We walked for what seemed like forever through the narrow and hilly (mostly up-hilly as far as I could tell, both ways) streets in the neighborhood where my son lives in Kobe. He and his friend chatted non-stop, alternating between Japanese and English. Show offs! My daughter and I trailed behind, wondering how we would survive the evening. She held my hand at times, not, mind you, out of any great affection but because she is certain I will either wander off or trip and she just hasn't gotten around to purchasing the leash she keeps threatening. I was too tired to mind, actually enjoyed being pulled along so I could salvage whatever energy I had left for the pleasantries I would need to muster up when we arrived at dinner.
At the risk of making what seems to be a race based overgeneralization, even in oppressive heat and humidity -- I don't think the temperature has dipped below ninety-five since we've arrived -- the Japanese people seem to possess superhuman amounts of energy. I say this without a hint of racism, though, and only with awe. Our dinner hosts did not disappoint. They greeted us with an enthusiasm that could not help but pull us out of our dour moods, flitting around us and fawning over us as we removed our stinky shoes in the front hallway, welcoming us in through the narrow doorway as if our arrival had truly enriched their day. Our shirts were soaked with sweat, our hair matted to our dripping faces, yet they did not seem to notice as they beckoned us to sit at a table already set with what looked like an imperial feast.
There was not an inch of space to spare in the dining area, although new guests continued to trickle in and there always seemed to be enough room for everybody. Our hosts worried that we would not like the food (as if it were unusual for us to sit at dinner and prepare our own sushi), that we would struggle with chopsticks (I think they purchased forks that day just in case), and appeared so interested in everything we had to say I almost started to believe we were nowhere near as lackluster as I had thought. They think my son is a genius, with all the languages he speaks. He pointed out that his sister is the genius. They all turned to me, wondering if I had anything to do with all this brain power. "What do you do?" our hostess asked me. I was stymied, could not figure out the answer. My son prodded me, encouraged me to tell them what I used to do. For a moment I could not even remember, but I stumbled through an answer and they seemed satisfied that all this genius was indeed hereditary.
It was heady stuff. After managing to construct and devour a few sushi rolls without dropping so much as a grain of sticky rice on the floor I started to believe they had a point. Maybe we were all that impressive. I was starting to get comfortable with the idea, that is until they decided to clear off the piano and dust off some music books and perform for us. Our hostess was an accomplished pianist, her sister a singer, her daughter a bit of both. The two granddaughters -- ages three and one -- were as well behaved as any children I had ever seen, and they snacked on seaweed for goodness sake. If that's not gifted, I don't know what is.
The next day, visiting the memorials and museum in Hiroshima, I could not stop thinking about these gracious and humble people in the deceptively small and modest home, a space filled with food and warmth and endless hidden talents. I thought about all the families just like these who woke on a sunny and hot morning almost exactly sixty-eight years ago just a short distance away to witness the beginning of what must have seemed like the end of the world. Entire families, already weary from war, were obliterated; the survivors, some not even born yet, were plagued by a lifetime of illness. It would be easy -- irrational, maybe, but certainly easy -- for people here to hold onto hatred after all this time. Kind of like some otherwise intelligent Jews I know who still wouldn't be caught dead in a Volkswagen.
There is no evidence of hatred in Hiroshima, though. No finger pointing at Americans, or even at the Japanese government, the guys that put them through so many wars in the first place. The museum there is honest and heart wrenching, filled with pictures and stories that cannot help but make you wonder about humanity. And there is lots of science, too, lots of detailed information about the birth of the atomic bomb and all its lethal relatives. Reading about the decisions that led up to that day, the series of, to say the least, unfortunate events that made Hiroshima the target, I felt a little self-conscious about my skin, my American heritage.
