This post was originally written on September 14, 2012.
Being a non-Asian foreigner in Japan is a strange experience. Everyone who looks at you knows that you aren't from around there. I remember once walking into a department store in Nagoya and knowing that there was a good chance that I was the only white person in the five-story building. Once, in the same department store, I was sitting on a bench in a small waiting area with a TV with a couple of friends, waiting for some other friends. After a short while, a Japanese man around 50 years old or so struck up a conversation with us. I don't remember much of the conversation, but I do remember that he told me that we were the first white people he'd ever talked to. I've heard that if you go to more rural areas of Japan, there's a decent chance that you'll be the first white person that they've ever seen. Throughout my travels in Japan, it seemed like the only place I wasn't a novelty was in Tokyo.
Every once in a while (and this really wasn't a very common thing), you'd meet someone who just didn't like foreigners. Japanese people aren't generally confrontational, and none of them would tell you that they didn't like you; they're even polite to you, albeit somewhat passive-aggressively. It's just something that you learn to pick up on after a while. I only ever saw outright racism once; a young man (25ish) wearing a shirt with a picture of Hitler heiling on it.
So it didn't really come as any major surprise to me that when I mentioned to other foreigners that had been to Hiroshima that I was going there for a day, they told me that I would get dirty looks. Naturally, since Hiroshima was the site of the first atomic bomb being used on people, there are a lot of memorials and museums about the subject. They aren't exactly uplifting. One of my friends who had previously been there told me that a woman on the cable car looked at him like he had killed her baby. After hearing these stories, I started thinking about what I would do if a Japanese person confronted me about it. I had a little speech that I'd gone over a few times in my head. The crux of it was boku wa boku no ojiisan ja arimasen: I am not my grandfather. Obviously, my grandfather didn't drop the bomb; he didn't even fight in World War II. It was a metaphor that I was fairly certain would get my point across.
When I finally went to Hiroshima, the first place that I visited was Shukkeien, a park designed in 1620 that had been rebuilt after being almost completely destroyed by the A-bomb. A large number of survivors took refuge there after the bombing, but died before receiving medical attention, and their ashes were scattered in the park. Afterward, I walked around the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park. There are many memorials in the park, including an eternal flame, a children's memorial, and a peace bell. The most striking thing there, though, is the remains of the only building to withstand the blast of the atomic bomb. It's an impressive and sad place. There is a small plaque in front of it that mentions that it "expresses the spirit of Hiroshima - enduring grief, transcending hatred, pursuing harmony and prosperity for all, and yearning for genuine, lasting world peace," but looking at the building, it's hard to see anything else other than tragedy. Even though there are plaques like that all throughout the park, all with the same message that the solution to this tragedy is peace, not hatred, I begin to understand why my friends got dirty looks. I don't think that my friends deserved the looks they received, or that the people giving the looks shouldn't have known better, but I can understand why they were angry, even if that anger was misplaced.
So, there I was, walking alone through the Peace Park, marveling at the incredible pathos of the place, thinking about war and death and emotional wounds, when an old man sitting on a bench motions for me to come over to talk to him. My heart skips a beat. The man looks old enough to have fought in the war. Does he resent me? When he looks at me, does he see the men who killed his friends? Does he see the men who dropped the bomb? All of the defenses that I've prepared rush from my head. I'm not ready for this.
I walk over.
He asks me if I like baseball. I don't, really, but I understand the significance of the question. Baseball was one of the first and most significant cultural bridges between America and Japan. During the postwar occupation of Japan, American soldiers taught Japanese people how to play baseball. A lot of the soldiers didn't speak a word of Japanese, and the baseball games were a way for them to bond with the Japanese people. They learned that Japanese people aren't bloodthirsty savages, and the Japanese people learned the same thing about the Americans. Baseball is still the most popular foreign sport in Japan. So I tell him that I like to play baseball with my friends, but I don't really watch professional baseball.
We talk for a little while, branching off of the baseball conversation. After he learns that I like the Yankees (even though I don't really follow them), he asks where I'm from, and we talk for a little while about that, and how I first got interested in Japan. There are a lot of small, awkward pauses that reveal that neither of us really knows what to talk to the other about, but we each appreciate that the other wants to talk. After we run out of things to talk about, we just sit there for a few minutes. Eventually, I decide to leave, telling him that I'm happy he talked to me.
On my way back to the hotel, I pass by the peace bell. It's already evening, and the ram that lets you ring the bell is locked up for the night, so I flick it instead, and listen to the deep, quiet sound that it makes.
