Indochina issues could be dangerous, once the war ended. It could provoke Chinese revenge, given the recent progress of Chinese military means. To sum up, before the battles of September 1894, it was far from being clear that China was the feeble out-of-date antagonist of a more successful rival in modernization like modern Japan. Komori was basically right in that he understood that before the actual clash, most observers did not catch the imbalance between the adversaries. It is also true that concerned Japanese were worried about the effects of the Korean affair on relations

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with the European powers with which they were negotiating in order to have the treaty of 1858 revised and tariff autonomy restored. THE KOREA QUESTION At this point however, an historical problem becomes evident behind Komori’s talk. Practically all sources confirm that the Japanese government was ready to risk a war for Korea, when the Korean court asked the Middle Kingdom for help against the Tong-hak. That was specially the position of the Imperial Japanese Army, whose spokesman was the ViceChief of the General Staff Kawakami So–roku. However, at the turn of the nineteenth century, the military was far from exerting the influence that they were to play in the 1930s. The memoirs of Foreign Minister Mutsu Munemitsu, whose reliability was sometimes questioned, stress instead that Japan wanted a solution in concert with China. In Mutsu’s recollections, the treaty of Tianjin in 1885 had put an end to the Chinese protectorate over Korea8 and Tokyo sincerely intended to sponsor reforms in the Hermit Kingdom, the ruling class of which was obstructing her plans. Beneath that difference a subtler documentary problem has existed as well. In 1885, the above mentioned treaty of Tianjin had established that if either one of both signatories, Japan or China, were to decide to send military forces to Korea, the other one had to be informed and also kept the right to act in the same way. On that premise Japan sent her troops to Korea, after China had sent hers following the request of the court of Seoul. As Mutsu and other Japanese leaders realized that war could ensue and decided on 3 June 1894 according to Vice-Minister Hayashi Tadasu that Japan had to win it if conflict occurred, the scholarly dispute has largely centred on this topic.9 Revisionist historians state that the Army and Japanese Foreign Ministry did not purposefully hatch a plot to engineer a war.10 On the other hand, for left-wing scholars, Hayashi’s words concealed the intention to settle the dispute with the Qing Empire by force once and for all,11 while Mutsu’s plea for concerted reforms represented an excuse covering the resort to arms, which he later repeated in his memoirs. In reality, however, Japanese troops outnumbered the Chinese; after some incidents, hostilities began and war was declared. This passage may help us to understand the gist of historiographic discussions over the past ten years. On the one hand, the responsibility of Mutsu and his mental closeness to the military has been stressed. In an article published in May 1995, even the non-Marxist historian Uchiyama Masakuma12 compared the role of the Foreign Minister to that of Hirota Ko–ki in 1937 on the eve of the Marco Polo Bridge Incident, emphasizing parallels between both moments in Japanese history. He stressed the moderating role of Meiji Tenno– also, who wisely felt that Japan was diplomatically isolated and preferred to avoid extreme solutions for this

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reason. Uchiyama attributed some delay in the Japanese attack on China to the Emperor’s standing, showing the lack of agreement between him and the political leaders, and projecting the shadow of the debate about the start of the Pacific War onto the events of July 1894. Moreover recent research includes other kinds of approaches. For instance, a young scholar has given an entirely different explanation grounded on the same factual base. He started by mentioning that on 16 July 1894, the new treaty on commercial tariffs, to which Mutsu and Hayashi’s memoirs devoted much space, was signed.13 This side of the story, as seen above, is not new, and traditional historians have noted that the day after, on 17 July, a conference of the Imperial Headquarters decided that war with China could not be avoided and gave a free path to the invasion of Korea.14 Nonetheless in Oishi’s reconstruction, the settlement of the trade problem took on a new significance. According to him the commercial negotiations were the principal issue for Tokyo leaders. The core of Japanese cabinets, represented by Prime Minister Ito– – Hirobumi, his predecessor Okuma Shigenobu and Foreign Minister Mutsu (the so-called kaimeiha), realized the relative weakness of imperial Japan in the 1890s thus tending to achieve trade agreements with European powers and to keep a conservative standing as far a possible in East Asia. Hence they tended to be moderate on the Korean issue, but inside the Japanese Diet, where Ito– did not have a majority.15 Among middle-ranking bureaucrats, a strong nationalist mood was present, which made the position of the Government difficult in trade negotiations because of its weak parliamentary base. Mutsu and his colleagues were obliged to comply with such pressure and to take a bolder stand than they would have taken otherwise in the controversy with China about Korea.16 They strove to soothe their interlocutors in the Diet, until the cabinet succeeded in concluding the negotiations with Britain on the tariffs positively. Mutsu, however, really wanted a reform project for Korea to be jointly implemented with China. The evidence is lacking that he actually provoked war, in the opinion of the author of this essay, who keeps very close to the controversial Mutsu memoirs, but he maintains that at this point the Foreign Minister became finally unable to hold the reins of such a difficult situation. In his view, peace was ultimately a victim of the intransigence the Japanese government had been obliged to demonstrate in the debate at domestic level, pleasing the chauvinist attitude of party men, who had neither skill nor experience in international affairs, but could not be ignored because they had to conclude the commercial agreement satisfactorily. The perspective of Oishi is interesting even independently of the screening of single details and of an evaluation of any of the stages of decision-making. It is obvious that China and Japan appear here as two actors facing each other on the same footing and that more emphasis is put on the attention of Japanese leaders to political struggle at domestic level than to international factors. The conventional image of an

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aggression launched by a modern and technically well equipped power, led by economic imperialistic notions, against a country that is proud or even arrogant, but also medievally minded and backward, is largely absent from this picture. I am of the opinion that this view somehow echoes other insights, which were suggested on the occasion of the anniversary of the Sino-Japanese War. It was stressed once more on the occasion of the 1994–95 anniversary, that the Japanese victory on China thirty-five years after the Arrow War of 1858–60, signified a final blow to the traditional Sino-centric system. The road was opened to the demise of the so-called Confucian world order and, as often claimed by historians, the ensuing ‘Break Up’ of China in 1897 was anticipated. Also Hiyama Tetsuo found something symbolic about the fact that the anniversary of the Sino-Japanese war had come almost exactly fifty years after the Pacific War, which destroyed the Japanese Empire, and at a short time from the retrocession of Hong Kong to the People’s Republic of China in 1997.17 Actually, the treaty of Shimonoseki, and the ‘Break Up’ marked the very start of foreign semicolonial control over China, largely in the shadow of the Japanese victory, while Hiyama saw the retrocession of Hong Kong in 1997 as the turning point of a historical cycle, inaugurating the strong international dimension of China in the twenty-first century. Nevertheless, roughly sixty years after the end of the empire, Japan is the second economic and military power of the world and both countries are eventually engaging each other in the same geographic area they fought in at the end of the nineteenth century. More or less consciously, the background of present scholarly and mediative appraisals of the Sino-Japanese War has being taking shape within this context. NOTES 1

2

3

4

5

6

See for instance Okamoto Yukio and Tanaka Akihito, ‘The Dangerous Surge of Chinese “Patriotism” ’, in Japan Echo, vol. 32, no. 4, August 2005, pp. 10–13. For more details see P. Heys Gries, ‘China Eyes the Hegemon’, in Orbis, vol. 49, no. 3, summer 2005, pp. 401–12, especially pp. 408–10. See for instance Gilbert Rozman, ‘China’s Changing Images of Japan, 1989–2001: The Struggle to Balance Partnership and Rivalry’, in International Relations of the Asia-Pacific, vol. 2, no.1, 2002, pp. 119–20. A recent work in English on this subject is Sarah C. M. Paine, The SinoJapanese War of 1894–1895: Perceptions, Power and Primacy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003). Komori Yoshihisa, ‘Nicchu– saiko– – Nisshin Senso– wa shinryaku senso– ka (3)’, in Sankei Shinbun, 10/3/2001. Fujimura Michio, Nisshin Senso– – Higashi ajia kindaishi no tenbanten (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1985, second edition) is representative in that sense.

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8

9

10

11 12

13

14 15 16

17

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For a comparison between both episodes, cf. Hata Ikuhiko, ‘Ryo–jun – gyakusatsu jiken – Nankyo– to taihi shitsutsu’, in Ohata Tokushiro– (ed.), Nisshin Senso– to higashi Ajia sekai no henyo– , Vol. II (Tokyo: Yumani Shobo–, 1997), pp. 285–98. Mutsu Munemitsu, Kenkenroku – A Diplomatic Record of the Sino-Japanese War, 1894–95. Edited and Translated with Historical Notes by Gordon Mark Berger (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1982), p. 12. He implied that at the time of the crisis of 1894 the traditional tributary system did not contemplate a protectorate in the modern sense. The documentary basis of both theses notoriously are, in addition to the above quoted Mutsu, Kenkenroku, A. M. Pooley (ed.), The Secret Memoirs of Count Hayashi Tadasu (London: Ballantine, 1915), chapter 3. On Hayashi’s original papers see Kumamoto Fumio, ‘Gaiko–shiryo– kanshozo– (Hayashi Tadasu kankei bunsho) ni tsuite’, in Gaiko– Shiryo– Kanpo– , no. 15, 2001, pp. 123–43, especially pp. 128–30. Cf. Hayashi Tadasu, Nochi wa mukashi no kita Hayashi Tadasu kaikoroku. Yui Masaomi ko– chu– (Tokyo: To–yo– Bunko, 1970). Recent sholarship is often close to this position. See for instance Osawa – Hiroaki, ‘Nisshin Kaisenron’, in Ohata, Nisshin Senso– , pp. 7–33. – Fujimura, Nisshin Senso , pp. 54–5. Uchiyama Masakuma, ‘Nisshin Senso– – Hikari to kage’, in Kokusai Seiji, Vol. 109, 1995, pp. 141–49. – yaku kaisho– mondai o meguru taiko– to ko–saku – 1887–94’, Oishi Kazuo, ‘Jo in Kokusai Seiji, vol. 139, 2004, pp. 45–59. This article includes a larger discussion and bibliography about the domestic background of the SinoJapanese War. Fujimura, Nisshin Senso– , pp. 82–3. Pooley (ed.), Hayashi Memoirs, p. 40. Moreover in Hayashi’s words, July 1894: ‘The large force thrown into Korea was primarily a sop to popular feeling. The withdrawal of the expedition at the request of China would have had most serious results in Japan, for the situation would have resolved itself diplomatically into a status quo ante, whilst politically it would have meant ruin for Ito and Mutsu.’ Pooley, Hayashi Memoirs, p. 40. Hiyama Tetsuo, ‘Nisshin Senso– no rekishiteki ichi – ‘50 nen senso–’ to shite – no Nisshin Senso–’, in Ohata (ed.), Nisshin Senso– , p. 27.

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19

Development for Preservation: Localizing Collective Memory in 1960s Kanazawa PETER SIEGENTHALER

INTRODUCTION

O

ver the six decades since the end of the Pacific War, in Japan the most prominent public debates over historic preservation (the protection and reconstitution of notable buildings and historic landscapes) have ended in defeat for the country’s preservationists. From the Kyoto Tower and Tokyo Imperial Hotel controversies of the 1960s, to conflicts over the building of manshon housing in Kyoto in the 1980s and 1990s, to the construction of the Mori Company’s Roppongi Hills development and destruction of Moto Azabu’s Gamaike pond in the Tokyo of the new century, the dominance of development over preservation has been continuously underscored.1 Even the few high-profile government programmes to promote preservation, most notably the Ministry of – ) designation beginning in 1976 of what are now Culture (Monbusho more than eighty Important Districts for the Preservation of Groups of – dento – -teki kenzo – butsu-gun hozon chiku, Traditional Buildings (Ju–yo often referred to simply as denken chiku), serve as much to highlight the fates of the hundreds of rural and urban districts not favoured by official recognition as to publicize those few dozen that are termed successes.2 Fortunately, the experiences of the historic city of Kanazawa, facing the Japan Sea in Ishikawa prefecture, offer a striking alternative to the polarized development-or-preservation scenario that tends to dominate debates in Japan and abroad. One among only a handful of Japanese cities to escape Allied incendiary bombing during the war, Kanazawa was poised at the opening of the post-war era to play a role as a premier

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tourism destination. In the late 1950s, Kanazawa’s civic leaders began to explore heritage tourism and the preservation of the urban environment as means for boosting their city’s prominence on the national scene. To achieve this goal, they asserted the strength of municipal, and not national, control over urban planning and historic preservation activities, challenging directly the power of the planning bureaucrats in Tokyo. In arguing for the localization of control over planning and preservation, Kanazawa’s elites chose a pattern of tourism promotion and cityscape protection that brought prestige, money and power to the city itself. The central event in their efforts, the 1968 enactment of the Kanazawa Ordinance for the Protection of Traditional – Kankyo – Hozon Jo – rei), announced Environments (Kanazawa-shi Dento an open revolt against control by the national bureaucracies, while inspiring similar ordinances in cities and towns nationwide in the years that followed. Kanazawa’s innovations gave the municipality substantial influence over the activities of builders and developers, allowing it to promote the idea of a ‘unified landscape’ for the city as a whole. The city’s achievement did not come without its costs. Resistance among public and private builders was immediate, and the exclusion of most residents from discussions over urban planning resulted in 1975 in the rejection of a widely publicized plan to designate a former teahouse quarter as a protected urban district, an unexpected turn that dramatized the gap in outlook between city officials and local citizens. Taken together, however, Kanazawa’s successes and failures demonstrate both the promise and the limitations of the ‘preservation and development’ and ‘development for preservation’ approaches city leaders defined to preserve the collective memory in one of Japan’s leading historic cities. I will explore Kanazawa’s favouring of the localization of control over preservation and development by tracing debates recorded over the – yu–kai course of the 1960s in the newsletter of the Kanazawa Keizai Do (Kanazawa Committee for Economic Development), an association of businesspeople, government officials and academics who still meet regularly for lectures, symposiums and study sessions. Working largely – yu – kai, in the mid-1960s, Kanazawa’s leaders within the meetings of the Do proposed and put in place a plan for historic preservation that favoured local concerns over national agendas. – yu–kai, we are able By investigating the discussions occurring at the Do to place the city’s plans in the context of national debates over the relative value of economic development and historic preservation that were taking place at the time. During the course of those debates, some – yu–kai’s leadership went further in their thinking members of the Do about preservation activities than did even the cultural authorities in Tokyo, proposing an approach to historic preservation that would shift the focus away from protection of a few examples of the city’s heritage and instead seek to preserve the general atmosphere of the cityscape’s

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historic character. It is in this regard, as much as in its assertion of local political authority over historic preservation activities, that Kanazawa should stand as a pioneer in the new articulation of a heritage protection ethos in post-war Japan. KANAZAWA AT THE OPENING OF THE POST-WAR PERIOD Kanazawa’s story has often been overlooked by scholars tracing the development of historic preservation in Japan. While the ideological struggles and local financial concerns voiced in Kanazawa and other cities at the time are acknowledged in the histories, most discussions in Japanese see the development of historic preservation in the post-war era within a narrative of the growth of popular democracy. A leading site for heritage tourism, the post-town of Tsumago in southern Nagano prefecture is emblematic of the importance of tourism promotion as an assertion of community and citizen power.3 The standard narrative describing the path of the town’s protection holds that local residents banded together to lobby government at all levels for economic aid. Central to the narrative are the self-motivating and self-regulating activities of the town’s residents: in Tsumago, Uranai, kasanai, kowasanai became the motto of the community, as residents wrote and signed a common agreement that no member would sell, rent or destroy a building in the historic section of the town. Kanazawa does not have the progressive lineage celebrated by Tsumago and many of the other centres of townscape protection. The governmental seat of Ishikawa prefecture, perched between two rivers at the edge of a coastal plain facing the Japan Sea, Kanazawa was founded in the sixteenth century and was soon adopted as the castle town for the domain of the Maeda family.4 The new city prospered during the following centuries, as the Maeda family became second in wealth only to the ruling Tokugawa. By the time of the fall of the shogunate in the 1860s, however, the Maeda family and Kanazawa itself were politically and economically anachronistic. Industrial promotion schemes of the late nineteenth century largely bypassed Kanazawa; as the city lost population and wealth, its national prominence waned.5 What Kanazawa carried with it into the twentieth century was its association with the greatness of the Maeda clan (made concrete in the centre of the city by the castle ruins and one of Japan’s most famous gardens, Kenrokuen) and the continuity of production in various handicraft industries, including porcelain, fabric dyeing and decoration with gold leaf. As the post-war era opened, Kanazawa was a marginal, if attractive, historic city, a leader in its region but far from the engines of economic and industrial growth on the Pacific coast. An illustrated guidebook to Kanazawa published in 1953 summed up the city’s charms: in Kanazawa, it advertises, ‘Old Japan’s traditional beauty remains.’6

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Realms of Memory – Centre and Periphery DEBATES OVER HERITAGE AND DEVELOPMENT IN POST-WAR KANAZAWA

In order to capitalize on its anachronism, in the late 1950s, Kanazawa’s leadership began planning to develop the city’s potential as a tourism destination. One of the main engines in this era for the discussion of – yu–kai. Established economic development was the Kanazawa Keizai Do – – in 1957, Kanazawa’s Keizai Doyukai is a branch of a national organization of the same name, itself modelled on the American Committee for Economic Development (CED) founded in Washington, DC, in 1942 by leaders of ‘the more progressive and liberal wing of Big Business’ concerned about planning for the post-war era.7 – yu–kai’s newsletter, Kanazawa Keizai Back issues of the Kanazawa Do Do– yu–, record the major events in the organization’s history. The first engagement with tourism planning that it notes is a roundtable discussion among prefectural tourism officials that was held in the summer of 1960.8 At that roundtable, the officials presented what was then standard thinking on tourism development: the presentations covered proposals for road expansions and the building of a new airport and resort complex. The presenters’ emphasis was on large capital-intensive projects directed at mass tourism. – yu–kai by the chairman The visit during the following spring to the Do of the board of the American CED, Harvard Business School Dean Donald K. David, was one of the notable events of the Kanazawa branch’s first two decades. In his presentation, the text of which was published in the newsletter under the title, ‘Toshi no saikaihatsu to – ka’ (Urban Redevelopment and the Businessman), Dean David jitsugyo was strikingly unconcerned with the historic character of the urban sites he was discussing.9 Emphasizing the use of urban-planning master plans to integrate all reconstruction activities in urban areas, David celebrated the recent experiences of Philadelphia, then undergoing substantial urban renewal: ‘In Philadelphia,’ David said, ‘in central districts old and abandoned rail lines have been torn up, walls and dilapidated houses have been torn down.’ The parallel between the two historic cities, Philadelphia and Kanazawa, founded within a century of each other and each formerly one of its nation’s leading cultural centres, is striking, as is David’s attitude of disregard for the potential for heritage tourism embodied in each city’s ‘walls and dilapidated houses’. Not all of the figures offering presentations on tourism and develop– yu–kai were similarly dismissive of the value of the city’s ment to the Do historic sites. In October 1962, eighteen months after Dean David’s – , a representative of the Ishikawa Tourism visit, Shinbo Tatsusaburo Federation, highlighted the case of Kanazawa while discussing tourism development throughout the prefecture.10 The city, Shinbo said, was undergoing a ‘revival’, as young people who had only known Japan since the end of the war were discovering that the city’s old townscape

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still remained intact. The cityscape, however, he noted, was threatened both through the effects of industrialization and of residents’ own search for livelihood. Shinbo requested that the government step in to help protect the city’s historic fabric: ‘There should come a time,’ he suggested, ‘when Kanazawa’s city streets themselves will have to be protected as cultural assets.’ Striking in Shinbo’s presentation is his shift of emphasis from the protection of notable sites within the city (such as Kenrokuen and the ruins of the Maeda castle) to an understanding of the whole cityscape as a valuable asset requiring protection. Shinbo concluded, ‘Because tourists visiting Kanazawa come looking for an image of Old Japan, and not just Kanazawa Castle and Kenrokuen but the city as a whole is what they encounter here, what is crucial are things that carry that atmosphere’ of the city’s past. – yu–kai’s general A presentation the following year by the Kanazawa Do secretary, Yamaguchi Kenji, further developed the line of thinking introduced by Shinbo. Yamaguchi published the text of this presentation in the June 1963 newsletter.11 Reporting on events at the tenth annual conference of the Nihon Toshi Gakkai (Japan Urban Institute), which he had attended that May in Kyoto, Yamaguchi opened with descriptions of two proposals for development in Kanazawa’s closest peers, the former capitals of Kyoto and Nara. In the case of Kyoto, city planners were pursuing a planning scheme based on a clear distinction between what

Figure 19.1: The stained-glass window within the tower of the entrance gate to – the Oyama Shrine is emblematic of the rich interchange between styles and eras in Kanazawa’s cityscape (Photo by the author).

