Hiroshima and Japan



Hiroshima as History:Some
Preliminary Thoughts
by  KEVIN M. DOAK

History did not end in 1945, just as it did not end in 1989, when Francis Fukuyama announced history's demise by noting democracy's victory in the Cold War with the breakup of Soviet influence in eastern Europe. Although nuclear tensions did not end history in 1989, one would surely be forgiven for concluding that history did indeed end when the first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima on August 6, 1945. Since that date, there have been innumerable accounts of this first use of an atomic weapon. There are Hiroshima diaries, Hiroshima epitaphs, museums and mausoleums to Hiroshima, and Hiroshima notes. But while Hiroshima has left behind records, legacies, and photographs, surprisingly I have yet to discover a history of Hiroshima. In fact, a search of the University of Illinois library holdings in both English and Japanese turned up only one book on the history of Hiroshima (other than local histories of the area), but it turned out to be a mistake!
The reasons for this absence of a history of Hiroshima are many and complex. Surely, part of the explanation lies in the way postwar Japanese have elevated Hiroshima to the status of an international city, a city whose very name is often transliterated in the katakana script usually reserved for foreign names, a city that belongs to the world as an undying symbol of peace, rather than to Japan exclusively. The international interest in Hiroshima and its development as a mecca for peace activists has, however, complicated the significance of Hiroshima for Japanese themselves. Much of the discussion on Hiroshima that we hear in the media is either from non-Japanese, especially Europeans and Americans, or from Japanese who quite consciously address the interests and expectations of what they perceive as "the world at large." Yet, as beautiful and moving as the rhetoric of peace often is, the fact remains that Hiroshima does very much still belong to Japan, and the city and the contest over its significance in postwar Japanese politics are often mobilized in Japanese social and political contexts in ways that might surprise those in the West who instinctively intone, with the certitude of moral conviction, "No more Hiroshimas!"
I certainly do not intend to argue for more Hiroshimas. Rather, what I do wish to contribute to the ongoing discussion on the meaning of Hiroshima fifty years hence is an outline of some elements that must be included in any attempt to piece together a history of Hiroshima. By "history" I mean not simply the various events that led to the development of the bomb in the United States or the narrative of militarism in prewar Japan that led to the Fifteen-Year War, although an awareness of the latter has often been crucially lacking in Japanese representations of their own "victim status" through Hiroshima. Nor is history the same as chronology, records, or, most importantly, memory. The history of Hiroshima that has been missing is a history of Hiroshima's significance in the context of postwar Japanese society as a whole, and how chameleonlike changes in the significance of Hiroshima are tailored to fit the changing demands of postwar Japan.

The warlike nations do not inherit the earth.
Norman Angell, The Great Illusion
The first point I wish to make is that the history of Hiroshima does not begin in 1945, or in 1952 when U.S. Occupation and censorship ended and Japan regained self-rule, but in 1954. A pronounced silence, voluntary or enforced, in Japan on Hiroshima during the first ten years contrasts sharply with the immediate interest in the Westbeginning with works such as John Hershey's 1946 classic Hiroshimathat seemed to emanate from a rather self-centered attitude of "what have we wrought?" While Westerners and the world at large contemplated the implications of this new weapon, Japanese at the time were mostly concerned with the more mundane problems of finding enough food to eat or trying to piece their families and communities back together.
Even as Hiroshima was being claimed by the world (while still waiting to be discovered in Japan), the foundations for how Hiroshima would be later contextualized were being built by Yoshida Shigeru, the U.S. Occupation's choice for prime minister of Japan. Yoshida's influence was determinant in shaping the conditions for peace in postwar Japanese politics. As Japan's prime minister for most of the period from 1946 to 1954, Yoshida was almost singularly responsible for gaining Japanese acquiescence to, if not acceptance of, the U.S.-Japan Security Treaty, which was coupled with the San Francisco Peace Treaty of 1951 as the precondition for the return of Japanese autonomy. The treaty was controversial among many critics of Yoshida on the left for establishing a "one-sided" peace rather than a "multi-sided" peace, that is, for ending the war with the United States under American conditions rather than with all powers hostile to Japan, most notably the Soviet Union. It was, then, within this context of Japanese dependency on the United States, that the "Peace Problem" began to take shape in postwar Japan.

If Japan becomes a colony of the United States, it will also eventually become the stronger.
Yoshida Shigeru, cited by John Dower in
Empire and Aftermath

