It took three messages from angels for me to read one book.
I visited my son’s English class for a book review presentation, where fourth graders were dressed like a person from a biography and told the story from that person’s point of view. I saw an Einstein, a Helen Keller and a Frederick Douglass. Then, I came across a boy who was in white shirt and pants that looked like a uniform. I had no idea who he was.
“I’m Louis Zamperini.” He said proudly.
“Can you please tell me more about yourself?” I asked, and learned that he competed at the 1936 Berlin Olympics and then later was a prisoner of war during the Second World War. “Unbroken” was written by Laura Hillenbrand and a movie based on the book was released in late 2014. I vaguely remembered seeing a poster for the movie. “So, what does ‘unbroken’ mean in the story?”
“His plane crashed in the Pacific Ocean, and he spent 47 days on a raft in the ocean. He was then captured by the Japanese navy, became a prisoner of war, and was tortured severely. But he survived. I like Louis Zamperini because he has physical strength and an unbroken spirit.”
I became interested, and wanted to read the book. This could be a message, I thought, but then my life got busy.
Several months later, I was with my husband at a local restaurant overlooking a lake. I felt the still water in the lake calming me down. Then, I heard,
“His son was killed by Jap!” When their voices lowered, I turned around and found four gentlemen with gray hair looking down at their table. They must be war veterans I thought, revisiting difficult memories. I was born in 1962 into a peaceful Japan. I’d heard terrible war stories from my father who was born in 1934, but those stories didn’t have direct connections with my reality. So, I couldn’t even imagine what these veterans went through during the war. I was again determined to read “Unbroken.”
However, another six months passed. Before Christmas, I was in a taxi to Newark Penn Station to take an Amtrak to Washington D.C. I’d known the driver for several years and he asked me his usual question: who is your client there? “There is an organization in Hiroshima that monitors long-term effects of the Atomic bombs. I’ll train an American who will join the organization on how to work effectively with Japanese.” The driver nodded and said, “I’ve just read a book called ‘Unbroken.’ I don’t think we couldn’t have finished the war if we hadn’t dropped the atomic bombs. It was the right decision.”
I was taken aback; he knew I was Japanese. How could he say that without any hesitation? But curiosity won over my bewilderment. “Why do you think so?” I asked.
“POWs saw Japanese women holding sharpened sticks, practicing lunges at stacks of rice straw. Japanese were ready to fight until the last soul was lost.” That was when America’s invasion seemed inevitable, in July, 1945.
I had heard about this many times, but I had a different interpretation. A government of a country like Japan in the early 20th century, desperate and ignorant of the world and with radical ideas, can inflict unimaginable pain to the people it occupies, domestic or foreign. For me, spearing practice is a symbol of the misery that Japanese had to endure in the complete dark where they were forced to live in. They were also living in a cult society. The spearing practice may have been the only thing they could do in order to prevent their minds from slipping into madness. But of course, I had no idea what it was really like.
The taxi ride gave me that final push. I reserved a copy of “Unbroken” at the library. When I saw it though, I felt broken because it was such a thick book. Then, I remembered the boy who impersonated Louis Zamperini and checked it out.
I have to admit that it was a painful book to read. I had to stop in the middle of the book for several days; many of descriptions of torture made me physically sick. The most painful parts were about the incessant abuses and tortures that were inflicted by a Japanese militant whose nickname was “the Bird.” Louis became the Bird’s obsession. The Bird kept appearing like a dead devil and tortured Louis in every imaginable and unthinkable way.
I wondered how other Japanese had responded to the book, if they had read it. When Japanese violence towards non-Japanese are mentioned, some Japanese reject their collective past and say “Japanese didn’t do such things.” or, “He was an anomaly.” But I believe those comments are far from the truth. Humans have an amazing capacity for the evil as well as good. This is clear if you look at history. Japanese cannot be an exception.
Japanese have a strong inclination to avoid honest conversation that could bring pain to themselves. Some Japanese even righteously accuse people who have caused them painful feelings. But the pain directs us to something we need to take care of. Isn’t pain worth going through, especially when it could lead us to hope? Without the courage to reflect on and accept Japan’s collective history, we’ll be stuck where we are and may slowly lose hope.
When I finished reading, I was glad that Louis survived to tell his story, and really appreciated the author who had taken great care with everything she wrote. I felt, though, the title was somewhat misleading. Louis was actually broken when he returned home. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder consumed him. He and his wife went through a very difficult time before he slowly started to rebuild his life. Truly remarkable is that to conclude his recovery, he went back to Japan and forgave the Japanese militants who tortured him. This book is a story of forgiveness and hope. To me, that is Louis Zamperini’s true legacy.
As a Japanese, I’m truly sorry for the horrible crimes against humanity that my country committed during the war. I sincerely hope that the day will come when the victims and survivors and their families will forgive my country. The most critical obstacle for this, however, resides in Japanese minds. Seventy years after the war, many Japanese still don’t have a firm grasp of the dark side of their history. We need the courage to face it and endure the pain that comes with it. That courage, I believe, will take us to a place where hope lies.