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– hozon kuiki) were designated ‘environmental protection zones’ (kankyo – and those designated ‘reconstruction zones’ (kaizo kuiki). In effect, what was proposed was the blueprint for the primary form of preservation put in place in Kyoto in the following decades: the official protection of notable buildings, complexes of buildings (such as temple grounds) and open spaces, matched by the identification of other areas in the city that would be targeted for aggressive redevelopment. The result, as the current cityscape of Kyoto attests, is a patchwork of historic sites alternating throughout the city with modern behemoths and often hastily built commercial and industrial complexes.12 The plan for development in Nara described by Yamaguchi contrasted directly with the Kyoto point-by-point protection scheme. The so-called Neo Nara Plan (Neo Nara Keikaku) also relied on strict distinctions between types of spaces, such as the separation of ‘recreation areas’ from those for the ‘circulation of goods and vehicles’. The bulk of the proposal, however, was in the construction of a master plan that would fundamentally alter the spatial organization of the city, dividing residential areas from those devoted to public institutions and establishing a series of monorail lines to connect the historic city’s major tourist sites. Yamaguchi concluded his report with some thoughts on the issues at stake in debates over economic development and heritage tourism. His fundamental concern was to rethink the relationship between economic development and historic preservation. ‘The solution to the problem of “preservation and development” [hozon to kaihatsu],’ he stated, ‘cannot be expressed in the phrase “preservation or development” [hozon ka kaihatsu ka].’ Rather, he suggested, Kanazawa’s leaders should search for methods to promote ‘development for preservation [hozon no tame no kaihatsu]’ (emphasis added in each instance). He finished by echoing a point made at the Kyoto meetings by the president of the Toshi Gakkai, – : ‘ultimately, it is the citizen . . . who will make both preserOkui Fukutaro vation and development occur’. Yamaguchi amplified Okui’s assertion by calling for ‘finely textured research’ (kime no komaki kenkyu–) into the daily lives of the city’s residents, stating, ‘We must not entrust development only to administration and the stuff of economics.’ The goal must be ‘development rooted in humanity’ (ningensei ni nezashita kaihatsu). Yamaguchi’s conclusions brought the conversation over economic development more generally and promotion of heritage tourism more particularly to a question of scale. Throughout his presentation, Yamaguchi was talking directly to Kanazawa’s urban planners, urging them to make plans while keeping the preservation of Kanazawa’s historic fabric and particular local character as the ultimate goal, to measure the success of economic development schemes by their capacity to achieve particular preservation goals, and to engage with the city’s residents in determining the shared values of the community as a whole. In the eighteen months immediately following Yamaguchi’s presentation, the issue of preservation versus development was absent from the

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– yu–kai’s public events.13 In early 1965, however, the issue was brought Do to the national stage by the publication in the Asahi Shinbun of a series – .14 Focusing in particular on of five articles by novelist Osaragi Jiro his own home city of Kamakura, on the coast south of Tokyo, Osaragi passionately cataloged the environmental destruction and losses to the country’s built heritage that were the result of haphazard building and the government’s lax enforcement of construction controls. A few months after the publication of Osaragi’s plea for concerted citizen action to protect the country’s landscapes and cityscapes, the – yu–kai heard a lecture from Tokyo University urban geograKanazawa Do – .15 The published text of his talk indicates that Kiuchi pher Kiuchi Shinzo did not mention Osaragi by name, only saying in his opening comments that the issue of ‘preservation and development’ was then commonly encountered in newspapers and magazines. ‘There is no opposition,’ Kiuchi assured his audience, ‘to the general idea of “preservation and development”,’ but he went on to list apparently insurmountable obstacles to the realization of a balance between the two objectives. The first four items on Kiuchi’s list are familiar and practical ones: the difficulty of compensating property owners, the pressures of population density, issues of property rights and a shortage of capital. Kiuchi’s argument as just described might be termed a ‘realist’ view of historic preservation, but his fifth item is more ontological than practical: preservation, he stated, ties up assets that are necessary for the rejuvenation of the country. Modern life is opposed to things that impede people’s desire to change their lives. ‘There is a difficulty in having preservation projects at the centre of regional development directed at real life,’ he said. ‘For true development, one needs to overcome such things.’ Kiuchi’s statement of the problems posed by preservation activities accurately reflected both official orthodoxy and the dominant public opinion at the time. In Japan over the course of the post-war era the ‘scrap-and-build’ (sukurappu-ando-birudo) mentality has been widespread: rather than accommodate themselves to the legacies of housing patterns, urban textures and historic associations of the past, many Japanese have sought to ‘overcome’ the troubling aspects of their nation’s twentieth-century experience by removing tangible structures associated with them. Given a choice between an ambitious plan to restructure their city deeply or a less radical scheme to renovate and reuse existing buildings and streetscapes, many Japanese in the post-war period have welcomed deep-set change. LOCAL AUTONOMY AND CONTROL OVER THE CITYSCAPE At the opening of the 1960s, power over the pace, scope and direction of change in Japan’s urban and rural environments was held by a small group of men in the ministries in Tokyo. The ministries of construction

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– ), transport (Un’yu-sho – ), home affairs (Jichi-sho – ), and (Kensetsu-sho – – – – international trade and industry (Tsusho Sangyo-sho) dominated planning for economic and social development during the first three decades after 1945. Projects sponsored directly by one or more of these ministries, from dam construction and highway placement to housing provision and the location of major industrial plants, were organized and planned within the ministries with little public input. When economic development plans directly threatened the nation’s natural or cultural heritage, the ministry in charge of cultural affairs, – , was largely powerless to stop or divert them. During the late Monbusho – ’s Commission 1950s and early 1960s, in particular, the Monbusho for the Protection of Cultural Properties (Bunkazai Hogo Iinkai) was at the centre of public and heated debates concerning the protection of well-known cultural or natural sites. In 1960 alone, the Commission engaged in lengthy negotiations with local governments and economic development companies over what was recognized at the time as a ‘succession of threats to scenic places’, including plans for the building of a dam in Saitama prefecture’s Nagatoro Gorge and a baseball field in the ruins of Wakayama castle, and for the construction of a two-hundred-foot tall tourism tower overlooking Matsushima Bay, one of the country’s three most celebrated scenic spots.16 Although in 1960 the Commission achieved some success in each of these controversies, the energy they required of the cultural bureaucracy and the relative powerlessness of – ’s weakness in these matters. the opponents underscores the Monbusho All the same, the national ministries were not deaf to calls for stronger protection of cultural and natural sites, and over the course of the 1960s the construction and transport ministries became increasingly involved in historic preservation activities. The government responded to the challenge posed by Osaragi’s series of articles with the passage in 1966 – ). This law of the Ancient Capitals’ Preservation Law (Koto Hozon-ho gave new emphasis to the protection of historic buildings and districts as part of the mission of the national city-planning authorities (who were located within the construction ministry), while at the same time doing little to release the centre’s longstanding grip on power over local heritage protection. Activities governed by the law were firmly situated within the structure of the centralized city-planning apparatus, and the law’s provisions were limited to the three ancient capitals of Kyoto, Nara and Kamakura. As a symbol of the extension of city-planning activities to historic preservation, it offered an elusive model for emulation for the planners in other cities, such as Kanazawa. While most of Kanazawa’s residents appear to have been largely unaffected by Osaragi’s arguments, remaining uninvolved in the debates over – yu–kai memurban planning and heritage protection in these years, Do bers and other city leaders continued to engage with the issues raised – yu–kai’s meetings. The leaders of the Do – yu–kai by the speakers at the Do and the city officers seem, in particular, to have been both encouraged

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and challenged by the passage of the 1966 law. In September 1966, soon – yu–kai moved to create a ‘preservation after the law’s enactment, the Do and development committee’, whose first meeting took place in October of that year and was largely devoted to discussion of the task of creating a ‘classification of objects for preservation’ within the cityscape.17 The committee set itself diligently to the task in subsequent meetings, publishing its classification proposal early in 1967.18 Notable in the committee’s proposed classification scheme is the breadth of inclusion of elements from the city’s fabric. In its broad outlines, the scheme mirrors the official (national-level) categorization used to describe protected cultural properties, such as in its use of the subdivisions tangible, intangible and natural, but it breaks from both – yu–kai’s the language and the approach of the national scheme. The Do basic classification scheme puts its emphasis on the contextualization of the elements to be highlighted, setting up four categories, two of which are explicitly linked to the city’s social life: ‘Tangible Social Assets for Preservation’ (shakai-teki yu–gei hozon-sai), ‘Intangible Social Assets for Preservation’ (shakai-teki mugei hozon-sai), ‘Natural Assets for Preservation’ (shizen hozon-sai) and ‘Others’ (sono hoka). In its details, moreover, the committee’s scheme diverges from the conventional listing of individual elements in the cityscape, a site- and objectcentred approach that was the pattern in cultural assets protection at the time. In contrast to the national schema for preservation then in place, the targets of the committee’s attention were broadly defined and widely encompassing, identifying not single representative examples of a notable architectural style but historic environments stretching over several blocks in various sections of the city. The ‘Others’ category further extends the definitions of objects to be protected. In effect, it offers an abstract and innovative rethinking of conventional heritage protection strategies. Within that category, for example, we find the subcategories, ‘The Past, the Present and Expectations for the Future’ and ‘A Human Scale of Life’, brought together under the larger heading, ‘The Things of Citizens’ Everyday Life’. Echoed here is Yamaguchi’s call from three years earlier for a regimen of ‘finely textured research’ leading to the ideal of ‘development rooted in humanity’. Kanazawa’s proposed classification schema, building on the system of cultural protection already in place, both extended the breadth of the areas to be considered and radically rethought the fundamental bases on which historic preservation stands. Not surprisingly, when, in the spring of 1967, city officials became involved in drafting legislation for greater protection of the city’s urban fabric, legal concerns required a less abstract, more clear-cut delineation of what was to be protected and how that protection was to be realized. When a committee made up of visiting academics, the prefectural gov– yu–kai, and Kanazawa’s mayor and city officials ernor, members of the Do

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met in May 1967 to debate the question, ‘What is it that must be preserved?’ (Hozon subeki wa nani-ka?), its report promoted the protection of districts over individual sites and highlighted common elements that drew together the urban environment as a whole. The 1967 committee’s report emphasized the city’s need to protect green space within the city, to preserve the rivers and urban waterways that criss-cross the urban space, and to offer municipal guidance for developers to produce ‘architecture that is in harmony with the high tone of the cityscape’s scenery’.19 Within the year, Kanazawa city officials had written, passed and implemented the country’s first municipal ordinance designed for the protection of urban heritage. The ordinance emphasizes the importance of protection of the city’s historic ambience, not focusing on individual sites but on the many elements that contribute to the character of the city. Its opening statement conveys its goals: ‘the strongest possible protection of this city’s unique traditional environment against the destruction that accompanies urban development, as well as the creation of a new traditional environment through the achievement of a balance with the modern city, to be the inheritance of citizens in the years to come’.20

– rinbo Figure 19.2: Urban watercourses, yo– sui, such as this one close to the Ko shopping district, were often filled in or paved over in other Japanese cities but were one of the elements singled out for protection by the framers of the 1968 Kanazawa cityscape-protection ordinance (Photo by the author).

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PUTTING PROTECTIVE LEGISLATION TO WORK Among the areas designated for protection under the 1968 ordinance were two temple districts created when the Maeda family relocated religious institutions out of the central city early in the seventeenth century. Stretches of the river channels, parkland when the waters are not running high, were selected as well. Three scenic districts were designated, including the Utatsuyama area above the Asano River on the east side and a central district around Kenrokuen and the castle ruins in the centre of the city. Also singled out for protection was a small part of the Nagamachi samurai district, whose gates and walls had a few years earlier benefited from the first subsidies offered by the municipal government to private owners to retain and restore the city’s historic atmosphere.21 The application of the ordinance, however, was challenged by owners of buildings within and beside the designated areas from its inception. In keeping with a concern stated on a number of occasions in discussions during the ordinance’s drafting, one emphasis of the new regulations fell on the city’s role in guiding property owners towards a defined palette of colours and range of styles for the city’s buildings and public areas, an endeavour to ‘create a unified scenic landscape’ (keikan o – itsu suru) for the city as a whole.22 The achievement — or imposition — to of such a consolidated ‘look’ was not easily gained, as conflict arose over the city’s authority to control new building as much or more than over the treatment of existing structures. Some of the more prominent examples of resistance to the unified landscape came in November and December 1968 in relation to the colour of a neon sign on a hotel in the western temple district, in the spring of 1972 concerning the size, shape – then being built near and colour of the five-story Ryokan Saito Kenrokuen, and in 1974 and 1975 in the height of a proposed six-storey government office building to be constructed near the central scenic district.23 Only in the last of the cases just noted, in which inter-agency negotiations were involved, was the conflict resolved to the full satisfaction of the ordinance’s backers. In the case of the government office building, the plans were changed and a site was selected elsewhere in the city. In the other cases, painstaking negotiation produced only slow and often inadequate results. The reasons for such dynamics are simple: despite changes at the national level brought by the 1968 New City Planning Law, a locally authored city-planning ordinance still had no powers of enforcement attached to it, and so municipal officials were reluctant to press a court case knowing that their legal position was weak. Until a real devolution of such powers occurred at the end of the 1990s, only the central ministries at the national level held real authority over urban and land-use planning, and while the local government had the authority to pass an ordinance, it had in effect no powers to force compliance with it.24

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Figure 19.3: The view from Central Park past the Ishikawa Literature Museum, housed in an 1891 school, highlights the continuing tension between new and old in Kanazawa’s downtown streets (Photo by the author).

KANAZAWA TODAY Kanazawa’s assertion of local autonomy through its passage of the 1968 ordinance was followed by similar actions in other cities and towns: in September 1968 in Kurashiki (Okayama prefecture), in 1971 in Yanagawa (Fukuoka), in 1972 in Takahashi (Okayama), Hagi (Yamaguchi), Takayama – be, and in 1973 in Matsue (Shimane) and Nagiso(Gifu), Kyoto and Ko machi (Nagano), among others.25 The city’s innovations in urban planning resemble those seen in other aspects of public administration at the time. In Japan by about 1970, one scholar notes, ‘In cases of regulatory policies, a pattern had developed: a local government would enact an “illegal” ordinance; the ministry involved would point out the potential conflict with the law; after some maneuvring on both sides, the law would be amended to make the local policy clearly legal.’26 Kanazawa, in its seizure of local control over heritage protection, appears to have been a leader in the forging of this pattern. Kanazawa’s attempts to protect social memory through management of the cityscape itself ultimately prevailed, but even its expansion of municipal control to the protection of existing buildings has not always gone smoothly. A contradiction at the heart of the 1968 ordinance came painfully to light in the mid-1970s, as the national government sought to harness the energies of local officials in the establishment of a national

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system of townscape preservation districts (denken chiku). When city officials pressed forward in the early 1970s on the designation of a former tea-house district, Higashi Chaya-machi, they were met with resistance from the district’s residents. Under the stipulations of the legislation establishing the denken chiku, a solid majority of local residents must support the designation. The question was never put to a vote, but city officials saw what was coming and retracted the proposal.27 It would take more than two decades for the city and residents to return to discussions of the desirability of protected status for the district, and it was only designated a denken chiku in November 2001. Clear from various retellings of the events in the mid-1970s surrounding the designation of Higashi Chaya-machi is that city officials were deaf to residents’ concerns over the district’s designation and that the residents expressed their will with the only means at their disposal: their veto. Several dynamics played into the controversy over the district’s designation, including residents’ questioning of the value as heritage of a pleasure quarter, with its aura of sexual exploitation, their anticipation of voyeurism on the part of tourists to the district, and reaction to the arrogance of the city’s urban planning professionals. More than three decades after the residents’ rejection of denken chiku status, and not long after its designation, the district appears to have settled into its new identity as a historic site. On its main street on a recent summer Saturday, groups of tourists of varying ages and nationalities strolled and shopped. Despite the quarter’s easy presentation as a tourist destination, however, there is little evidence of an attempt to engage with its history beyond the façade-deep presentation of an architectural ambience. The presentation of Higashi Chaya-machi’s unique identity is today muted, and the issues it raised for residents more than twenty-five years ago remain largely unresolved. Looking at the city as a whole, however, the Kanazawa leadership’s intention in the 1960s to foster the protection and promotion of a ‘unified’ cityscape has without question resulted in a city that looks and feels different from other Japanese cities of its size and importance. The main boulevards are broad and lined with largely faceless modern office buildings, but on the back streets structures of every age and style survive and flourish. Particularly striking is the eclecticism of the cityscape, as classically styled temples and shrines stand beside late twentieth-century concrete-and-glass commercial buildings and red-brick industrial structures from the nineteenth century. Running between and linking together all these varying styles are the city’s green spaces and its open water courses, which bring the sounds of flowing water to even the most undistinguished urban area. CONCLUSIONS Despite a well-earned reputation for an ethos of traditionalism, Japanese society is not usually thought of as friendly towards the preservation of

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Figure 19.4: Tourists stroll in June 2007 along the main street of Kanazawa’s Higashi Chaya-machi preservation district (Photo by the author).

tangible sites of collective memory. In recent decades, while abstract images of Old Japan, such as the imagined homeplace, the furusato, have been established as national myths, surviving examples of the country’s historic character have fallen one after another to the bulldozer and the wrecking ball. The scrap-and-build ethos has left little room for the nurturing of Pierre Nora’s lieux de mémoire, the sites of society’s collective memory.28 When, however, we are able to highlight in Japan an instance of localized historic preservation, we have a rare glimpse of some of the ways in which social memory has been maintained and nurtured in the Japanese context. As Nora points out, the lieux de mémoire that he identifies represent not a simple victory over the loss of communal heritage, but a truce between the forces pushing society towards the future and a modern science of history that seeks to fix in place a shared past.29 In Nora’s view, neither economic development nor history-making are on the side of memory’s survival. ‘Lieux de mémoire,’ Nora writes, ‘originate with the sense that there is no spontaneous memory, that we must deliberately create archives, maintain anniversaries, organize celebrations, pronounce eulogies, and notarize bills because such activities no longer occur nat– , for most of the urally.’30 Like Tokyo University professor Kiuchi Shinzo post-war era the architects of Japanese economic development have sought to ‘overcome’ the past by replacing it with the new. Historians,