But the captions on the walls of the museum were unambiguous the atrocities of war from all sides. The Japan that found itself in ruins in August 1945 had been led astray for years by an aggressive government. Japan invaded, Japan caused death and destruction, Japan started the war in the Pacific with a secret attack on Pearl Harbor. None of this justified dropping an atomic bomb on a city, but, nevertheless, Americans wiped out an entire city, killed and maimed hundreds of thousands of civilians in an instant. It was a classic case, I suppose, of everyone behaving badly (to put it mildly). The museum offers up a comprehensive and unbiased account.
There is a single purpose there, in Hiroshima, where every year on the anniversary of the bombing the mayor -- and school children -- make impassioned pleas for world peace and nuclear disarmament. The museum was designed to show visitors that war and aggression, generally, are bad, and that nuclear weaponry, in particular, is inconsistent with the survival of the human race. It is a museum with a clear mission: world peace and the elimination of nuclear weapons from our planet. I wish them luck.
It would be nice to know that life everywhere, for everybody, could be about piling into each others' living rooms and sharing ideas, dreams, talents, and, maybe most importantly, good meals. Unrealistic, I think, but nice. The best we can do is enjoy those opportunities when they arise, and cut each other some slack on the small stuff. Whether we eat sushi with a fork or french fries with chop sticks, whether we sweat like pigs in unbearable heat or barely seem to notice, we can only hope that the folks in charge, the ones with the power to pull the triggers, will learn from history's darkest lessons.
The next day, visiting the memorials and museum in Hiroshima, I could not stop thinking about these gracious and humble people in the deceptively small and modest home, a space filled with food and warmth and endless hidden talents. I thought about all the families just like these who woke on a sunny and hot morning almost exactly sixty-eight years ago just a short distance away to witness the beginning of what must have seemed like the end of the world. Entire families, already weary from war, were obliterated; the survivors, some not even born yet, were plagued by a lifetime of illness. It would be easy -- irrational, maybe, but certainly easy -- for people here to hold onto hatred after all this time. Kind of like some otherwise intelligent Jews I know who still wouldn't be caught dead in a Volkswagen.
There is no evidence of hatred in Hiroshima, though. No finger pointing at Americans, or even at the Japanese government, the guys that put them through so many wars in the first place. The museum there is honest and heart wrenching, filled with pictures and stories that cannot help but make you wonder about humanity. And there is lots of science, too, lots of detailed information about the birth of the atomic bomb and all its lethal relatives. Reading about the decisions that led up to that day, the series of, to say the least, unfortunate events that made Hiroshima the target, I felt a little self-conscious about my skin, my American heritage.
But the captions on the walls of the museum were unambiguous the atrocities of war from all sides. The Japan that found itself in ruins in August 1945 had been led astray for years by an aggressive government. Japan invaded, Japan caused death and destruction, Japan started the war in the Pacific with a secret attack on Pearl Harbor. None of this justified dropping an atomic bomb on a city, but, nevertheless, Americans wiped out an entire city, killed and maimed hundreds of thousands of civilians in an instant. It was a classic case, I suppose, of everyone behaving badly (to put it mildly). The museum offers up a comprehensive and unbiased account.
There is a single purpose there, in Hiroshima, where every year on the anniversary of the bombing the mayor -- and school children -- make impassioned pleas for world peace and nuclear disarmament. The museum was designed to show visitors that war and aggression, generally, are bad, and that nuclear weaponry, in particular, is inconsistent with the survival of the human race. It is a museum with a clear mission: world peace and the elimination of nuclear weapons from our planet. I wish them luck.
It would be nice to know that life everywhere, for everybody, could be about piling into each others' living rooms and sharing ideas, dreams, talents, and, maybe most importantly, good meals. Unrealistic, I think, but nice. The best we can do is enjoy those opportunities when they arise, and cut each other some slack on the small stuff. Whether we eat sushi with a fork or french fries with chop sticks, whether we sweat like pigs in unbearable heat or barely seem to notice, we can only hope that the folks in charge, the ones with the power to pull the triggers, will learn from history's darkest lessons.
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