Being a non-Asian foreigner in Japan is a strange experience. Everyone who looks at you knows that you aren't from around there. I remember once walking into a department store in Nagoya and knowing that there was a good chance that I was the only white person in the five-story building. Once, in the same department store, I was sitting on a bench in a small waiting area with a TV with a couple of friends, waiting for some other friends. After a short while, a Japanese man around 50 years old or so struck up a conversation with us. I don't remember much of the conversation, but I do remember that he told me that we were the first white people he'd ever talked to. I've heard that if you go to more rural areas of Japan, there's a decent chance that you'll be the first white person that they've ever seen. Throughout my travels in Japan, it seemed like the only place I wasn't a novelty was in Tokyo.
Every once in a while (and this really wasn't a very common thing), you'd meet someone who just didn't like foreigners. Japanese people aren't generally confrontational, and none of them would tell you that they didn't like you; they're even polite to you, albeit somewhat passive-aggressively. It's just something that you learn to pick up on after a while. I only ever saw outright racism once; a young man (25ish) wearing a shirt with a picture of Hitler heiling on it.
So it didn't really come as any major surprise to me that when I mentioned to other foreigners that had been to Hiroshima that I was going there for a day, they told me that I would get dirty looks. Naturally, since Hiroshima was the site of the first atomic bomb being used on people, there are a lot of memorials and museums about the subject. They aren't exactly uplifting. One of my friends who had previously been there told me that a woman on the cable car looked at him like he had killed her baby. After hearing these stories, I started thinking about what I would do if a Japanese person confronted me about it. I had a little speech that I'd gone over a few times in my head. The crux of it was boku wa boku no ojiisan ja arimasen: I am not my grandfather. Obviously, my grandfather didn't drop the bomb; he didn't even fight in World War II. It was a metaphor that I was fairly certain would get my point across.
When I finally went to Hiroshima, the first place that I visited was Shukkeien, a park designed in 1620 that had been rebuilt after being almost completely destroyed by the A-bomb. A large number of survivors took refuge there after the bombing, but died before receiving medical attention, and their ashes were scattered in the park. Afterward, I walked around the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park. There are many memorials in the park, including an eternal flame, a children's memorial, and a peace bell. The most striking thing there, though, is the remains of the only building to withstand the blast of the atomic bomb. It's an impressive and sad place. There is a small plaque in front of it that mentions that it "expresses the spirit of Hiroshima - enduring grief, transcending hatred, pursuing harmony and prosperity for all, and yearning for genuine, lasting world peace," but looking at the building, it's hard to see anything else other than tragedy. Even though there are plaques like that all throughout the park, all with the same message that the solution to this tragedy is peace, not hatred, I begin to understand why my friends got dirty looks. I don't think that my friends deserved the looks they received, or that the people giving the looks shouldn't have known better, but I can understand why they were angry, even if that anger was misplaced.
So, there I was, walking alone through the Peace Park, marveling at the incredible pathos of the place, thinking about war and death and emotional wounds, when an old man sitting on a bench motions for me to come over to talk to him. My heart skips a beat. The man looks old enough to have fought in the war. Does he resent me? When he looks at me, does he see the men who killed his friends? Does he see the men who dropped the bomb? All of the defenses that I've prepared rush from my head. I'm not ready for this.
I walk over.
He asks me if I like baseball. I don't, really, but I understand the significance of the question. Baseball was one of the first and most significant cultural bridges between America and Japan. During the postwar occupation of Japan, American soldiers taught Japanese people how to play baseball. A lot of the soldiers didn't speak a word of Japanese, and the baseball games were a way for them to bond with the Japanese people. They learned that Japanese people aren't bloodthirsty savages, and the Japanese people learned the same thing about the Americans. Baseball is still the most popular foreign sport in Japan. So I tell him that I like to play baseball with my friends, but I don't really watch professional baseball.
We talk for a little while, branching off of the baseball conversation. After he learns that I like the Yankees (even though I don't really follow them), he asks where I'm from, and we talk for a little while about that, and how I first got interested in Japan. There are a lot of small, awkward pauses that reveal that neither of us really knows what to talk to the other about, but we each appreciate that the other wants to talk. After we run out of things to talk about, we just sit there for a few minutes. Eventually, I decide to leave, telling him that I'm happy he talked to me.
On my way back to the hotel, I pass by the peace bell. It's already evening, and the ram that lets you ring the bell is locked up for the night, so I flick it instead, and listen to the deep, quiet sound that it makes.
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