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however, even as they have become increasingly involved in the production of civic monuments and the study of popular history, have been concerned primarily with the creation of dominant narratives articulating a usually state-centred reading of the shared past. ‘The moment of lieux de mémoire occurs,’ Nora argues, ‘at the same time that an immense and intimate fund of memory disappears, surviving only as a reconstituted object beneath the gaze of critical history. This period sees, on the one hand, the decisive deepening of historical study and, on the other hand, a heritage consolidated.’31 In the establishment of a site for memory — a monument, an archive, a museum opened in a house preserved from the past, a historic district — we see both the institutionalization of the past and, almost as an afterthought, the transmission of traces of memory that survive despite the trend of the modern era to dismiss them. As Nora again notes, ‘these lieux de mémoire are fundamentally remains, the ultimate embodiments of a memorial consciousness that has barely survived in an historical age that calls out for memory because it has abandoned it’.32 Fixing in tangible remains a particular narrative of the community’s past, most historic preservation seeks to replace memory with history. In Kanazawa, however, in the efforts of Shinbo and Yamaguchi in particular, we can see attempts to foster and preserve less instrumental, less concretized reservoirs of collective memory. ‘There are lieux de mémoire,’ Nora writes, ‘. . . because there are no longer milieux de mémoire, real environments of memory.’33 Through ‘finely textured research’ and attention to the ‘Things of Citizens’ Everyday Life,’ the leadership – yu–kai attempted to understand and protect of the Kanazawa Keizai Do the most local of local memory, the concerns and desires of residents themselves. Kanazawa’s leaders did not stop at identifying and protecting broader and deeper classes of elements for shared commemoration. Working from a desire to ‘unify’ the cityscape as a whole, they sought to direct changes in the urban space towards creation of, as the 1968 ordinance states, a ‘new traditional environment’ for the benefit of Kanazawa’s residents in the future. Both in their discussions of preservation policy and in the legal controls over public building that they ultimately put in place, Kanazawa’s leadership attempted to harness the energies of economic development towards the fashioning of a cityscape that would stand apart from its peers and offer to its residents a meaningful and pleasurable environment in which to work and live. The 1968 Kanazawa ordinance did not fully implement the ‘development for preservation’ approach articulated by Shinbo and Yamaguchi, but its goal to direct growth in the city for the benefit of continuity and stability in the built environment is in keeping with that approach. Some of Kanazawa’s citizens offer a guarded assessment of the role of the – yu–kai in the growth of historic preservation in their city. A life-long Do resident of the Nagamachi district and retired banker interviewed in

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– yu–kai as generous but essentially 2002 assesses the activists of the Do ineffectual: – yu–kai for As one might expect, the money put up by the Do Kanazawa’s townscape preservation work was not, in fact, put towards a realistic model. The people of the organization wanted to be able to achieve concrete results, visible members of it wanted them — still, there was nothing done.34 From this resident’s point of view, the well-intentioned members of – yu–kai were too far removed from the actual dynamics within the the Do districts themselves to propose effective plans for preservation. The later episode of Higashi Chaya-machi’s failed designation reveals that the lim– yu–kai’s approach were compounded by attitudes and itations of the Do outlooks on the part of the city’s urban planners. In the case of Higashi Chaya-machi in the mid-1970s, the result was a disconnect between the views of the district’s residents and the plans set out by the city. In the larger picture, the activities of the Kanazawa city government in these years were integral parts of the movement toward localization of control over the protection of social memory that was seen nationwide. The 1968 Kanazawa ordinance represents one of the leading successes of that movement, not only asserting a new local political independence but also extending and enriching the vision of historic preservation itself. While the case of Higashi Chaya-machi demonstrates the limitations of localization as a means to extend political influence to residents, the tangible results of Kanazawa’s preservation movement nonetheless indicate that the localization of memory in this era left legacies that were both lasting and influential. NOTES 1

2

3

4

For a recent assessment of the status of development versus preservation in Tokyo, see Tsukamoto Yoshiharu and Jorge Almazán, ‘Scrap and Build: Alternatives to the Corporate Redevelopment of Tokyo’, in MONU: Magazine on Urbanism 4 (2006). A full list of the currently recognized denken chiku may be found at the – teki Kenzo – butsugun Hozon Chiku website of the Zenkoku Dento – Kyogikai, an umbrella organization representing preservation districts – teki Kenzo – butsugun Hozon Chiku Kyo – gikai, nationwide. Zenkoku Dento Chizu kara sagasu (2007 [cited 23 May 2007]); available from http://www.denken.gr.jp/archives/map.html. Peter Siegenthaler, ‘Creation Myths for the Preservation of Tsumago Posttown’, in Planning Forum 9 (2003). For the history of the city of Kanazawa, see James L. McClain, Kanazawa: A Seventeenth-Century Japanese Castle Town (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1982).

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Development for Preservation 5

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9

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Once the country’s fourth largest city by population, Kanazawa is now the eighteenth largest city in Japan. Iwanami Shashin Bunko Henshu–-bu, Kanazawa, vol. 93, Iwanami Shashin Bunko (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1953). Karl Schriftgiesser, Business Comes of Age (New York: Harper Brothers, 1960), p. vi. – yu–kai, ‘Zenkoku kaiin taikai ho – koku-kai oyobi Kanazawa Keizai Do – ni kan suru kondankai kaisai’, in Kanazawa Keizai Do– yu–, no. 6 kanko (1960). – ka,’ in Kanazawa Keizai Donald K. David, ‘Toshi no saikaihatsu to jitsugyo Do– yu–, no. 28 (1963). – , ‘Ishikawa kenka no kanko – jigyo – ’, in Kanazawa Keizai Shinbo Tatsusaburo – – Do yu, no. 23 (1962). Yamaguchi Kenji, ‘Hozon to kaihatsu’, in Kanazawa Keizai Do– yu–, no. 30 (1963). Yamaguchi’s presentation came less than a year before the outbreak of the Kyoto Tower controversy, one of the most important preservation battles in post-war Japan. For a brief description of the debates, told by a primary – , Rekishiteki kankyo– to machizukuri (Tokyo: participant, see Nishiyama Uzo Toshi Bunka-sha, 1990), pp. 6–8. – yu–kai’s twentieth anniversary volume provides a chronology of all The Do the events sponsored by the organization each year. Kanazawa Keizai – yu–kai (ed.), Kanazawa keizai do– yu–kai 20-nen no ayumi (Kanazawa: Do – yu–kai, 1977). Kanazawa Keizai Do – Osaragi Jiro, ‘Hakai sareru shizen’, in Asahi Shinbun (evening edition), pp. 8–12, February 1965. – yu–kai newsletter The text of Kiuchi’s presentation was printed in the Do – , ‘Hozon to kaihatsu’, in Kanazawa in November 1965: Kiuchi Shinzo Keizai Do– yu–, no. 53 (1965). The conflict over the proposed Matsushima Tower was particularly bitter and drawn out, finally dropping out of the national press in September 1960. The tower was never built. Coverage of the time provides analysis of the implications of these disputes for the Commission: see, in particu– /kyo – : meisho – arashi to tokai arashi’, in Asahi Shinbun, 4 March lar, ‘Kino – shitei-chi o arasu na: Taisaku ni te o yaku bunkazai hogo-i’, 1960; ‘Meisho Asahi Shinbun, 2 March 1960. – yu–kai (ed.), Kanazawa keizai do– yu–kai 20-nen no ayumi, Kanazawa Keizai Do p. 42. The proposal, an accompanying essay by the committee chair Motooka – , and an overview by the Do – yu–kai’s secretary, Yamaguchi Kenji, Saburo were published together in the January 1967 issue of the newsletter. – yu–kai (Hozon to Kaihatsu Iinkai), ‘Hozon taisho – no Kanazawa Keizai Do –, bunrui’, in Kanazawa Keizai Do– yu–, no. 58 (1967); Motooka Saburo ‘Kanazawa no hozon to kaihatsu mondai zakkan’, in Kanazawa Keizai Do– yu–, no. 58 (1967); Yamaguchi Kenji, ‘Hozon to kaihatsu iinkai ni tsuite’, in Kanazawa Keizai Do– yu–, no. 58 (1967).

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20 21

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Kanazawa-shi Toshi Kensetsu-bu (Midori to Hana no Ka), 20-nen no ayumi: Kanazawa-shi dento– kankyo– hozon jo– rei seitei (Kanazawa: Kanazawa-shi, 1988), pp. 13–17. Ibid., p. 129. Protection of the Nagamachi district was expanded considerably (from 1.94 to 9.56 hectares) with the first amendment to the 1968 ordinance, put into effect on 1 October 1982. Ibid., pp. 129–35. Curator Motoyasu Hiroshi, Ishikawa Prefectural Musem of History, Interview, 23 April 2002. Kanazawa-shi Toshi Kensetsu-bu (Midori to Hana no Ka), 20-nen no ayumi, pp. 63–7. André Sorensen, The Making of Urban Japan: Cities and Planning from Edo to the Twenty-first Century (London: Routledge, 2002), pp. 299–300. Kanazawa-shi Toshi Kensetsu-bu (Midori to Hana no Ka), 20-nen no ayumi, p. 12. Steven R. Reed, Japanese Prefectures and Policymaking (Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 1986), p. 52. Two contrasting versions of the events surrounding the failed designation of Higashi Chaya-machi may be found in Kanazawa-shi Toshi Kensetsu-bu (Midori to Hana no Ka), 20-nen no ayumi, p. 20, and Tanaka Yoshio, ‘Kaihatsu to hozen: Kanazawa “kyu– higashi no kuruwa” o chu–shin to shite’, in Chiri 22, no. 6 (1977). Pierre Nora, ‘Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire’, in Representations 26, Spring (1989). Ibid., p. 7. Ibid., p. 12. Ibid., pp. 11–12. Ibid., p. 12. Ibid., p. 7. I have left the resident’s name out of my text in recognition of his continued prominence in the city.

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The Remembrance of the 1871 Nakano Uprising in Takayama Village as a Contemporary Trauma in Village Life Today SELÇUK ESENBEL

INTRODUCTION

T

he trauma about the past survives in our present memory. For many Japanese residents of Takayama village today, remembrance of the 1871 Nakano Uprising encapsulates a collective and personal trauma of the present, even though none could have seen or experienced the event that happened more than a century ago, just after the 1868 Meiji Restoration. In my view, the suppression of the Nakano uprising by the ‘modern state’ of Japan as represented by the new Meiji regime, catapulted the entry of the people in this region into the history of modern Japan as silent victims who suffered under a permanent label of having been ‘traitors’ to the new imperial polity that suggests why this memory of the past is still in some respects even today so traumatic for the surviving members of Takayama village (or, formerly, Takaino village). If they had been peasant rebels of the feudal Tokugawa era which had ended only a few years ago in 1868, probably, the memory of this defeat would not have caused such a painful wound in the village collective psyche for the following generations. Thus the story of this traumatic memory is actually more about the political regime of twentieth century Japan and the underlying rhythm of life memory in rural Japanese communities than about the events of 1871 per se. This article will attempt to understand the rural twentieth century memory of Takayama and it will hope to reflect upon the personal experiences of this author concerning the trauma of memory of contemporary Takayama residents.

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A mountain village spread out in the valley going up to Yamada springs in Takai mountain, Takayama village, a large community of about 5,000 residents is located east of Nagano city in central Japan that is part of Nagano – or Shinano province of historic Japan noted for prefecture, the old Shinshu its rugged mountains inhabited by rustic highlanders. Takayama was called Takaino during the Tokugawa period (1603–1867) and belonged to the tenryo– , ‘celestial domains’ of the Tokugawa Shogunate, the feudal government of Japan (also bakufu), the national military rulers of Japan between 1603 and 1867 until the Meiji Restoration brought a new political elite to power. This is a story of the role of memory for the Takaino peasants and their descendants today concerning the 1871 Nakano uprising which their forefathers had organized as a militant protest against the high taxes demanded by the new regime, but it is also the story of the author herself evolving as a historian of modern Japanese history who chose to study this uprising many years ago. My encounter with the uprising memory of the Takaino inhabitants began while I first undertook research on the topic of this early Meiji revolt in Nagano city and Takayama village during the autumn and winter of 1977 as part of my research for a PhD in Japanese history. This experience was followed by subsequent visits in 1983 and 1999, and continued communication during these years which has formed my lasting relationship with the community to this day. Back in 1977, the memory of the uprising for present day Takayama residents did not entail the major topic in my intellectual agenda then, although I had taken note of its significance from my personal experience talking to the village residents. The result of these series of encounters and my research on the topic was the volume Even the Gods Rebel that came out in 1998 and which can be seen as my ‘historical narrative’ of the event that was profoundly inspired from the Annales school perspective which had impressed me in my graduate years. Hence, the analysis went beyond the 1871 event and attempted a long durée analysis of the political, social and economic processes of the community in the region.1 I was particularly inspired by the works of the grand historian of the French Annales école, Emmanuel LeRoy Ladurie on the Peasants of Lanquedoc and Montaillou as examples of local peasant community studies which bore into the roots of conflict in the existing social and economic conditions. The conclusion of my dissertation was that the village community had not suffered that much under the feudal regime as is commonly argued. However, they suffered abruptly for the change of governance to centralized authority from Tokyo and stiff tax demands of the radically minded Meiji authorities who desperately needed cash for the army and the project of the modern state. The final revised version of the dissertation was published in 1998 in book form with a new title that added the words Evens the Gods Rebel, referring to my growing awareness of the role of Shinto– traditions in forming the mentality and organizational foundation of Japanese peasant rebellion (ikki) while I pursued my

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investigation on the topic after it had been finished as a dissertation which had led me to materials of a cultural/religious character. Still, the study, in the final analysis, was primarily based on the available written documents on the topic in which I made a brief reference to the memory of the event as a traumatic one for the surviving members of the families who had experienced the catastrophic events of the 1871 uprising and the subsequent government tough measures of suppression leading to the severe punishments of Takaino peasants.1 THE TAKAYAMA UPRISING AND TAKAYAMA IDENTITY According to my narrative in the Rebels study, the Nakano uprising was one of the yonaoshi, ‘world renewal’ uprisings of the early Meiji years that sparked off an upheaval of unprecedented violence and destruction in this mountainous hinterland of central Honshu–. The upheaval had begun in the mountain village of Takaino just south of Nakano town, the seat of local government, the Nakano tenryo– , one of the celestial domains belonging to the central feudal government the Tokugawa Shogunate, or Bakufu, which had been toppled by the 1868 Restoration. The new government which had been established in the new nation’s capital Tokyo had recently converted all shogunal land to prefectures (ken) after the 1868 Meiji Restoration in this region as well in the transition to centralized administration, meaning that the new regime had taken over the territories of the old Bakufu. However, at the moment, the feudal domains belonging to the 270 odd great lords, daimyo– , were still left under the authority of their lords who had been appointed as governors. Immediately after the restoration – gun himself but also the domainal lords had been pernot only the sho suaded to return their feudal charters to the emperor, in effect the new national government that had been established in the new capital Tokyo. But the former domain lords were temporarily left in their former realms as governors. In fact, the complete abolishing of the feudal domainal governments of Japan was to take place in the summer of 1871, months after the suppression of the uprising in Nakano and the executions. My impression is that the decision in Tokyo was accelerated as a result of the social upheaval of those years. Peasant rebellions in former territories of the defunct shogunal polity such as the Nakano uprising were to be pivotal events that alarmed the new political elite in Tokyo and caused them to accelerate the steps to total abolishment of the former domainal system of local government with the measure of haihan chiken, abolishing the domains and establishing the prefectural form of national administration.2 The Nakano eruption soon enveloped the whole region in a destructive upheaval resulting in the destruction of village homes, stores, mills in more than 150 villages – at some point involving a spree of violence involving 150,000 people, an unprecedented violent upheaval for this region. By the end of the three day revolt between 8 and 11 February 1871, the fury of the peasant who felt unjustly treated by the stiff tax

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demands of the new Meiji government in Tokyo knew no bounds. They burned down the governor’s office in Nakano and killed, by lynching, – two officials, the aide to the governor Otsuka Masatoku, a samurai of – Shizuoka, and Hanzo the gatekeeper. Nakano town was in ruins and lost forever its dominant position in the economy of the region. The major houses and stores of the wealthy peasant landlords, the o– mae ‘big name’ great families, and the merchants of the town who were targeted as the especially hated enemy of the common folk, the komae ‘small ones’ of the villages, were burned and smashed in a millenarian anger of levelling. An unusually violent event, especially with the murders of two samurai officials, murders being rarely experienced even in the history of revolts in late Tokugawa and early Meiji Japan, the uprising provoked a swift military occupation of the region by an army of a thousand hardened troops from Kyu–shu–, the seat of the revolutionary army, who set out inflicting systematic violence by raiding the villages and harassing the men and women. After a brief military tribunal formed by the Tokyo authorities, tough punishments were meted out to the local residents with the obvious objective of creating an example to instate the central government’s power over the local population who were considered to be an ominous threat to the regime by the leaders in Tokyo. The event revealed the discrepancy in the dual form of local government which co-existed in Japan between the new national prefectural administration of former Bakufu lands and the survival of the traditional domainal administrations of former daimyo– now governors in their traditional realms. The Nakano event had been the last outbreak after a series of similar peasant revolts in neighbouring Matsushiro and Susaka domains that had erupted a few weeks ago on 15 January 1871. These domainal revolts had momentarily been successful. Peasants – Sanada of had had their demands accepted by the local ruler Daimyo Matsushiro, and subsequently by the Susaka authorities as well. These previous peasant victories were to remain as a significant factor in the memory formation of the local population in Nakano who thought that the lord Sanada, who met the peasants at the gate of his castle on a white horse, had acted justly befitting the expected behaviour of a traditional feudal lord who was expected to act according to the norms of a moral economy. Late Tokugawa period feudal administrations in this region had become a series of local arrangements and compromises with the local peasant elites, perhaps because of the inroads of commercial life that brought wealth into the region or the political reality of the Bakufu government which increasingly avoided large scale peasant discontent that might endanger its national authority. For Nakano area peasants, therefore, a virtuous lord was supposed to hear the distress of the peasants in times of need and was expected to take appropriate measures – of for reducing their taxes or solving other problems. Sanada daimyo Matsushiro had just played out this role that raised expectations in the tenryo– public as well for similar concessions.

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The precedence of peasant victories in Shinano with the succumbing of the local daimyo– to the tax reduction demands of the rebels, coupled with samurai-led revolts in other regions of Japan that year, was an ominous development for the Tokyo authorities, however. The eruption of a series of revolts in the Shinano region, especially their initial victories in forcing the local administrators to reduce taxes, convinced Kido – in, a major figure in the government, to bring Saigo – Takamori, the Ko commander-in-chief of the revolutionary army who was briefly away from the capital back into the government and accelerate radically the plans for abolishing all domains and instating a centralized mode of prefectures, namely abolishing feudal autonomous entities for good.3 In hindsight, the immediate suppression and tough punishment of the Nakano uprising in 1871 became an excuse for the Tokyo authorities for immediately establishing central government controls over all of the territories which would abolish feudal domainal autonomy for good. The extraordinary harsh treatment of the people in Nakano Prefecture (ken) was meant to be a show of force that differed sharply from the relatively ‘moderate’ handling of the Matsushiro and Susaka revolts by local daimyo– . The Tokyo authorities overruled the concessions – and others. The Restoration Army which came all of Sanada daimyo – the way from Kyushu– island occupied the region. In Nakano, the direct occupation by the Restoration Army and the subsequent military tribunal created a harsh martial law occupation of the prefecture. The Nakano revolt while similar to the Matsushiro and Susaka ones, would be judged as against the new government because the territory was a national prefecture already whereas the contemporary domainal revolts next door were deemed as local skirmishes against the feudal vestiges of old, a fine point of political manipulation which Nakano peasants simply found unfair and continued to feel that they were specially victimized, a feeling that survives to this day. Hundreds of Nakano villagers were arrested and interrogated. Torture was common practice. And many did not survive imprisonment. On 4 April 1871, the trial officials announced a verdict punishing the peasants of having committed crimes as cho– teki, or ‘enemies of the Imperial Court’. The Nakano rebels were permanently branded as traitors to the emperor, a political crime that had not entered their mind at all. Reflecting the tough political vision of the Meiji authorities, punishments were meted out as twenty-eight persons, nineteen of whom were from Takaino were executed the very same day including the headman of Takaino, Uchiyama Oriemon of Mizusawa district in the village who was beheaded as the ringleader. The local wealthy landlord of the region, one of the wealthiest farmers of Nakano tenryo– , Kubota Juemon, a Takaino village official who had been active in leading the petitions drive prior to the outbreak of the peasant rebellion (ikki) died in prison after being repeatedly tortured. Refusing to sign a confession admitting to his guilt, Kubota was to be revered as a martyr for the peasant cause.

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What remained as a particularly painful memory to the families of the peasants to this day after more than a century was that all of the peasants who were punished in some form were condemned by the tribunal to be ‘enemies of the Imperial Court’ (cho– teki), an idea that had not entered the mind of these traditional peasants for whom the fight was about injustice and high taxes in the familiar feudal tradition of Tokugawa peasant ikki. The trauma of the Takayama locals today stems in great part from this legal decision, which is, by the way, still in force, that their forefathers had been traitors to the Meiji Emperor.4 We also need to reflect upon the self-image of the Takaino peasants back in the Edo period which continued in the post-Meiji Restoration era in order to understand the trauma of the executions of 1871. The catastrophic event destroyed the Takaino communities specially privileged status as the leader village of the Takai valley mountain communities ever since the seventeenth century in political, economic, social and religious affairs. Takaino village housed the seat of the Takai mountain deity whose shrine is housed in the village today and the villagers were in charge of the ceremonies associated with the legends ascribed to Takai – shrine Mountain. To this day, the community is the site of the Shinto worship for the mountain and organizes the annual religious festival for the whole region. Late Tokugawa and Meiji documents show that Takaino peasants saw themselves as a community of rustic mountain villagers with ancient communal traditions, a self image that keeps repeating itself in subsequent village publications to this day. During the Tokugawa period, Takaino village leaders are referred to as the torishimari, a supra village administrative position, or the leader of the honourable nine villages of the valley, who acted as interlocutors for the mountain people with the local samurai authorities whose headquarters was the Daikan office in Nakano town located in the great plains. Records indicate that this strong communal political tradition was at the basis of Takaino’s leadership of the rebellion against the new authorities in 1871. After the punishments, Takaino no longer remained as the leader village of the area as it had been under the Tokugawa although its large size always meant that the community carried weight in local affairs.5 The administrative change which was part of the revolutionary changes going on in Tokyo since 1868 had actually exacerbated the difficulties experienced by the local people in addition to the economic turmoil that was experienced in the region as in other parts of Japan as a result of the fiscal chaos with the Meiji Restoration and generally bad crop conditions. Typical of the revolutionary ardour of these early years, the new governor Takaishi of Nakano pushed zealously the stiff demands of the Tokyo regime for high taxes, bent on revising old ways and disregarding the dire conditions of the locality. According to the Tokugawa accounts, Nakano region was known as a poor area with a high level of tenancy, but also the stronghold of extended families which claimed descent from the landed samurai prior to the Tokugawa who had remained

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in the rural world as peasants. Hence strong communal and family ties also cut across the abject inequality in economic and social conditions among the poor tenant farmers and the few well-off peasants and landlord peasants who frequently filled important political positions and professed old elite status. Dominated by the hardy mountain peasants who adhered to ancient communal customs and practices, most villages eked out a hard earned living off the modest amount of land available in the valleys for agriculture, only suitable for growing mostly dry grains of wheat and barley or soya rather than paddy rice. Living in the well situated valleys which went down along the banks of narrow rushes of water that formed the numerous rivers of the area, mountain peasants especially of the Takai district where Takayama the scene of the 1871 uprising exists today, formed a distinct rural culture with its particular social and economic way of life where strong communal ties and ageold customs are said to have been kept alive in isolated, long-established village communities intimately tied to the use of the mountain ranges that cut off this eastern edge of Shinano province with Echizen. The assessment of the region in the Edo period records of the villages repeatedly stressed the special dire circumstances of these proud honbyakusho– , an attribute that the local peasants also frequently made sure would be effectively used in their self-description to the authorities especially for tax deductions. However, Nakano mountain village farmers noticeably had become major participants in recent years in the late Tokugawa period after 1853 with the commercialized economy of the region in silk worm production and exports via Yokohama to Europe. The inroad of international trade in late feudal Tokugawa Japan that was forcibly opened by the United States in 1853 with the arrival of Commodore Perry’s fleet in Shimoda Bay, had already transformed the social and economic scene in the Nakano region as in many other areas especially in Shinano province which become a major exporter of silk products to the global markets for the rest of Japan’s economic modernization until the 1929 Great Depression. Poor peasants had gained an important side income. The well-off peasant landlords showed signs of developing entrepreneurial schemes by exporting silk products. The ensuing fiscal and economic turmoil of the late Tokugawa and early Meiji years however had made this new economic sector vulnerable to social and economic crisis as well, crushing the economic conditions of the villages even more.6 This image of Takaino as a mountain village with strong community solidarity customs survives to this day in the recent ‘reinvention’ of Takayama as a community that lives in serenity in an especially beautiful natural haven within high mountains amidst forests of Japanese cedars and pine. According to the popular brochures and books about Takaino published today, this is a community with its own distinct interesting stories and ancient historical legacies. The popular publications mostly written by the village historians and educational committee

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under the tutelage of the Mura yakuba, village office staff, intend to pass this fine heritage to the young people of the community and to visitors as a tourist locale. The Winter Olympic Games, which took place in the Kami Yamada region next door in 1995, appears to have provided the incentive for this image making in Takayama by encouraging the publication of materials on the heritage of the village which mostly puts emphasis on the beauties of nature and the folklore of the village with hardly any reference to the 1871 uprising. During my research, I have used an early twentieth century local village almanac published in 1936 by Nagano prefecture which already expresses this rugged and old fashioned mountain village identity that continues the Tokugawa-Meiji self-image into the 1930s. In the 1936 publication, the Takaino inhabitants are described as having a ‘courageous temperament of honour’, a community of hardy peasants who ‘though not culturally developed, had preserved simple and honest old fashioned ways’. However, the same almanac does not refer at all to the most dramatic event of Takaino history, the 1871 Nakano uprising which reveals to us the existing censorship of this catastrophic event in village memory by the contents of local publications after the Meiji period. Therefore, I want to draw attention to this extraordinary survival of community self-censorship both in everyday communication and in Takayama village publications that draws our attention to the existing trauma about the uprising, especially the execution of family patriarchs as traitors, within the social relations of Takayama in the context of the existing debate about memory and place as methods for historical inquiry. HISTORY AND MEMORY Historians have begun to ascribe special attention to the importance of living memory of individuals and communities that have undergone traumatic experiences as a valuable source which documents as oral history important historic experiences which are frequently deleted or in most cases rationalized out of the written narratives for political reasons. The case of national histories that avoid addressing socially and politically unacceptable events in the past of that nation which would be detrimental to the interests of the state is a well-known case in point. Frequently these memories are also disregarded because historians who depend on the written documents usually reflecting the perspectives of the metropolitan academic institutions have distanced themselves from the existing information about historical events at the local level from the cultural legacy of the inhabitants whose individual, family, and communal experiences represent an account that gets untold in the construction of the historical narrative by the historians of a distant psychological geography. The study of memory in France about the political and social trauma of the Vichy Syndrome has opened up the field of the study of collective

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memory as a subject in history. French studies have revealed that the post-war construction of French memory as the victory of the résistance contradicted in many respects the actuality of the collaboration or at least benign passive co-existence of many French citizens with the reality of the Vichy regime. Henry Rousso7 discusses the field of memory as plural, evolving, living phenomena that in its evolution and ‘distortions’ constitute historical information about the impact of events and their meaning for the survivors. The Vichy Syndrome, for Rousso, represents the changing meaning of wartime memory for historians and discussions in the French public about identity, the question of antiSemitism, personal histories, etc. Interestingly enough, Rousso argues that the study of British historian Robert Aron on the broken mirror of the post-war claim on the resistance as the primary agent of French historical experience paved the way for the resurgence of a critical appraisal of the memory of the Vichy regime among French historians, reflective of the role that foreign scholars ‘alien to the trauma of the event’ can play in breaking the ice with respect to a self-censored topic of the past within a historical community which experienced the event. To me this is an analogy which perhaps explains my role in the subsequent events in Takayama village after the publication of Even the Gods Rebel, which acted as a catalyst for the community to verbalize the 1871 Nakano uprising trauma in a town meeting which took place in 1999 where I spoke for the first time in a public event about the 1871 Nakano uprising.8 TAKAINO AS THE MATRIX OF UPRISING MEMORY Takaino village has continued to be the matrix of uprising memory for the descendants of the victims and the families of the village at large, reinforcing the continuation of a psychological trauma. The editors of the recent Takaino village almanac which finally came out in 2005 with a detailed account for the first time, prefer to refer to Takayama village as a ‘site for the silent mourning of the uprising’ for generations after more than a century has passed over the executions.9 But, in truth, there is no specific site for mourning the 1871 victims in Takayama village. So the whole village then is a site for mourning in silence. Edward S. Casey exposes a philosophical argument in which he pays attention to the significance of place as the concrete setting of local culture that has been minimized in importance with the awareness of the linearity of modern time and the infinity in the extendibility of space, both reinforcing the essentialist and universalistic claim on historical processes. Casey has argued that the displacement of place, real places that contest and reverse the Utopian sites within a given society, constitute heterotopias or real places such as cemeteries, gardens, places of crisis, punishment, treatment. In our case, this would mean the hidden grave sites of the executed Takaino peasants in present day Takayama

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village constitute such heterotopia sites. Casey’s argument brings back the significance of place as local knowledge, cultural geography. The place is the matrix, a medium in which something is bred, produced or developed.10 Susannah Radstone and Katharine Hodgkin discuss the issue of memory from a rich array of perspectives including the historical, psychological methodologies, referring to the role of art, cultural institutions, body gestures, concept of time in regimes of memory today with reference to the historical changes since the early modern age in European culture.11 Alessandro Portelli’s seminal work on oral history as method has outlined the contribution of oral history to archival methodology of historians. Suppressed memories and oral history therefore serve as a method to bring out the elusive quality of historical truth. The authors discuss the search for justice of being recognized as a victim and redemption that is particularly relevant to the understanding of the Takayama trauma about the uprising.12 Portelli’s study of the murder of the Italian worker Trastulli in anti-NATO demonstrations of 1946 reveals that it remains an unsettled account and problem of return of respectability of those executed still lingers. The situation is very similar to the Takayama residents for whom the return of respectability for their forefathers executed in 1871 remains to be a lingering problem that is not easy to solve even after so many years for it would require a new legal decision on part of the Ministry of Justice or a special amnesty passed in the Japanese Diet in Tokyo. The unspeakable as traumatic memory is very relevant to Takaino where the topic became a taboo after 1871 and could not be publicly discussed until 1999 when the publication and the author’s public lecture on Even the Gods Rebel enabled the community to confront the emotional side of the memory for the first time. Takaino offers for us the site where the ‘silent’ long memory about the uprising, which for the generations of local families since 1868, still shape the self-image of Takayama residents for whom the events associated with the uprising, even in later years, stand out in their broken narratives as very important turning points of modern Japanese history. Yet, for us, the urban and intellectual memories of Japan as a society are shaped by the questions of the recollection or amnesia concerning the so-called larger turning points in Japanese history, such as the Second World War, the Atomic Bomb, the post-war reconstruction of Japanese society. We forget that rural memory in small communities of Japan is probably very different regarding the Japanese twentieth century experience than the intellectual/mediatized memory that we confront in metropolitan Japan such as Tokyo.13 For me, the memory of the Nakano uprising for the Takayama residents that survived in modern Japanese society reflects Walter Benjamin’s discussion of the traces of the truth from the past in memory that survives in modern society and surfaces suddenly as flashes of remembrance.14 Takaino offers an example of such a site

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where silenced memory of a distant catastrophe that has survived as immediate memory still exists. REMEMBRANCE IN TAKAINO My first encounter with the problem of memory in Takayama began when I arrived in today’s Takayama in the fall of 1977 as a graduate student after months of research with the historians of Nagano Prefectural History Committee (Nagano kenshi kanko– kai) in the grounds of the prefectural office in Nagano city. My colleagues and mentors, Professors Yanagisawa and Furukawa, had already gently cautioned me that the residents of the village were still uncomfortable about this traumatic event in their history. So I should not expect immediate response to my questions. I spent the rest of that year working comfortably in the village administrative office (yakuba) where the elders of the village administrative office, Mr Kubota and Mr Matsuyama, welcomed me and showed me to the room where the village archival material was kept in a wooden (kiri) chest. While reading and taking photographs of representative materials which were really more about the history of Takaino in the Tokugawa era, I gradually developed the perspective of the work which I chose to adopt which was to be a long durée approach on the history of the peasants of Takaino that would go beyond the documents about the immediate event. This hopefully would make my study an interactive study of the village and the uprising. Better yet, not many people had studied this event even though the topic of peasant uprisings was quite well researched in Japan during the 1970s as it had already constituted a classic topic of an ongoing theoretical debate about the nature of Japanese capitalism in Japan. The topic of peasant rebellions in Tokugawa Japan had also just gained importance in the US academy as a major issue of conflict in Japanese history. – chi, an historian of Tokugawa Before myself, only the late Yokochi Jo peasant ikki who had had an untimely death recently, had been in that room in the Takayama village documentation office. I felt especially nervous when I discovered that the bundle of documents in the kiri chest had last been pored over by Yokochi, who used some in his chapter on Nakano upheaval (so– do– ) in his seminal work on Shinano uprisings, which was published posthumously by his friends and colleagues – ji Kichinosuke.15 Having been already told with an introduction by Sho of the sensitivity of the residents about the event, I chose to ask questions on the uprising sparingly and in a very general way so as not to insult the sensibilities of these two gentlemen and the staff of the office who were showing hospitality to this rather strange figure – a Turkish woman from Istanbul having suddenly appeared at their door. Since I was not from the United States which would be at least not so unusual as there were many American scholars in Japanese Studies, I remember the first day that I arrived when my hosts had spread out a world map

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on the table and pointed out to me Turkey on the map commenting excitedly about how I came from all the way there. While I was studying in the archive room during 1977, Mr Kubota and Mr Matsuyama started dropping by regularly to say hello and share a cup of tea. As the conversation inevitably led to the uprising, they began voluntarily offering personal reminisces from stories they heard when they were children. One of them insisted that some families in the village have blamed Kubota Juemon, the powerful landlord of the region, the o– gumigashira of Takaino, a village officer, who died while being tortured for three months during the military tribunal after the uprising was suppressed. The accusation was that Kubota, who was quite an ambitious character, instigated the community into this revolt in an irresponsible manner causing the calamity which ruined so many thereafter. The records in the village office and the documents pertaining to the uprising in the Matsushiro domain records indicate to us that the Nakano uprising began as a communal organization of Takaino with full solidarity among the rich and poor and the unanimous decision of the village council to be followed by the Takai-gun villages which traditionally belonged to the local kumiai or district organization of the area. Kubota’s name is on every petition which was submitted to the governor’s office prior to the uprising that indicated the acceleration of tension in the region when the traditional process of nanushi, headman, petition appeals was given no consideration at all by the Nakano authorities. However, the fact that he refused to the end to sign a confession which was necessary to finalize the verdict, which would have resulted in execution in his case as well, has made Kubota Juemon into an enigmatic figure, a hero for some, a victim, or gimin, for the cause of the Takaino peasants. This was the gist of the treatment of Kubota in the academic work available at the time on the Nakano uprising which constituted at that time only an article by the historians Aoki and the brief chapter in the work of Yokochi, who had subscribed to the public academic image of the man as a hero, perhaps coloured by the progressive views of the authors in the academy. I was given a copy of this fine collection of articles with the comment that the publication had caused a flurry of responses in the village with some criticizing the public acknowledgment of the event, or at least the version given of the uprising in academic studies. The publications which reflected the social and economic history perspective of politically progressive (Socialist or Communist Party) images were very much part of the social historians’ perspective at the time which put an emphasis on the rightful defiance of the people and with a political economy analysis of the class analysis of the region. The Aoki group had managed to collect a most valuable set of interviews with some residents, mostly comments by elderly men and women who remembered stories about how the Meiji soldiers harassed the community and that the community fled to the woods shouting that the akaoni (red devils, referring to the uniform of the Kyu–shu– troops wore) were

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coming. The stories were already dramatic narratives of memories of the – – zo – , executed for the murder of O uprising: that young Ko tsuka, from Kubo-gumi district in Takaino whose members dominated those executed, spat on the ground heroically and his blood shot out like a rainbow, or, that the sound of the execution device brought in from Tokyo which sounded like a guillotine made a scary cracking thump as it fell on the head of the victims. I have incorporated those stories into my account, but back then I did not analyse them as part of the ongoing memory which remained almost like a wound in the village psyche, at least for some people. At some point during my stay, I asked about the graves of those eighteen Takaino peasants who were executed, having been already warned by my Nagano friends that the graves were undisclosed to all, I was not surprised to be answered that nobody knew where they were buried and that they were probably hidden away in unknown sites. I felt that this information was probably not true, but I respected the opinion that my Takayama hosts preferred not to tell me about them. Hence, as it will be noticed in my introduction for Even the Gods Rebel, I sufficed with the comment that the uprising has left bitter memories in the village to this day. After I completed my dissertation, I had a chance to visit Takaino, present day Takayama, in 1983 again, and this time I went to the village with Professor Furukawa to present a copy of the dissertation to him and another copy to the village as an expression of my gratitude for their help in its preparation. On this occasion, again we were able to meet with the village educational committee members who then took me to the set of tomb stones at the back of the Kubota family home and showed us the stone of Kubota Juemon. Again, for the rest of the victims, the comment was ‘Nobody knows.’ My full understanding of the extent of the village inner dynamics about the memory of the uprising really deepened during my final visit to Takayama in the winter of 1999, one year after the publication of Even the Gods Rebel in the United States. I had the opportunity to visit Nagano prefecture in late January of 1999 and again met with Professors Furukawa and Yanagisawa. When I was a visiting scholar in Tokyo, I again slipped away to Nagano on my own whenever I had the opportunity to visit Japan. On this occasion, I visited the new history museum and research centre, the Nagano Rekishi Hakubutsukan. I formally presented published copies of the Even the Gods Rebel volume, which had just come out, to my friends and the museum. I saw that this was an occasion of joy for all of us. The local village paper held an interview with me about the book. We made plans that when I visited Japan again next autumn that we would all go to Takayama again and I would personally present a copy of the book to the village library. The discussion was that perhaps this would be an occasion that would help break the public silence about the public discussion of the uprising by the community. For example, a problem that had remained was that Takayama was probably one

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of the very few villages in Nagano prefecture which had not written a sonshi, a village history, a common scholarly activity in many Japanese villages which have such a highly literate culture. The major handicap for this delay was we surmised, the fact that nobody could agree on how the Nakano upheaval should be treated in the almanac, indicating to this day how this memory continued to impact on the public perception of ‘village event’ even in 1999 – more than a century after its occurrence. My final visit to Takayama took place in December of 1999, when the village office’s historical society asked me to give a talk to the community, which would be the first such public conference on the topic directly addressing the residents to date. With great excitement and a degree of premonition, we arrived in Takayama on 10 December 1999 and had a very talkative emotional meeting in the village office with Mr Aoki Hiroyasu and many members of the village staff who started dropping in to greet us. I presented a copy of the book for the village library. I even met a friend who again remembered me from back in 1977, apparently he gave me a lift to the train station many times when it snowed, and he had come that day for the meeting. Mr Aoki and the others commented that they were a bit nervous whether there would be enough of a turn-out considering that the subject matter was touchy. In fact, the meeting was to be initially held in a modest sized seminar room and the historical society was quite satisfied if only fifteen or twenty people came. However, word came that there was such a turn-out that plans were made immediately to move the talk to the elementary school auditorium that could seat more people. When I came to the lecture hall, there were at least a hundred men and women, and some children, who had all come to listen to this story about the Nakano uprising. After a brief introduction, I gave my talk in Japanese covering a brief outline of the book, showing some graphs and basically transmitting my analysis of the uprising as part of the history of the political traditions in the village and also some commentary on the economic conditions concerning silk worm commercialization. The main point of the talk was that the Takaino peasants had developed a strong mechanism of negotiation with the Tokugawa governors (daikan) over an annual rate of taxation. During the 1871 ikki, the peasants called this ‘the Tokugawa family arrangement’. The fact that the peasants positively referred to this arrangement shows clearly that taxes had in fact declined in the late Tokugawa period and not increased, as is generally argued. The second point was that this was a communal uprising, in which everybody had agreed. And this consensus is reflected by the fact that no uchikowashi, or smashing of the wealthy, took place in the Kami Takai-gun villages, which formed the initial organization under the leadership of Takaino, and that under the circumstances of the day, it was justifiable. By the middle of the talk, I realized that the lecture was creating an emotional impact that at least I was not prepared for. Quite a few in the audience

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were looking at me with great intensity and emotion. There was a middle aged woman sitting in the front row who was constantly crying, wiping her face with a white handkerchief. A man was sitting next to her in farmer’s clothes with muddy boots as if he had just come straight from the fields with a worker’s white bandana wrapped around his forehead. He again was listening with great intensity, visibly moved. I had the feeling that what I was saying was maybe not that important but that somebody was addressing the event at all was what was significant for the mood of the audience. After prolonged applause, people started asking questions. The first question was by a gentleman in the audience who asked whether I could confirm the exact number of Takaino executed, as apparently there was a controversy about the topic. I answered that it was actually listed in the Matsushiro final verdicts as twenty-two people but that all other accounts cite eighteen or nineteen depending on whether they include the death of Kubota in the number. Apparently twenty-two was probably the correct number. Another important question was from a young politician who was a member of the Nagano prefecture council. His question was quite rhetorical. He asked what I as a foreign scholar of this topic would comment on the question of whether these victims of the uprising ‘should have their honour restored’ (meiyou o kaesu beki ka nai ka). I answered that they had not lost their honour in the first place and that under the circumstances of the day, any one under these conditions would have revolted. I offered the explanation that the Nakano uprising had occurred more than a century ago and that it was already an academic subject as proven by my work on the subject. We discussed that this book could be of some use in the petition that will be placed in Tokyo that even a foreign scholar has studied this subject which will take the uprising out of its political and legal context. After this moving encounter, we were dined by the village historical society members who honoured us with a prayer to the ancestors of the village as an expression of their appreciation for the visit. Before leaving for our rooms in the local inn (ryokan), Mr Aoki said we should be ready the next day early in the morning with snow boots for we would trek off to visit the graves of the executed Takaino residents. The next morning we visited first the home of a Kubota-gumi resident local farmer, also an amateur village historian, Mr Katsuyama who greeted us. Then we started our journey hiking up into the deep forest with Mr Katsuyama as our lead following a map in his hand which was on white rice paper that I immediately remembered from back in 1977 as typical of the early Meiji documents in the kiri chest, with the graves drawn in ink (sumi) as crosses at designated locations deep within the forest. It was an extraordinary experience. We moved up the hill in such an uninhabited area that Mr Katsuyama had to cut open a path for us with a machete type knife through the dry wood and grass which had filled the forest. One by one we started seeing the lone tombstones placed in isolation in various

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locations within the forest. Some were mere rocks or large stones. Others were quite well carved tombstones with names chiselled on them. All of them had the same date of the day of execution on them. After this silent visit to the forest graves, we went up the hill into the public cemetery and here we visited some of the tombstones of family members whose stones had been moved into the public family cemeteries in the last ten years or so. Even in these cases, many of those stones that were finally brought into the family cemetery were somehow placed apart from the rest, or, were a simple rock in contrast to the elaborate sculpted stones that represented the rest of the family. The most disturbing scene in this journey into the past living in the present of Takayama today was when we visited, again in Kubo-gumi, the district from which most victims of the uprising came, the house of a woman who had hidden the stone of her ancestor who was executed in 1871 in the backyard of her cottage, placing various thrown away goods, wood planks and a number of roof tiles around the tombstone in such a way as to hide it away from the public eye. In fact, one could see that Mr Katsuyama was also disturbed about this and did not want to draw attention to the place in order not to be seen by the resident of the house who was fortunately away. He briefly pointed out the stone and in a quiet voice explained the pathetic scene and made a move to leave the premise. The other dramatic scene was in the public cemetery within the premises of Horinouchi district where the jagged edged tri– , whose name is chiselled on the rock again with angular rock of Kato the date of execution, stands upright in almost a gesture of defiance. The explanation was that the rock faced north in the direction of Nakano city, the seat of the Governor’s office of Nakano prefecture, which was burned down in a show of resentment. Both Mr Katsuyama and Mr Aoki explained that to this day there were a few in the village who refused to talk to Nakano families whom they blamed for this tragedy and in turn that Nakano residents to this day were not on speaking terms with Takayama people. To me, this journey which took a whole day until sunset was one of the most moving personal experiences that I have had in my life. More than twenty years had passed since I had arrived in this village and finally, maybe without realizing it, my research and book had invoked some kind of catharsis in that town meeting. This was a gesture of gratitude offered in friendship by the local Takayama residents. As we returned to our ryokan, the conversation moved to a rather spiritual theme partly in cheer but partly in sobriety that my life must have been destined by some previous karma back in Istanbul to forge this fated relation (goen) with Takayama so that the community could overcome their grief, maybe visiting the graves was a move of closure in this regard. My relations with Takayama will probably never end and will evolve as the memory of the uprising also evolves into new stages about the historic and personal self-identity of many Takayama residents as well as

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that of mine as a scholar of Japan in Istanbul with a special relationship to a mountain village in Japan. My friends, Professors Yanagisawa and Furukawa, interestingly enough, have commented that they would not have been invited to visit the graves because after all they are outsiders, but I suppose my position, as being so alien and so outside of any context in Japan, may have made it easier for the community to come to the meeting and for the historians of Takayama to escort us to the graves. Some unresolved issues still remain. Uchiyama Oriemon’s grave, the headman nanushi executed as the ringleader, is still in an undisclosed location. We visited all but his grave. Mr Aoki and Mr Katsuyama said they do not know where it is. I have a suspicion that this is because first he was from Mizusawa-gumi, an identity correction that I had discovered during my research, as the available records and the published material had mistaken him for another Oriemon of Araibara-gumi, also a rebel. This group consisted of relatively poor farmers and families of recent status unlike Kubo and Horinouchi from which the rest of those executed came and whose graves we visited. I think that since both of our guides were from Horinouchi and Kubo they did not feel it right to barge into Mizusawa. Another explanation that comes into my mind which probably no one can prove is that maybe Oriemon of Araibara was executed in place of Oriemon of Mizusawa who got away. This is not so unfeasible as oral accounts mention that many escaped into Echizen and Echigo for good. Furthermore, some years ago, the Japanese newspapers reported that the descendants of the ringleader of the famous Chichibu peasant uprising of 1881, the last peasant revolt of Japanese history against high – because his ancestor had covered land taxes, were discovered in Hokkaido – with a new identity. up his traces and escaped to Hokkaido THE TRAUMA OF MEMORY IN WRITING To this day, the only written account of the uprising by the Takayama community is a brief summary of the revolt in the beautiful history of Takayama through photographs that was published quite recently in 1996 by the Takai district history publications society (Takai gyoshi-shi kanko– kai). It illustrates the history of Takaino and Yamada villages, which in 1936 had united to constitute today’s Takayama village. But the so– do– account concerns Takaino alone, as Yamada stayed out of that organiza– sei University and a tion. The editor is Professor Yumoto Gun’ichi of Ho former member of Nagano prefecture history editorial committee. A close reading of the account gives us the basic known facts about the uprising; however there are some comments which reflect the villages historic understanding of the event as of 1996. The text deals with the issue of responsibility in an ambivalent manner by explaining in a detached manner that it is still not clear whether Takaino peasants started the revolt as accused in the first place. However there were dire circumstances such as destitution, fiscal chaos, and the twenty-one Takaino residents

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who lost their investments in the Hokushin company founded by Nakano merchants and landlords for silk worm exports that had just gone bankrupt. The start of the uprising is attributed to the mistaken assumption of regional villages who took the smoke of a funeral pyre in Kubo-gumi near Takamori shrine, the holiest ancient shrine of Takaino that houses the spirit of Takamori the grand son of Susanoo who is supposed to have settled in Takaino as an ancestral figure, also representing the deity of the mountain, as a sign of revolt. Of course, my assessment from looking at the interrogation records, where no such apologetic explanation was put forth, shows that the ringleaders of the ikki were Kubo-gumi peasants who always ran at the forefront of the uprising crowd and who were very militant throughout. They had been directly involved in the two murders during the attack on the Nakano prefecture office. In my opinion, the – festival (matsuri) uprising format had used the customary form of a Shinto in many of its practices which indicates that the Japanese matsuri and the ikki tradition share the same roots. Thus, to me it makes sense that the initial organization began in Takamori shrine which is the starting holy ground for the local matsuri as well. The account in the documents cited by the photographic history of the village give us new information about what happened in the first month of the fourth year of Meiji (1871), on the day when Takaino was hit hard by the Meiji troops who proceeded to arrest and round up hundreds from the village. Semponmatsu district participants hid up in the mountains. Mizunaka-gumi men huddled in fright in Tsukioi ancient castle ruins up in the deep forest. It is said that the women took food to them at night. On the twenty-seventh day of the second month, twenty-eight people from all over the region were executed, the number again in slight variance with the trial documentation that I had perused (six by decapitation, twenty-two by strangling and hanging). In addition, 124 men were punished with hard labour that of course ruined the livelihood of the families as able-bodied men were not available to work in the fields. Some were sent away as gang labour in reclamation projects. The account tells us that hundreds were punished in some way, and that this was unprecedented and an unimaginable harsh treatment, a comment indicative of the traumatic experience. The Takaino victims are here given as nineteen in all constituting the majority of those executed which made Takaino stand out publicly as the community accused for the uprising. The headman Oriemon was beheaded as the ringleader, three others from Kubo-gumi were beheaded, fifteen were – killed by strangling, most from Kubo-gumi, ten in all. Okumigashira Juemon is said to have stubbornly denied responsibility of the allegations, narrowly escaped execution but on the fifteenth day of the third month, he died under torture. The account which I have cited above from the 1996 history album gives for the first time the suffering of the rest of the community in detail. The text tells us that many others died of torture. Those released came home and immediately expired at the

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doorstep. It concludes that there are many such accounts but the true number of those who suffered is not known. The photo album account reveals the cause for the lingering of the communal disturbance about the event in the following narrative: ‘For more than a hundred years thereafter the talk of Nakano upheaval became taboo words of silence (anmoku no kinku). The reason is because of the attitude of the government to the bereaved families.’ What the authors of the volume explain here is a most striking example of the difference in the concept of historic time in Takayama which acts as a place of memories with a sense of local time unlike the time in the narrative of national history, and the forced silence that prolonged a traumatic memory of the event for so long. The account tells the reader that the Takayama residents lamented the fact that the ringleader of the Matsushiro upheaval, which took place only a month ago before the 1871 Nakano uprising, a Jiemon from Yamada village near Matsushiro, has been celebrated as a local martyr, a hero, the favourite son of the home country who opened the gates of modern times by striking the match of rebellion against the Sanada daimyo– of Matsushiro domain, the remnants of backward feudal government against the shining light of the Meiji Restoration. On the other hand, the Takaino ikki leader Oriemon and the rest are still deemed to be traitors and criminals. Apparently, what this surviving image of being unfairly treated in comparison to the Matsushiro rebellion, has survived in the memory of the village to this day, goes back to 1937, when Army General and later Prime Minister – ordered the construction of a grand monument with a Hayashi Senju–ro statue of Jiemon that was established in the main square of Kami Yamada town. General Hayashi had a populist image of the peasantry and gave importance to the history of a people’s struggle for the building of modern Japan in the name of the emperor. Therefore, during his brief term as prime minister, Hayashi had ordered the building of various patriotic statues of Tokugawa peasant rebels who fought a people’s fight against backward feudalism thereby paving the way for the Meiji Restoration. In contrast, the book tells us that the graves of the nineteen Takaino victims are lone single graves located in places no one knows in the middle of the mountain, even in a family graveyard placed apart from the rest. However, a plain rock which has been sharpened at the edge with a name Katoo and date cut into it, is turned facing the North, clearly to stare in defiance at Nakano city’s skyline. The rock is at the cemetery behind Yotsuya. The 1996 account reveals to us the years of suppressed memory that survived in Takaino when the subject of the ikki became a taboo for such a long time. The village acted as the matrix, the place where the event and the memory of the ikki have been produced and reinforce the collective remembrance as a suppressed disturbing memory. The book also tells us that the remembrance of the Nakano uprising among the villagers today has continued to disturb relations among local families even to

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this day. It concludes that even though this is an event of more than a hundred years ago, the bitter experience and the unresolved nature of the communities’ resolution of the matter where even a site of public mourning does not exist are apparent in the treatment of the graves to this day. An unresolved issue is the legal question of rehabilitation of the uprising victims in the eyes of the community which still suffers from the sense of loss of face over the trauma of this calamity in the early Meiji period that befell on their families. Finally, it is a very gratifying turn of events that the Rekishi or History volume of the Takayama Village Almanac, the Sonshi has finally come out in 2005 as the second and most detailed publication of the topic in the village after the 1996 Takai history through photographs volume.16 The Sonshi has been able to treat the history of the uprising in such a detailed public account for the first time as part of Takayama’s history. I am very happy to note that my study has helped breached the taboo on the topic as the section on the uprising starts with a reference to the AAS publication and with the perspective that we chose in 1999 for the village meeting on the occasion of the book’s publication to deal with the communal emotional attitude over the topic: placing the uprising in an impartially sounding historical context making it possible to discuss it publicly. The Sonshi also points out the problems that have remained to this day. For example, the narrators reveal to us the reason for the hidden graves. The families of the victims were not allowed to bury the remains in the family cemeteries, and this was the reason why they were buried in hidden sites. Furthermore, only natural stones and rocks, some of which still survive, were placed on the sites as tombstones, which means that the carved tombstones were probably made and placed on the sites later. Many from the families of the punished were forced to leave Takaino for good. Those who remained faced discrimination and prejudice from others, who blamed them for the punishment of the village. The families of the victims could not overcome the stringent memory of having lost face even into later times. This for me explains the outburst of tears and emotions at the 1999 meeting. Some corvée labour conscripts who escaped from jail after 1871 lived at home hidden from sight for years. The topic of the Nakano upheaval was taboo for more than one hundred years, again repeating the comment that we find in the previous publication on the pictorial history of Takai. The editors of the Sonshi comment that bureaucratic propaganda and official historical perspectives continued from pre-war times and have resulted in a very troubled history education in the village in the post-war years, making me aware again of the curious difference in the concept of time for the community from the rest of national historical time in Japanese historical imagination in urban metropolitan academic circles. The authors of the Sonshi note again that a significant problem that remains is the movement to return the honour of those punished, which would mean that some kind of legal document from the Ministry of Justice

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or maybe a parliamentary resolution of a sort would lift the verdict of cho– teki, enemies of the court, traitors, from the judicial records. Despite the discussion in 1999 during my talk about the need to start a movement with that objective, still today, there appears to be difficulties in realizing this corrective measure. Even in this day and age the problem of the Takaino victims is that they were sentenced as criminals against the modern state of Japan that had been forged in 1868 and they were not ‘lucky’ to have been the enemy of the feudal governments of the Tokugawa period which had still survived next door in Matsushiro. It means that the bureaucratic memory of the Japanese state in modern times has survived to this day despite the radical transformation that we claim has taken place in Japan in the post-war period when the pre-war Meiji state and legal frame was replaced by the democratic institutions of the occupation reforms. But then, maybe this replacement has not been as thorough as we assume. The new Takayama Sonshi concedes this political irony of present day Japan by concluding that the villagers’ inability to acknowledge the uprising as a historical event of the past, has created the continuous mourning atmosphere which I have encountered, and that even today, the rehabilitation of the victims is an unresolved problem. Courageously, the authors of the Sonshi have concluded that the rehabilitation of the victims of Nakano upheaval who fought for the sake of Takaino villagers by exerting their utmost with their lives in dignity under the conditions caused by the change and turmoil of the Meiji transitional years, is a contemporary agenda that cannot be ignored as an important issue of human rights education. In a way, historical conditions here act as a way to justify an acceptance of the victims as rightful agents of the village’s history. Oral accounts of memory such as what I have narrated above show that in Takayama, the Takaino trauma of the 1871 Nakano uprising is surprisingly alive to this day. As Jenny Edkins explains, the past and present is not linear in this memory but the two elements coexist all the more in the case of a past traumatic experience which has not been redeemed through mourning or some kind of a commemorative performance.17 For the Takaino residents of old and their descendants today, as Portelli has shown in the evolution of the epic of the death of Luigi Trastulli, the upheaval is a symbolic memory of the justifiable and decent defiance of the peasants. However, the Takaino residents could not express this sense of redemption and mourning because to this day the process of absolving of guilt has not been granted from the abstract level of the national authorities. There is still a problem of closure about this event which is seen in the continuation of individual grudges, pathetic attitude towards the hidden tombstones, even the emotionality of the topic to people who did not live even close to the time of the uprising. Yet it is as if it happened yesterday.18 Unlike Matsushiro villagers who soon made an epic of the heroic defiance of the day because of the military ideology of the 1930s that made heroes of anti-feudal

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peasant rebels, Takaino villagers did not have the opportunity to sing epics about their heroic act for unlike the Matsushiro peasants who revolted against a feudal previous regime, they are enemies of the modern state – to this day. The remembrance of the Nakano uprising and the traumatic memory of the residents as a historical continuation has been deeply instructive to me as a historian of modern Japan. We are frequently under the illusion of the time perception of the history of contemporary Japan in its global turning points of the national and the imperial memory which accounts for the great divide of the pre-war and the post-war epochs with the Second World War and the road to war leading up to it as the great catastrophic dark valley of the Japanese experience. Yet while two world wars including the catastrophe of the Pacific conflict and the radical transformation of today’s post-war Japan took place, for Takaino families their village’s link with their past as memory has made it incumbent on them to keep the graves of the executed village members hidden from public eye, perhaps in shame. This is instructive of the importance of community memory in rural Japan that has a different time frame and a rhythm of modernity which has its own pace unlike that of the big cities like Tokyo. For Takayama residents, General Hayashi enabled Kami Yamada to overcome its own uprising trauma even though his role in national politics as a militarist nationalist is a negative one from the perspective of official post-war historiography which is critical of pre-war ultra-nationalism and militarism. That Takayama village cannot accomplish the cleansing of the name of these victims also makes us wonder whether at the inner workings of government the memory of the Japanese state is also operating on a time scheme that is keeping the legal legacy of the Meiji era more alive than the official narrative of Japan. The memory of the 1871 Nakano uprising which survived among Takayama families as silenced suppressed memory enables us to realize the multiple new questions that one can ask about Japanese history which cannot be derived from the written discourses of historical narratives from the academic centres of big cities. NOTES 1

Selcuk Esenbel, Even the Gods Rebel: The Peasants of Takaino and the 1871 Nakano Uprising in Japan (Ann Arbor: Association for Asian Studies Monograph vol. 57, 1998); Selcuk Esenbel Tozeren, Takaino Village and the Nakano Uprising of 1871 (PhD dissertation, Columbia University, New – ji, Shinano ni okeru York, 1981). For Japanese treatment, see Yokochi Jo – – – – kai, 1974); yonaoshi ikki no kenkyu (Nagoya: Yokochi Joji Ikoshu– Kanko – do – -ki’, in Takai, 15 Janurary 1971, pp. 48–75; brief Kanai Akao ‘Nakano so summary and references in well known Ikki studies such as Aoki – , Nihon no– min undo– -shi, 5 vols. (Tokyo: Nihon Hyo – ronsha, Keiichiro – – – – – 1958–60); Aoki Koji, Meiji no min so do no nenjiteki kenkyu (Tokyo:

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2 3 4 5 6 7

8

9

10

11

12

13 14 15 16

17

18

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– , ‘Ishin-ki Shinshu – no – min ikki no do – ki’, in Shinseisha, 1967) Aoki Takaju Takai 15 (1971), pp. 1–12.; brief references in English language works, see Herbert P. Bix, Peasant Protest in Japan 1590–1884 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989); James W. White, Ikki: Social Conflict and Political Protest in Early Modern Japan (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1995). Esenbel, Even the Gods Rebel, p. 250 Ibid., p. 219 Ibid., pp. 234–47 Ibid., pp. 37–51 Ibid., passim. Henry Rousso, The Vichy Syndrome: History and Memory in France since 1944 (Harvard University Press, 1994). I would like to thank Arzu Ozturkmen of The Department of History, Bogazici University who has made me aware of the importance of memory in history. Rousso, The Vichy Syndrome, pp. 1–26. Rousso refers to the work of Robert Aron. The subsequent work of Pierre Nora, ‘Between Memory and History: Les lieux de memoire’, in Representations 26 (1989), 7–25; Pierre Nora and Lawrence D. Kritzman, Realms of Memory. Rethinking the French Past (Columbia University Press, 1999), pp. 1–20 have helped establish the study of French memory about the war since the 1980s. Takayama Sonshi Hensan Iinkai (ed.), Takayama Sonshi (Takayama: Takayama Sonshi Hensan Iinkai, 1972), pp. 520–30. Edward S. Casey, The Fate of Place: A Philosophical History (University of California Press, 1997), pp. 23, 202, 285, 299, 339. Katharine Hodgkin and Susannah Radstone (eds), Regimes of Memory (London and New York: Routledge, 2003), pp. 10–12. Alessandro Portelli, The Death of Luigi Trastulli and Other Stories: Form and Meaning in Oral History (Albany, State University of New York Press, 1991), pp. ix, 1. The critic and the historian are in common with the detective. Long durée of memory and culture after an event including errors in the historical account is an aspect of thruth that needs to be taken into account; see Susannah Radstone and Katharine Hodgkin, Regimes of Memory, p. 4, for early modern Europe, p. 10, for contemporary regimes of memory see companion volume, Susannah Radstone and Katharine Hodgkin (eds), Contested Pasts (London and New York: Routledge, 2003). Radstone and Hodgkin, Regimes of Memory, pp. 10–11, 41. Ibid., p. 176. Yokochi, Shinano ni okeru yonaoshi ikki no kenkyu–. Takayama Sonshi Hensan Iinkai (ed.), Shinshu– Takayama Sonshi, Dai ni maki, – kai, 2005), pp. 520–30. Rekishi hen (Nagano: Takayama Sonshi Kanko Jenny Edkins: Trauma and the Memory of Politics (Cambridge University Press, 2003), p. xv Portelli, The death of Luigi Trastulli, p. 26.

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21

History and the Construction of Collective Memory: Positivist Historiography in the Age of the Imperial Rescript on Education ALISTAIR SWALE

INTRODUCTION

T

he late nineteenth century saw the emergence of a new form of historiography, one that was more thoroughly positivistic in its method and aimed to cultivate a professional academic discipline. With it came the confidence that a history of national development could be scientifically distilled out through the relatively concrete and objective pursuit of ‘the facts’ surrounding a particular society’s emergence as a discrete cultural unit in world history. At the beginning of this century, the ‘linguistic turn’, along with an array of Postmodern critiques, has rendered this confidence far more tenuous and given rise to a far more diverse conception of a clear and commonly held methodology of history. As Paul Ricoeur so aptly phrased it, history can be ‘remedy’ or ‘poison’; however, I do not altogether share his scepticism towards Collingwood’s aim of pursuing history as ‘re-enactment’.1 There is always merit in attempting to conceive of a historical narrative that, if nothing else, remains true to the mindset of the age itself. Quite apart from the philosophical scepticism towards the aims of history as conceived in the ‘modern period’, there has been a strong political tide working against the attempt to forge objective national histories. The problem is that the sort of ‘narrative’ that such scholarship produces is rarely satisfactory for political ends. Modern political culture thrives on certitudes – a collective memory that everyone shares – while the caveats and uncertainties inherent in any open appraisal of history engender socially more disruptive forms of doubt and conflict. History becomes even more vigorously fought over in transitional societies where the need

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for stability inveighs on the utility of historiography pure and simple; the attempt to secure the new social configuration translates into the political drive to present that configuration as the continuation of something that has already existed, preferably for a very long time. The fait accompli is so much easier to defend than something new that, by definition, requires clear explanation and regular justification. It should not surprise us then, that Japan’s modern history has been subject at various times to revisions that reveal substantial pressures to allow political expediency to subvert academic exertions. From the 1890s onwards we find that history, even as practised in the top universities, was becoming circumscribed according to political interests which did not welcome a completely factual or dispassionate view of Japan’s past. There was a much greater political determination to promote the post-Restoration political settlement as the continuation of an ancient and deeply revered past. In the aftermath of the second World War, there was an equally strong determination to revise the history of Japan’s recent development to present a scenario of democracy as the natural and ineluctable fate of the post-war nation. This involved reifying the significance and impli– cations of the Freedom and People’s Rights Movement and ‘Taisho Democracy’ to present the post-war set up as part of an ongoing process.2 Also, we are finding that even today Japan is struggling to redefine itself as the issue of history has re-emerged as a critical area of conflict and renegotiation with its neighbours. Consequently, history in Japan has been highly politicized throughout the radical phase of reform from the Meiji period onwards. More significantly, historiography has constituted a battleground for hegemony amongst elites for a substantial part of that period so that especially from the Meiji period onwards history and history writing was securely ensconced in particular elite institutions, (such as the History Compilation Bureau), with little encouragement given to alternative historiographical approaches. There is an element of continuity from the Edo period (1603–1867) academic tradition that accounts for this phenomenon but, as the ensuing sections go on to discuss, the manner in which history came to be circumscribed from the late 1880s onwards reflected political concerns and political strategies peculiar to an industrialized society. Finally, it is important to note that Japan has not been alone, or even exceptional, in the degree to which history has been thus treated. History becomes a decisive political arena as soon as mass-circulation media and near-universal literacy are established – Japan merely exemplifies the ‘modern’ trend.3 THE POLITICAL CONTEXT: COURT AND CONSTITUTION The 1880s was the era when Japan’s state infrastructure was being fleshed out. A Western-model cabinet system was established, local government’s

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relation to the state was being worked out within a more systematic institutional and legal framework, and a more thoroughly integrated education system was established on a national scale. Of particular additional significance was the drafting and eventual promulgation of the Meiji Constitution in 1889.4 The issue of history as an academic discipline was dealt with in the immediate aftermath of the promulgation of the Meiji Constitution and its first practical phases of operation. Not only were certain ‘key chapters’ in the national history set in stone, but the bounds of legitimate historical enquiry were more unequivocably and irrevocably established, forming the basis of a legacy that was to remain in place until the end of the second World War (and arguably even to the present day).5 The sequence is not mere coincidence. The constitution, or perhaps more to the point, the clarification of the role of the emperor, set in train a revision of all the political and ceremonial precedents – after all, the constitution was to embody in written form, the essence of the kokutai – that which was by definition historically continuous and immutable. Consequently, as the constitution was to determine political practice, history was to become embroiled in politics of determining the ‘memory’ of that practice. The forces propelling the constitutional movement ran deeply. The leadership of the restoration had been transformed through the internal ruptures of the Seinan (South-west) War (also Satsuma Rebellion) in – Takamori (1827–77) and the 1877 culminating in the death of Saigo – assassination of Okubo Toshimichi (1830–78). In one sense, the most salient threats to the leadership were negated through that victory, but another more insidious and possibly more effective political threat was emerging in the form of a myriad populist agitations that, while espousing ‘Freedom and People’s Rights’, nonetheless embodied a thinly veiled – shu– oligarchy. The status intent to wreak vengeance on the Satsuma-Cho quo was untenable and some concrete and tangibly more resolute political solution was called for. It was in this context that the promise of a constitution within ten years was made on the 12 October 1881. Small wonder, then, that the debate over the final form of the constitution was an issue that dominated the 1880s. Careers were made and – lost as the process went on – Okuma Shigenobu (1838–1922), who was deemed to have over-stepped the mark by proposing the adoption of a constitution modelled on the English political system, was an early – casualty in the political crisis of 1881. In the aftermath of the crisis Ito Hirobumi (1841–1909) emerged as the most influential single figure in government going on to head the commission established to draft the constitution’s text.6 – was aware of the need to engineer a dramatic political initiative Ito through none other than the emperor himself, but he was personally in no position to act on the undertaking in the capacity of being a constitutional specialist. One account describes him as being sorely perplexed

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and requiring a large amount of saké to get to sleep every night, such – was caught out in that he was no longer was his consternation.7 Ito engaged in the business of political coercion but more subtle persuasion and manipulation. This was in essence a reflection of a reality of the modern political age – that in politics the real battle is for the citizen’s soul, not their mere conformity. The emperor and the constitution were to be pivotal in that struggle. – ’s credit, he promptly sought to remedy the deficiency in his To Ito expertise by travelling to Europe to attempt to get a better grasp of the relevant issues. It was during that time that he recruited Mori Arinori (1847–89) to take up the position of Minister of Education. Mori was not indifferent to constitutional matters (he wrote a series of papers discussing the details of a proposed representative system of government for Japan) – but he had always maintained a strong concern regarding the formation of the moral and intellectual foundation of the modern nation through education. Of additional interest is the fact that he was also profoundly influenced by the sociology of Herbert Spencer that held, amongst other things, a strong affinity with the organicism and dynamism of Lorenz von Stein’s constitutional writings.8 – was the consummate These two made an unusual combination; Ito politician, Mori could never seem to avoid controversy. Nevertheless, they were agreed in their perception of the kind of reform required in Japan to make her flourish as a modernized state and, more importantly, they developed a knowledge of practical reform strategies that relied less on ideas and a great deal more on practical administration. – and Mori we should add Inoue Kowashi (1844–95), a difficult To Ito figure to place because he was extraordinarily capable of adapting to the demands and agendas of widely disparate superiors. His was a unique ability, one so very much indispensable to the modern mandarin – that of having the intellect to grasp the practical implications of policy without confusing the utility of his services with political power. Being from Kumamoto, he was never going to be a genuine insider in the government. Yet his talents were in demand and, as we will go on to observe, the Kumamoto connection was arguably to emerge as part of a more telling political alliance. Even so, it remains pertinent to note that Inoue – and Mori in terms of an intensely had far more in common with Ito practical concern in matters of public policy. Their perceptions of the constitution and the Imperial Household, though varying in actual prescriptions at times, were nonetheless based on a dynamic and pragmatic understanding of the requirements of a modern nation-state.9 We might expect that following the promulgation of the Meiji Constitution, there would be a degree of unanimity and that the process of negotiation and clarification had been more or less played out. Indeed, – Hirobumi would emerge as the supreme one might expect that Ito arbiter in all matters as they pertained to the forms of state. What we find, however, is that the promulgated constitution, once enacted, actually

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signified the end of an important part of the brief that had stood as the basis for Ito’s personal sphere of influence and prestige. The constitution, through the actions of all the players from the emperor to his subjects, – would find to his ultimate disadwas to develop a life of its own and Ito vantage that there were matters that were not adequately settled through the text of the constitution – there were elements within the body politic that would increasingly exploit its unforeseen limitations and lack of coverage to pursue a political agenda largely in extra-constitutional terms.10 The treatment of the issue of ‘proper’ history in the wake of the Constitution’s promulgation and in the context of the ensuing Imperial Rescript on Education is a particularly sharp example of how that new and largely unforeseen development impinged on issues of collective national memory. Through it we are also to gain some insight into how the broad development of Japanese political culture came to ‘enshrine’, albeit largely unintentionally from the point of view of government, irrationalist and reactionary forces into the political mainstream. SUBVERSION FROM WITHIN – In opposition to Ito’s conservative reformist government there was a faction of officials and bureaucrats who rejected the relatively progres– -led adminsive and rationalist premises of reform as espoused by the Ito istration. One of the most significant was Motoda Eifu (1818–91), a scholar who might not have figured much in Japanese intellectual history except that he happened to be the personal tutor to the emperor in the Confucian classics. Motoda was a somewhat humourless and dour exponent of a fundamentalist conception of classical Confucianism with a marked animosity towards Christianity. This outlook formed the basis of his prescriptions for an emperor-centred nation that was to be as much focused on the imperial person morally as it was politically. It is fair to say, however, that he was capable of a degree of political pragmatism and even regarded religion in general with a certain detachment. Yet his prescriptions for the state were inherently monarchical and indicated little or no appreciation of the practical demands of a modern administration.11 By contrast, there was the less flamboyant figure of Yamagata Aritomo (1838–1922) who was steadily developing a power base in the Naimusho– (Home Ministry) and keeping an eye out for an opportunity to subvert what he ultimately regarded as the folly of Westernization. Yamagata – ’s premises was a more rounded and cautious character who rejected Ito of reform but was careful to do his homework on issues of administration. He claimed to ‘rejoice’ in the promulgation of the new constitution but was at the same time acutely conscious of its defects and aware of the possibilities of exploiting them to actualize a more paternalistic form of government.12

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There was also that clique of former bakufu-trained intellectuals who, despite some perceptions of being Westernizers through their fame as leading yo– gakusha (Western scholars) in the Meiroku Zasshi (Meiji-Six Journal), nonetheless retained a strong affinity with Confucian tradition and actively pursued its preservation. Nishimura Shigeki (1828–1902), a former member of the Meirokusha and personal tutor to the emperor on Western learning, maintained a decidedly ambivalent attitude towards Western studies throughout his career. Even in the Meiroku Zasshi where we might expect him to be most enthusiastic about things Western we discover that nonetheless his interest in Western philosophy is dispassionate and even highly critical. On the whole it comes as little surprise that Nishimura would go on to engage in reactionary political agitation through the Nippon Ko– do– kai.13 Neither should we neglect in this connection Nishi Amane who, as a career bureaucrat serving in the interests of the modernizing army also went on to draft the Imperial Rescript for Soldiers and Sailors. Certainly it must be conceded that he maintained a clear knowledge of the distinction between the position of a soldier vis-à-vis the ordinary citizen, yet as was clear even in his Meiroku Zasshi essays, he was never averse to exhibiting the hallmarks of a strong devotee to Classical Chinese learning. Even Nakamura Masanao (1832–91), the famed translator of Samuel Smiles’ Self Help and J.S. Mill’s On Liberty came to be willingly co-opted into writing a commentary on the Imperial Rescript on Education. However, this should not surprise us so much if we note that, amongst other contributions, Nakamura was singular in his insistence in the pages of the Meiroku Zasshi that Chinese learning should not be despised.14 The foregoing intellectuals were not active in subverting the government as such, yet it is pertinent to note that they remained ambivalent about Westernization and, on occasion, could be co-opted into the process – was in this regard put of forging an alternative traditionalist reformism. Ito on the defensive and, though politically in control, nonetheless isolated from the residual mainstream of the intelligentsia. Finally we should mention those outside official patronage who variously took sides in the issues of popular foment at that time, either as proponents of the Freedom and People’s Rights Movement or, increasingly as we move towards the end of the 1880s and into the early – ist/Nativist enthusiasts whose backgrounds, 1890s,the various Shinto though truly diverse, engaged in an activism of varying degrees of vehemence which was, if anything, profoundly conservative and, in some cases, alarmingly reactionary and irrationalist. The largely proWestern Freedom and Peoples Rights figures are already well-covered – (1863–1957), Yamaji Aizan in extant commentaries – Tokutomi Soho (1864–1917) and Itagaki Taisuke (1837–1919). Those of a conservative ilk are not. Certainly the essentialist nationalism (kokusuishugi) of the – sha centred on university graduates such as Kuga Katsunan Seikyo

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(1857–1907) and Miyake Setsurei (1860–1945) is relatively well-covered and well-understood in terms of its relatively sensible assertion of the relevance of prioritizing Japanese cultural interests in an age of increasing imperialism. By contrast, however, the activities of those associated with conservative demagogues such as Tani Tateki (1837–1911), or more forthrightly aggressive monarchists such as Koyata Torio’s Hoshu Chu–seito– – ’s (1855–1911) Kenkonsha are not so thoroughly dealt or Komura Jutaro with. In between we find the variously assorted fanatics who came to act as the hardcore intimidatory factor in national politics, the So– shi who could be counted on to visit the homes of prominent persons to ‘discuss’ politics, or do worse.15 Into the foregoing political mix the constitution was dropped and had to find practical expression. Within this overheated context, history was also established as a scholarly vocation. Had things continued to develop along the lines envisaged by the ‘Westernizing’ leadership of – Hirobumi, historiography may have become a purely scholarly purIto suit that attracted little controversy. As it turned out, however, scholars in history came into the ‘line of fire’ as reactionary political factions sought to realign the political configuration in terms more consistent with Nativist views. THE ASCENDANCY OF REACTION: THE IMPERIAL COURT, – SHINTOISTS AND THE IMPERIAL RESCRIPT ON EDUCATION When we examine the developments of the 1880s onward into the postconstitutional arrangement, we can perhaps mark with Motoda Eifu’s memoranda on education and the sovereignty of the imperial throne, the gradual emergence of a political bloc that condoned the aggressive redefinition of the political landscape in the name of the emperor with the aim of preserving the kokutai. The early 1880s was a ‘dry time’ for Shinto– as a religious force in Japanese society and Confucianism was very much in abeyance within the world of letters.16 Nevertheless, as mentioned earlier, nativist sentiment was slowly and surely on the rise both within particular sectors of the state bureaucracy (particularly within the Kunaisho– (Imperial Household Ministry) but also including certain elements within the Monbusho– , the Ministry of Education) and amongst the non-government media, as the emergence of the Seikyo– sha as the clearest expression of that trend demonstrates. At the same time, there was also the less clearly defined yet nonetheless tangible emergence of a more virulent anti-Westernism amongst the disaffected populace at large, occasionally boiling up into outright acts of violence and intimidation against those in the government regarded as being overly inclined to adopt Western mores and Western institutional models. Moreover, the emperor was being consciously re-fashioned as a political tool for forging popular unity and, perhaps more importantly, quietening

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dissent. By the later 1880s it was becoming increasingly difficult to speak of any significant national policy issue without invoking the sanctity of the kokutai and preserving the majesty of the Imperial Throne as the ultimate legitimation for any major initiative being undertaken by the government. Ironically, however, critics of the government would increasingly invoke the same totems to justify their virulent rejection of the government’s policies. In parallel with the foregoing there was an increasingly strong drive to redefine the aims of education towards promoting a Confucian conception of the ideal subject, that is to say, one that was unquestioningly loyal to the emperor, through public education. It should be emphasized that the Monbusho– under Mori Arinori from 1886 to 1889 was not a party to this aim. It is certainly true that Mori was highly aware of the need to introduce moral education as a key element within the general curriculum but it was markedly indifferent to the Confucian model. Educators both within the ministry and within the profession at large were also inclined to adopt the latest pedagogical theories from Germany rather than invoke the Chinese classics.17 These converging forces perhaps symbolically culminated in the assassination of Mori Arinori on the day that the emperor presented the Japanese people with the constitution. The alleged ‘indiscretion’ of Mori was to desecrate the Ise Shrine by parting a curtain to the inner sanctum with his walking stick. It did not take long for fanatics to get wind of the incident, indeed personnel at the shrine confirmed the ‘facts’ of the incident to the young man who ultimately was to carry out the deed. Perhaps more significantly, the public for its part was by this stage firmly sympathetic with the assassin and not for the minister who was an appointee of the sovereign. This event was, in any case, indicative of an ongoing process of working towards the (at times violent) redefinition of the polity. In parallel to these developments in education, the constitution, – which was being worked out in detail by the commission headed by Ito Hirobumi, had by 1888 reached its final draft and was being subjected to close scrutiny by government specialists and the full cabinet within the Su–mitsuin (Privy Council). Much is made of the oft-quoted preamble that describes the emperor as the descendant of Amaterasu, the supreme – deity, as if to suggest that the constitution had the aim of accomShinto modating the, strictly speaking, extra-legal spiritual authority of the – Hirobumi had not attempted sovereign. The fact of the matter is that Ito to build such elements into the intrinsic fabric of the constitution – indeed it is more accurate to say that in all other respects he oversaw the crafting of a thoroughly secular document that, if anything, left the aforementioned spiritual and ceremonial font of legitimacy strictly outside the constitution’s compass.18 The neglect of the ‘ceremonial’ aspect of imperial sovereignty was certainly a source of complaint so far as the faction that favoured the

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inclusion of a more ‘classical’ conception of sovereignty was concerned. However, even Motoda Eifu recognized that the emperor would be best served through the promotion of that extra-legal authority through extra-legal means. Motoda’s conception of imperial authority in classical ‘moral’ terms was something inimical to legal regulation. Accordingly he pushed for the promotion of that authority through non-political avenues, primarily through state education. The Kunaisho– was also the institution that would become an indispensable vehicle for contesting power within the political structure, which at that point was headed by the Su–mitsuin.19 This vision of an alternative power structure that would exist within the orbit of central government and yet remain essentially transcendental to it seems to have been shared by Nishimura Shigeki in that his loud protests in favour of fundamental reform in moral education not only included specifications regarding the content of that education but even a call for that curriculum to be placed under the authority of none other than the Kunaisho– .20 The death of Mori signified the demise of the last barrier to the fulfilment of this objective. His replacement was to be Inoue Kowashi, someone who had exceptional credentials as a bureaucrat and, perhaps more significantly, someone who was more amenable to accommodating the aims of the court-embedded intelligentsia such as Motoda and Nishimura. To be fair, Inoue was fully aware that Mori had been slighted by being misrepresented as a blind Westernizer and he took pains to rehabilitate Mori’s image after coming into office. In any event, however, he came to be the Minister of Education who accommodated the singular propaganda coup of the court aligned faction: the Imperial Rescript on Education (1890). The course of the rescript’s crafting was not without dissent. Inoue was not prepared to see Motoda’s view of education as a vehicle for inculcating reverence for the emperor pass through without qualification. He ensured that references to the rule of law and respect for governmental authority were also included to give the document a degree of balance and secularity. Yet the overwhelming thrust of the rescript is essentially as – wrote a ‘commenMotoda intended it. For good measure, Inoue Testsujiro tary’ on the rescript so as to leave the superceding moral implications of – imperial authority clearly to the forefront. The fact that Inoue Tetsujiro (1855–1944), a professor of philosophy at Tokyo Imperial University, could be co-opted by the Monbusho– into this enterprise reflects the growing connection between the court-aligned intelligentsia, the bureaucracy and the state-appointed academy. Indeed it is here that the nexus between historiography as the academic pursuit of national memory and subjugation of it as part of a political enterprise comes to the fore.21 THE CONQUEST OF ACADEMIC HISTORIOGRAPHY The assumption may be made that the process of this subjugation entailed the merely arbitrary dictation of the content of official history

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on the basis of political prerogative. The process was not, however, quite so straightforward. As the exemplary work of John Brownlee outlines in detail, there was already a tradition of empirical and rationally constructed historical narrative, which emerged more than a century prior to the restoration. From Hayashi Razan (1583–1657) onwards, the savants of the bakumatsu intelligentsia demonstrated a marked capacity to engage in a mode of historiography that was not altogether alien to what we would accept as the basis of a scientific methodology – a preoccupation with documentary evidence, a prioritization of the most plausible lines of narrative and their concomitant explanatory potentialities. Yet, as he also elucidates, across the spectrum of historical scholarship there was a common assumption that history was ultimately to serve a ‘moral’ purpose. There were also certain tacitly proscribed ‘no go’ areas which, even if scholars privately held opinions that they believed to be factual, would rarely if ever begin to suggest publicly that their researches had led to anything other than the same conclusions as the received orthodoxy.22 We should not be too quick to assume that Western historiography has so long a tradition of rigorous scientific method; nor can we ignore the fact that historical scholarship, so profoundly inspired by the classical historiographers of the ancient world, could scarcely forebear to indulge in the practice of moralistic dramatization. Indeed the manner in which the two world wars of the last century, and conflicts of the present are treated, suggests that this is a difficult temptation to resist even in the contemporary scholarship. In the context of the Meiji Restoration in Japan, however, there was the prospect that historiography, the project of constructing national memory on entirely scientific and rational foundations, could be approached afresh and indeed the scope for positively improving historiography in such terms was amply apparent. In the initial stages with the dissemination of Western style historiography under the tutelage of Ludwig Riess (1861–1928) at Tokyo Imperial University, the prospect of laying open the whole swathe of Japan’s prior historiography to the glare of Western scientific scrutiny seemed likely to become the new orthodoxy. This is indeed something that reactionaries against Western influences were to focus on and aimed to avert with the utmost vehemence.23 It should nonetheless be emphasized that there was never so much a ‘thorough positivism’ to Riess’s historiographical method as some feared. Certain aspects of his lectures indicate that he was incapable of extracting himself from a marked ethnocentricity. Moreover he was susceptible to that common fallibility of nineteenth century historians – the temptation to fall for narratives that prioritized the influence of the idiosyncratic psychological types of ‘great personages’. At the same time his scholarship was wedded to a pedantry for sifting through dry data that even led contemporary Japanese commentators to play on the

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homonym of shigaku to characterize his work and that of his disciples as ‘Death Studies’.24 There were, even so, certain of his disciples who were to earn the unambiguous ire of court-aligned political factions through their tentative explorations in applying Riess’s method to extant Japanese historiography. One early example is that of Shigeno Yasutsugu’s treatment of the account of the Taiheiki, a history that dealt with the resistance of Emperor Go-Daigo to the Ashikaga’s in the fourteenth century and was therefore one of the most ‘politically sensitive’ of classical texts. His sin was to suggest that one of the central heroes that served the emperor, Kojima Takanori, was in fact an apocryphal character concocted by the author. Kume Kunitake (1839–1931) went even further to argue, quite unambiguously, that the Taiheiki had ‘no value as an historical document’.25 Kume already had considerable status as the chronicler of the Iwakura Mission’s tour of America and Europe (Beio– Kairan Jikki). By the late 1880s he was emerging as an instrumental figure in the promotion of the study of Japanese history at Tokyo Imperial University. The Historical Society of Japan was set up in 1888 and produced a journal, Shigakkai Zasshi (Shigaku Zasshi from 1892). Moreover, along with Shigeno Yasutsugu and Hoshino Hisashi he established the subject as a formal course of tuition under the title of Kokushi (‘national history’) in 1889. Initially there were no students that subscribed to the course, which suggests that there was perhaps little interest in the subject.26 It is possibly more plausible to assert, however, that there was little interest in pursuing the study of Japanese history according to Western methodology. As has already been alluded to, the particular methodology being subscribed to was a markedly pedantic and dry form of textual analysis. But more significant is the fact that there was a pre-existing tradition of Dainihonshi historiography, which was being supported by practitioners who regarded Western learning with profound ambivalence. The Shu–shikan (Bureau of Historiography) had been set up in 1877 with the view to continuing the work of the Dainihonshi under the title of Dainihon Hennenshi. From 1888, Kume, Shigeno and Hoshino were transferred from the Bureau to Tokyo Imperial University to continue the project. What they were undertaking, therefore, was something of a radical departure from the existing thrust of historical scholarship. Kume and Shigeno did attract students in due course, many of whom were to continue on into prestigious positions within the academic establishment. Their own fate, however, was more mixed. Kume and Shigeno’s papers on the Taiheiki made it clear that the new form of history could not be counted on to endorse the existing historical narrative surrounding the Imperial Household and attracted immense hostility. In 1891, Kume went one further than any of his colleagues by publishing an article in Shigakkai Zasshi that characterized the traditions – as primitive heaven worship. Initially the paper drew little of Shinto attention because the publication it appeared in had such a limited

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readership. However, Taguchi Ukichi (1855–1905) had taken note of the article and admired it immensely, reproducing it in its entirety in his own more widely circulating publication Shikai in January of 1892. This created an immediate uproar and the intimidation that Kume and Taguchi were subjected to was substantial. In particular, Kume receiving – ist zealots who subjected an unsolicited visit by a group of four Shinto him to a lengthy inquisition at his own home into the essence of his views. They remained for five hours until they managed to extract an undertaking from him that he would retract the article. They also published a report in a journal affiliated to their society, the Do– seikan, which portrayed Kume as wantonly disrespectful to the throne.27 Kume was left with little alternative but to retract the article. He issued a formal apology on 3 March but it was too late; he was dismissed from his position at Tokyo Imperial University the next day.28 The Kume incident provides a vivid example of how the courtembedded intelligentsia were able to broaden their political clout by using the fact that Tokyo University professors were technically imperial appointees as a pretext to censor their scholarship for any perceived slight against the throne. Their strategy found a ready body of on-theground zealots who could be relied on to add physical intimidation to their censures. It should be noted at the same time that this same tactic was employed on non-imperial university scholars as well. After Kume was forced to resign, Taguchi Ukichi wrote in support of Kume and – ists for misappropriating the name of the severely criticized Shinto emperor to censor scholarship. His publication Shikai had also been banned and he was fortunate not to suffer more direct retribution.29 CONCLUSION So far as historiography and collective memory is concerned, the Kume incident indicates how the matter of constructing a new moral order in Meiji Japan was expanding beyond education pure and simple to incorporate the sphere of national memory. It was part of a broader strategy – to reorient by those who were opposed to the reformist policies of Ito the body politic toward an idealized configuration whose moral core revolved around the throne. The opportunity to carry out this aim was afforded by the lingering ambiguity surrounding the imperial prerogative. The emperor was an inviolable sovereign whose authority was – ’s invoked to suppress popular dissent – ironically the opponents of Ito government used exactly the mechanism to ‘outflank’ the government. The education system was a pivotal vehicle for influencing the populace and it is perhaps little wonder that Motoda Eifu and Nishimura Shigeki focused their energies so intently on it. The assassination of Mori was ‘fortuitous’ from their perspective – indeed from the perspective of the broader movement his ‘removal’ was required one way or another. Following his demise, the upper strata of that system, i.e. the imperial

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universities, were subjected to the same strategy of censorship and intimidation. History and historiography would serve the moral purposes of the state and nation. One aspect to this movement which requires special emphasis is the fact that it was not inspired by mere traditionalism; the sacred traditions were being demarcated even as they were being constructed out of a pastiche of historical detail and contemporary expediency. The melding of – myth with a classical Chinese conception of imperial soverShinto – in eignty was a hybridized construct – the attempt to resurrect Shinto any authentic religious sense had in fact already failed and the form of Confucian dogma espoused by the advocates of the Imperial Rescript on Education had little to do with the Shu–shigaku orthodoxy of the Edo period. This was an essentially modern exercise in the construction of state ideology, having more to do with the Volk/Patria aggrandizements of the early twentieth century than any genuine excavation of Japan’s indigenous traditions. Moreover, the success enjoyed by intellectuals and officials aligned with the Court were successful precisely because the Imperial Household had the capacity to evoke enormous reverence while bearing a minimum of recent political and historical baggage. If it was a lieu de memoire it was a paradoxically vacant one – a virgin cultural terrain which was capable of being refashioned according to a variety of political purposes. The Imperial Household was the springboard used to create the kind of seductive trope of the sublime political ideal while disengaging the capacity for critical dissent. As part of this transformation, history became subject to increasingly fictive and irrationalist interests that were inimical to the open academic pursuit of historical scholarship. It was the beginning of a mode of state censorship that was eventually to become the norm for both public and private conduct and suggests how – wa fascism were already beginning to develop even the roots of early Sho in the first half of the Meiji period. NOTES 1

2

3

4

Paul Ricoeur, La mémoire, l’histoire, l’oubli (Paris: Seuil, 2000), pp. 175–80; R. G. Collingwood, The Idea of History (Broadbridge: Clarendon Press, 1946), pp. 231–301. Andrew Barshay, ‘Postwar Social and Political Thought, 1945–1990’, in Bob Tadashi Wakabayashi (ed.), Modern Japanese Thought (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998), pp. 273–355. This issue is covered comparatively in Laura Hein and Mark Selden (eds), Censoring History: Citizenship and Memory in Japan, Germany and the United States (Armonk, NY: M. E. Sharpe, 2000). Alistair Swale, ‘The Meiji Constitution as Miscalculation’, in Bert Edstrom (ed.), Turning Points in Japanese History (London: Japan Library, 2002), pp. 120–37.

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History and the Construction of Collective Memory 5

6

7

8

9

10 11

12 13

14

15

16

17

18 19 20 21 22 23

24 25

26 27 28 29

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John S. Brownlee, Japanese Historians and the National Myths, 1600–1945: The Age of the Gods and Emperor Jinmu (Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press, 1997), pp. 107–10. Yamamuro Shin’ichi, Ho– sei kanryo– jidai – Kokka no sekkei to chi no rekitei (Tokyo: Bokutakusha, 1988), pp. 250–326. Takii Kazuhiro, Bunmeishi no naka no Meiji Kenpo– – Kono kuni no katachi to – dansha, 2003), p. 88. seiyo– taiken (Tokyo: Ko See Alistair Swale, The Political Thought of Mori Arinori: A Study in Meiji Conservatism (London: Japan Library, 2000), especially Chapter 5. – shitsu seido keisei katei ni okeru Inoue Kowashi to See Kawata Keiichi, ‘Ko Yanagihara Sakimitsu’, in Goin Bunko Kenkyu–kai (ed.), Inoue Kowashi to sono shu–hen (Tokyo: Bokutakusha, 2000), pp. 323–44. Takii, Bunmeishi, pp. 167–80. Asukai Masamichi, Nihon kindai seishinshi no kenkyu– (Kyoto: Kyoto Daigaku Gakujutsu Shuppankai, 2002), pp. 335–9. Takii, Bunmeishi, pp. 156–9. – do – kai (ed.), Nishimura See Fujimoto Akinobu’s commentary in Nihon Ko – Shigeki Zenshu, Vol. 1 (Tokyo: Shibunkaku, 2004), pp. 734–44. See Nakamura Masanao, ‘Shina wa anadorubekarazu no ron’, Meiroku Zasshi, Vol. 35, reprinted in Meiji bunka zenshu, zasshi-hen (Tokyo: Nihon – ronsha, 1992), pp. 222–3. Hyo Motoyama Yukihiko, ‘The Confucian Ideal of Rule by Virtue and the Creation of National Politics’, in J.S.A. Elisona and R. Rubinger (eds), Proliferating Talent: Essays on Politics, Thought and Education in the Meiji Era (Honululu: University of Hawaii Press, 1997), pp. 195–237. Helen Hardacre, Shinto and the State, 1868–1988 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989), pp. 21–41; Asukai, Nihon kindai seishinshi, pp. 376–87. Arguably the best overview of the Seikyo– sha is Nakanome – ru’s Seikyo– sha no kenkyu– (Tokyo: Shibunkaku, 1993). To Carol Gluck, Japan’s Modern Myths: Ideology in the Late Meiji Period (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985), pp. 108–11. Takii, Bunmeishi, pp. 143–5. Asukai, Nihon kindai seishinshi, pp. 380–1. Gluck, Japan’s Modern Myths, p. 109. Ibid., pp. 129–30. See Brownlee, Japanese Historians, particularly pp. 54–70. Ozawa Eiichi, Kindai Nihon shigakushi no kenkyu– (Tokyo: Yoshikawa – bunkan, 1968), pp. 430–5. Ko Brownlee, Japanese Historians, pp. 77–80. – Okubo Toshiaki, Nihon kindai shigaku no seiritsu (Tokyo: Yoshikawa – – bunkan, 1988), pp. 138–40 (= O Ko kubo Toshiaki rekishi chosakushu–, 7). Ozawa, Kindai Nihon shigakushi, pp. 437–41. – Okubo, Nihon kindai shigaku, pp. 142–8. Brownlee, Japanese Historians, p. 101. – Okubo, Nihon kindai shigaku, pp. 148–50.

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Index

Abe Shinzo–, 8 aggression in the past, 124–5 Ainu, 107–109 ‘all nice children textbooks’, 195–6 Alphen, Ernst van, 258–9 alumni newsletters, 116–31 conclusions, 129 numbers, 119 Pacific War, 120–1 Alvarado, Raymund, 122–3 Ancient Capitals’ Preservation Law 1966, 326 Arai Shin’ichi, 82 Araki Hiroyuki, 261 Arisugawa Taruhito, Prince, 145, 147–8 Arrow War 1858–60, 317 ‘Asia for Asians’ slogan, 87 Asian International Student Conference 1972, 124 Assmann, Jan and Aleida, 4 Association for Japan-China Friendship, 21 Association for Research on Asian and African Questions, 209 Association for the Creation of New History textbooks, 7–8 Association to Honour and Venerate the Legacy of the Tokko–, 67 Association to Venerate the Tokko– Peace Kannons, 64 atomic bombs memories, 257–76 symbols of Japanese victimhood, 121–2 victims, 123

see also Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum and The Diary of Moriwaki Yo–ko Ball, William Macmahon, 89–90 Ben-Ari, Eval, 2 Bremen, Jan van, 2 Brownlee, John, 369 Bunce, William K., 136 bushido–, 223 Byakko–tai graves, 149, 150 Cadres sociaux de la mémoire, Les, 4 Casey, Edward S., 345 character transformation, 284–6 Chiba Saburo–, 206–207 childhood 1945–49, 189–203 authority belief, 194 conclusions, 200–201 dreams not explanations, 201 effect of war, 189 evacuation and return, 197–8 exploitation for work, 198 food shortages, 198 immediate postwar months, 192–5 textbooks and real life contrast, 200 textbooks censorship, 190–6 China antipathy towards Japan, 311 change, 302 pro-Japanese sentiment, 86 Sino-Japanese relations, 301–302 Sino-Japanese relationships, 311–12 Chiran, 64–5 city life vs village life, 278–81 cityscape local control, 325–8 ‘co-prosperity’ term, 125, 127–8

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376 Coast Guard, 173 Cohn, Dorrit, 249–50 Collected Works of War Literature, 245 collective memory, construction of, 189–203 Colombo Plan, 116–17, 118 colonialism by Japan, 87 comfort women challengers to literature on, 32–3 coercive force, 8 coercive procurement, 34–6 conclusions, 45–7 daily routine, 40–1 history textbooks, 39–40 Korea, 33 legislation, 33–4 military status, 33–4 narratives of, 36–9 New History Textbooks, 39 prostitutes, 40–2 sexually transmitted disease, 41 state involvement, 34–6 terminology, 33–4 universality of military brothels, 42–4 Commission for the Protection of Cultural Properties, 326 Commission of Inquiry of the Removal of War Monuments, 143–4 Confucianism, 212 Council of Atomic and Hydrogen Bomb Victim Groups, 161 country’s name on stamps, 206 crisis 1873, 223–31 Culler, Jonathan, 258 culture pessimism, 3 David, Donald K., 322 defeat remembrance, 54–77 development assistance, 116–19 development for preservation, 324, 333 Diary of Moriwaki Yo–ko, The, 257–76 conclusions, 272–4 death, 268–9 family and acquaintances, 271–2 part I content, 263–8 part II, 269–71 diplomacy dual face, 87–90 linguistic manipulation, 88 war responsibility, 88–9

Index Directive for the Disestablishment of state shinto–, 136 docu-fiction, 281–2 documentary evidence, preoccupation with, 369 documentary fetishism, 37 Dower, John, 200 emigration to South America, 117 Emperor as symbol, 213–14 emperor-centred nation, 364 End of Battleship Yamato, The, 245 Even the Gods Rebel, 338, 345, 346, 349 February 11, 204–21 conclusions, 216–17 lieu de mémoire, 217 female inferiority, 285 Fifteen Years War 1931–45, 120, 126, 127, 163 Foucault, Michel, 217 France National Socialism, 10 Vichy Syndrome, 344–5 Franco-Chinese War 1884–85, 314 Frank, Anne, 257, 273–4 Freedom and People’s Rights Movement, 361, 365 Fujioka Nobukatsu, 17, 25, 32–3, 39 Fujiwara Akira, 81 Fujiwara Ki’ichi, 262–3 Fukabori Michiyoshi, 72 Garon, Sheldon, 216 Germany domestic post-war trials, 91 Nuremberg War Crimes Trial, 78, 91 post-war guilt contrast, 91 Gokokou Temple, 62 Greater East Asian War see Pacific War Grew, Joseph, 84 Group of Returnees from China, 21 Hagakure, 73 Halbwachs, Maurice, 4 Hanaki Sankichi, 20 Hasabe Keiji, 281–2 Higashi Chaya-machi, 331, 332, 334 Higashikuni Naruhiko, 61, 62–3, 67 Hinako Jitsuzo–, 148

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Index Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, 155–70 conclusions, 166–8 early years, 155–8 introduction, 155 Peace Memorial Park, 156–7 Peace Recovery Festival, 156 realism controversy, 159–60 remodelling 1972–75 with dummies, 158–63 remodelling 1989–94 perpetrator’s corner, 163–6 Hirohito, Emperor, 83 Tokyo Trial, judgement, 84–5 Hirose Takeo, 144 Hiroshima Girls’ High School, 264, 266–8, 272 Hirota Ko–ki, 83–4 history academic histiography, 368–71 collective memory, 360–73 conclusions, 371–2 ‘correct understanding’, 7 Imperial Rescript on Education, 366–8 memory, relationship with, 223–4 Pacific War, 6 political context, 361–4 politicized, 361 see also textbooks History Compilation Bureau, 361 History of the Pacific War, The, 19–20 History of the Showa Era, A, 81 Hiyama Tetsuo, 317 ho–anden, 140–1 Honda Katsuichi, 22, 24 Hong Kong, 317 ‘honourable death of 100 million’, 59 hope post-war, 286–8 Hora Tomio, 22 Horwitz, Solis, 80 Ho–san Kai, 66–9 Hozumi, 128 I Go to Die only for You, 8 ianfu, euphemistic term, 33 ichioku gyokusai, 59 Ienaga Saburo–, 23, 291–2, 294 Iimoriyama Hill, 149, 150 iki-nokori, 262, 268–9 Imperial patronage name palettes, 69 Imperial Rescript on Education, 366–8 Imperial Veterans’ Association, 141

377

Important Districts for the Preservation of Groups of Traditional Buildings, 319 Imamura Sho–hei, 277–90 ‘inked over textbooks’, 191–2 Inoue Kiyoshi, 303 Inoue Kowashi, 363, 368 Insect Woman, The, 277–90 International Conference of the European Association for Japanese Studies 2005, 2 International Military Tribunal for the Far East (IMTFFE) see Tokyo Trial Ito– Hirobumi, 362–4, 367 Iwakura Mission, 223, 224 Iwo Jima, Battle of, 8, 122 Japan Association for ‘Nanjing’ Studies, 25, 27 Japanese Association for Bereaved Families, 55 Japanese People’s Antiwar Alliance, 19 Japanese Society for History Textbook Reform, 17, 25, 26, 39 Jenkins, Keith, 45 JICA Network, 119–20 Joint Memorial Ceremony for Tokko– Personnel, 66 Kaino– Michitaka, 92 Kaji Wataru, 19 Kamakura, 325 kamikaze missions conclusions, 72–3 film, 8 historical figures, 58 legacy, 69–72 legacy in memory, 59 overview, 59–61 Self-Defence Forces museums, 183–4 suffering caused, 71–2 Kanazawa city atmosphere, 320–1 cityscape local control, 325–9 Committee for Economic Development, 320–5 conclusions, 331–4 denken chiku, 331 development for preservation, 324, 333 heritage tourism, 320 Higashi Chaya-machi, 331, 332, 334

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378 historical background, 321 municipal planning control, 320 Neo Nara Plan, 324 post-war development, 321–5 preservation, 319–36 streets as cultural assets, 323 today, 330–1 Kannonsama statuettes, 62–4 Karawasa Tomitaro–, 191–2 karayuki-san, 43–4 Kato– Tateo, 181–2 Kawabata Yasunari, 71 Kawakami So–roku, 145 Kayano Shigeru, 108 Keenan, Joseph, 81 Keene, Donald, 100 Kenshu–in, 119–20 kigensetsu, 205 Kinjiro–, 142 Kishi Nobusuke, 8 Kishi-Fukuda faction, 208 Kitashirakawa, Prince, 145–6 Kitoaka Shin’ichi, 92 Kiuchi Shinzo–, 325 Kobayashi Yoshinori, 8, 39–40 Kodama Yoshio, 206 Koizumi Jun’ichiro–, 7, 57 Kojima Kazuko, 272 Komori Yoshihisa, 313–15 Korea annexation, 235–6 comfort women, 33 ‘Korean question’, 313, 315–17 war memorials, 138 Koseki To–ichiro–, 4 Kubota Juemon, 341, 348, 349 Kudo– Heisuke, 103 Kume Kunitake, 370–1 Kyo–cho–kai, 215 Lieux de mémoire, Les, 5, 217, 332–3 Maeda family, 321, 329 male superiority, 285 Manchukuo, 86 Mao Zedong, 302 Marco Polo Bridge Incident, 315 Maruki Toshi and Iri, 22–3 Maruyama Masao (journalist), 110 Maruyama Masao (scholar), 98, 99 Matsudaira Nagayoshi, 66 Matsukawa Incident, 283 McCormack, Gavan, 55

Index Meiji Constitution, 216, 362–4 ‘memorialism’, 6 memorials, strategy, 260 memory atomic bomb, 257–76 collective, 1, 3, 4, 360–73 collective, construction of, 189–203 communicative, 4–5 cultural, 4–5 debate in Japan, 5 ‘grammar of being’, 260 historical narrative, 96–115 history, relationship with, 223–4 ‘industry’, 2–3 Japanese history, 3 liberalism, 291–307 living, 344 national, 96–115 national realms, 204 Pacific War, 7–8 realms of, 1–2, 9 role in contemporary Japan, 6–8 suppressed, 355–6 theories, 4–6 traumatic in writing, 353–8 Vichy Syndrome, 344–5 Men of the Yamato, The, 8 military cemeteries, 143 modernization ambiguity, 277–8 Momotaro–, 197, 199 Mori Arinori, 363, 367, 368, 371 Motoda Eifu, 364, 368, 371 Motoshima Hitoshi, 165–6 multiple pasts, 282 Munakata Motoi, 164 Munslow, Alun, 45 Murayama Statement, 7 Mutsu Munemitsu, 315–16 ‘My country, right or wrong’, 56 Nagaoka Sho–go, 158, 160–1 Nakamura Masanao, 365 Nakano Uprising, 337–59 background, 337–9 Takayama identity, 339–44 Nanjing Massacre, 17–31 acceptance of versions, 26–7 conclusions, 27–8 debates over numbers killed, 25–6 Memorial Hall, 25 reporting during the war, 18–19 reporting in occupied Japan, 19–21

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Index reporting in the Cold War, 21–3 revisionist accounts, 24–6, 28 symbol of wartime atrocities, 23–4 textbooks, 23–4 war literature, 244 National Foundation Day, 205 National Museum of Japanese History, 6 National Police Reserve, 173 national realms of memory, 204 National symbols, 5 Neo Nara Plan, 324 neo-nationalists, 32 New History Textbook, 26, 39, 45 Nietzsche, Friedrich, 9, 289n16 Nishimura Shigeki, 371 Nobi, 243, 246–52 Nogi Maresuke, 181 nokorimo mode, 269–74 Nora, Pierre, 5, 6, 9–10, 204, 217, 332–3 Norakuro [cartoon dog], 18 Norman, E. H., 85 Nuremberg War Crimes Trial, 78, 91 O’Donnell, Joe, 199 Oishi Kazuo, 316 On Russia – The Original Form of the North, 100, 102 Onoda Hiroo, 182 – Ooka Sho–hei, 246–52, 262–3 Osaragi Jiro–, 325 – Ota Kensho–, 70 Pacific War alumni newsletters, 120–1 dual role as liberator and colonizer, 117 emotional investment of Japanese people, 54–5 Greater East Asia War term, 137 heroism and sacrifice emphasis, 57 Japan as aggressor, 122–4 kamikaze missions, 59–61 memory, 7–8 reparations, 89 responsibility for, 73n2 Shiba Ryo–taro–, 104 victimization, 56–7 war literature, 243–56 war memorials, 135–54 pasts, multiple, 282 Peace Museum for Kamikaze Pilots, 65

379

Peace Treaty 1951, 88–9 Perspectives on Social Memory in Japan, 2 Port Arthur Massacre, 314 postage stamps, country’s name, 206 ‘presentism, 44–5 products boycott, 124–5 prostitution and money economy, 285 Pu Yi, Emperor, 86 Rape of Nanking, The, 22 Reite senki, 243, 246–52 Research Committee on the Nanjing Incident, 23, 25–6 Respect for the Aged Day, 206 Ricoeur, Paul, 360 Riess, Ludwig, 369–70 Rüsen, Jörn, 46–7 Russia, 96–115 Russo-Japanese War 1904–05:, 104, 140, 145, 244 Said, Edward, 97 Saigo– Takamori, 222–39 conclusions, 236–8 legends, 231–4 popular images, 234–6, 237 popular representations, 231–4 textbooks, 228–31 Sakai Naoki, 262 samurai, 222–4 Samyong, 139 Sankei Shinbun, 313–15 Sato– Eisaku, 204–21 Satsuma Rebellion 1877, 224, 362 school war memorials, 140–2 ‘scrap and build’ mentality, 325 Seikanron, 222–39 Seinan War 1877, 224, 362 Sejima Ryu–zo–, 67–8 Sekai, 299 Self-Defence Forces, 171–88 background, 171–2 conclusions, 184–5 continuity of heroism, 180–1 heritage, 175–7 heroes, 181–4 historical museums, 179–81 kamikaze missions, 183–4 personnel continuity, 175 public relations centres, 177–9 relation to Imperial forces, 172, 177–9 spiritual training, 176

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380 Setagaya Kannon, 64 Shiba Ryo–taro–, 96–115 Ainu, 107–109 conclusions, 109–11 Edo Japan, 103–104, 106–107 ideology, 99–100 literary background, 96–8 objective facts, 98 realism, 99–100 West as standard of normalcy, 105–107 Shibunkai, 215 Shigeno Yasutsugu, 370 Shimonoseki, Treaty of, 313, 317 Shinbo Tatsusaburo–, 322–3 Shinto–ism academic zealots, 371 revival attempts, 372 separation from State, 136 Shiratori Kurakichi, 293 Siberia, 106, 109 Sino-Japanese War 1937–45, 18–19 Tokyo Trial, 85 Sino-Japanese War, First 1894–95, 313–15 war literature, 243–4 Sino-Japanese War, Second 1937–45 war literature, 243 Smith, Bradford, 19–20 Smythe, Lewis, 20 Society for the Making of New History Textbooks, 57 Society of Public Spirit, 204–205 soldier-survivors, 262–3 sonshi, 350, 356–7 Soshinkai, 204–12 Special Attack Forces Peace Memorial Association, 61–72 Sports Day, 206 Stahl, Savid C., 246–7, 251–2 Taigyaku Incident, 235 Takaino village, 341–4 graves of executed peasants, 345–53 remembrance, 347–53 Takamori shrine, 354 Takamura Ko–un, 147 Takayama Village, 337–59 Takayama Village Sonshi, 356–7 Takeda Tsuneyoshi, Prince, 67, 70 Tanaka Masaaki, 25 Tange Kenzo–, 157

Index Tanigawa Minoru, 5 Tatum, James, 72 textbooks, 5, 6–7, 17, 291–2, 294 censorship, 190–6 crisis 1873, 224–8 Nanjing Massacre, 23–4 Saigo– Takamori, 228–31 Society for the Making of New History Textbooks, 57 Tianjin, Treaty of, 315 Timperley, Harold, 19 To–go– Heihachiro–, 181–2 To–jo– Hideki, 80–1 tokko– missions see kamikaze, tokko– tourism, 63, 65 Tokko– Zaidan, 61–72 Tokugawa family arrangement, 350 Tokyo Trial background, 78–80 conclusions, 91–2 conflict between government and military, 83 ‘crime against peace’, 79 decision-making process in Japan, 84–5 Emperor and moderates, 82 Emperor Hirohito, 84–5 judgement, 82–7 judgement not accepted, 87 justices, 86 minority judgement opinion, 82–3 Nanjing Massacre, 20 omissions, 81 political showcase, 91–2 reaction to, 80–1 resentment, 80 revisionist view, 87 Sino-Japanese War 1937–45, 85 trial by the Japanese, 90–1 unilateral justice, 80, 81 venue, 79 verdict, 82 victims of injustice, 90–1 View of History, 81–2 ‘Tokyo Trial View of History, The’, 81–2 Tokyo War Crimes Symposium 1996, 92 Tokyo war memorials, 143–9 Tolstoy, Lev, 98 Tome [role], 277–90 Torihama Tome, 65

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Index tradition importance, 205–206, 212–16 tradition, invented, 5 Travels in China, 21–2, 24 Treat, John Whittier, 258–9 Treaty of Peace 1951, 88–9 Tsu Yun Hui, 2 Tsuda So–kichi, 291–307 background, 292 conclusions, 305 ‘intellectual struggle’, 295 liberalism, 303–305 post-war, 299–302 pre-war and post-war, 293, 299–302 selective memory, 298–9 self-image, 293–5 trial 1940–42, 296–7 Tsumago, 321 Uchiyama Masakuma, 315–16 Uchiyama Oriemon, 341, 353 Ueda Hatsue, 272 Ugaki Matome, 183 universalism, 101–105 Vichy Syndrome, 344–5 victim consciousness, 165 village life vs city life, 278–81 Violence against Women in War – Network Japan, 42 volume outline, 9 war literature bibliography, 254–5 conclusions, 252–4 fictional, 248–52 further research, 248–52 Nanjing Massacre, 244 Pacific War, 243–56 Sino-Japanese War, First 1894–95, 243–4

381

Sino-Japanese War, Second 1937–45, 243 war memorials conclusions, 149–51 Pacific War, 135–54 removals campaign, 149–51 Tokyo, 143–9 Watanabe Sho–ichi, 32–3 Webb, Sir William, 90 What War Means: Japanese Terror in China, 19 ‘Whole World Under One Roof, The’, 137 Willoughby, Charles, 80 Winnicott, Donald W., 189 Women’s International War Crimes Tribunal on Japan’s Military Sexual Slavery, 47 Women’s Volunteer Labour Corps, 33 Y-Committee, 173 Yamada Setsuo, 160, 162 Yamagata Aritomo, 364 Yamaguchi Kenji, 323–4, 327 Yamamoto Isoroku, 84–5 Yamamoto Takuma, 68 Yamaoka So–hachi, 71 Yamato, 8 Yanagi Ken’ichi, 118 Yanagita Kunio, 278–80 ‘Yasukuni problem’, 55–6 Yasukuni Shrine, 7, 57, 58, 66, 135, 204 Yasuoka Mashiro, 204–21 Yi Song-gye, 138 Yokochi Jo–chi, 347 Yoshida Shigeru, 210–12 Yoshimi Yoshiaki, 35 Yoshino Sakuzo–, 294 Young, James E., 260 Yu–shu–kan museum, 66

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