Yet almost from its inception, the peace movement in Japan was seriously compromised as a viable source of political criticism. The Yoshida Doctrine held that Japan should eschew political and military commitments, remain as lightly armed as possible, and focus its energies and resources on economic affairs. In this context, the postwar Constitution and its controversial Article 9, which abolished war as a sovereign right of the Japanese state, were essential ingredients to a newly defined sense of national identity. Peace was attractive to conservatives like Yoshida, and more than fifty distinguished intellectuals rallied together in 1948 to form the Peace Problem Symposium, giving the symposium a character that Kataoka Tetsuya has described in The Price of a Constitution as "weighted in favor of the political center and center Right." A brief interregnum in Yoshida's hold on power occurred in 1948, when the socialist Ashida Hitoshi served as prime minister under U.S. Occupation, and many socialists found it advantageous not to risk offending the United States, on whom they relied for Japan's security when push came to shove.
But with Yoshida back in office and the outbreak of the Korean War in 1950, positions on peace began to shift again. Now, the socialists supported "peace" as a way of criticizing the United States, and Yoshida grew increasingly intolerant of attacks on his government, which came just as Japan was benefiting from the economic effects of the Korean War. Yet Yoshida resisted John Foster Dulles when he visited Tokyo three times between June 1950 and January 1951 in an effort to get Japan to rearm. Finally, when Yoshida sent an emissary to Socialist Party leaders Suzuki Mosaburo and Katsumada Seiichi to request a staging of antirearmament demonstrations, the limitations of "peace" as a leftist position became clear. Socialists were encouraged to do their thing with peace simply because it would serve the interests of the conservative government. To those Japanese frustrated by the interlocked nature of left and right positions on peace, Yasuda Yojuro, a cultural conservative who had advocated ethnic nationalism in the wartime years, offered his fellow Japanese a third choice to what he considered the false alternatives of the American or Soviet camps. Against this modern way, Yasuda proposed a third way: the defense of Article 9 as the only means for Japanese to survive as a nation. Although Yasuda was a firm believer in Japanese nationalism, he also identified this "third way" as that of "Asia as eternal peace," thus proposing a concept that would soon gather momentum among Japanese peace advocates and intellectuals and further complicate political distinctions of left and right, progressive and conservative, in postwar Japan.
Against this background of the complexity of peace in postwar Japanese politics, the atomic issue emerged in 1954. The immediate reason was the third instance of Japanese suffering the effects of atomic weapons at the hands of the United States. When the United States exploded a hydrogen bomb on Bikini atoll in March, a Japanese fishing vessel, the Fukuryu Maru, was fishing in the vicinity and members of the crew fell ill from the effects of the radiation. Six months later, one crew member, Aikichi Kuboyama, died. Within a month after the incident occurred, the boat's home port, Yaizu, passed a resolution denouncing nuclear bombs, and the antinuclear movement swept through Japan. On August 6, 1955, the tenth anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima, the Japan Council Against Atomic and Hydrogen Bombs convened in Hiroshima. The coalition of movements behind the Japan Council was a complicated one. Some were against the U.S.-Japan Security Treaty, while others sought to preserve the postwar Japanese Constitution as an antiwar Constitution. Initially, the Japan Communist Party (which was closely allied with the Soviet Union) was cool to the antinuclear movement, because the Soviets had the most to gain at the time from nuclear testing. Yet when it was clear that the movement had popular support (more than 20 million signatures were obtained in a nationwide petition drive), all political parties began competing for influence over the movement.
The timing of the formation of the Japan Council Against Atomic and Hydrogen Bombs is crucial, because it occurred just as the major political parties were moving toward consolidation. In late 1955, the two conservative parties, Yoshida's Liberal Party and Hatoyama's Democratic Party, merged into the Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) to avoid a takeover by the newly consolidated Japan Socialist Party, which had just brought together its right and left wings in a fragile balance. Significantly, this meant that under the "1955 System" one could find defenders of the "peace constitution" in Yoshida's faction of the conservatives and in the left wing of the Socialist Party.
The next important moment in the development of Hiroshima as national emblem was the 1960 mass riots over the revision of the U.S.-Japan Security Treaty. Those who opposed the revision included activists on the left (anticapitalist camp) and those on the right (anti-Japanese dependency on a foreign state camp), as well as a broad spectrum of ordinary citizens. Significantly, most classic works in Japanese on Hiroshima were written in the years following the Security Treaty riots, especially after Prime Minister Ikeda began implementing his policy of "income doubling" as economic growth increasingly substituted for political struggle. In 1965, Ibuse Masuji started serializing his classic novel, Black Rain (not the Michael Douglas movie!), in a leading journal, and this year's Nobel laureate Oe Kenzaburo published his Hiroshima Notes.
These very different works, however, must also be seen within the context of changes in the politics of Hiroshima in Japan. In the aftermath of LDP support for the U.S.-Japan Security Treaty, the Japan Council Against Atomic and Hydrogen Bombs was increasingly coming under the control of the Japan Communist Party. So in 1961 the LDP aligned itself with a new group, the Council for Peace and Against Nuclear Weapons, and began to formulate its party's opposition to nuclear weapons. This policy was given unequivocal expression in December 1967, when LDP Prime Minister Sato Eisaku announced his party's "three non-nuclear principles," further contributing to the view that the LDP was merely an extension of the entire Japanese nation's aversion to nuclear weapons that stemmed from Hiroshima.

Japan, be a state!
Shimizu Ikutaro, inShokun, July 1980
As John Dower has pointed out in "Peace and Democracy in Two Systems," the LDP was able to coopt the antinuclear movement partly because of "an insular strain in the movement itself." That is, while foreigners in Japan were often taken in by the "global peace" interpretation of Hiroshima, in Japan itself nationalism often was deeply involved in the peace movement. Indeed, even as late as the 1980s, the nation remained the battleground over attitudes toward nuclear weapons in Japan. The decade opened with Shimizu Ikutaro urging his fellow citizens to grow up and exercise the nuclear option: "If nuclear arms are important, and if Japan has a special status as the first nuclear victim," Shimizu argued in his provocative essay "The Nuclear Option: Japan, Be a State," "Japan should indeed have the right to make and maintain nuclear weapons before anyone else." And he added, "Is this not common sense?" But the Yoshida faction of the LDP government quickly rebutted Shimizu's views. The very next year Nagai Yonosuke proposed a view of Japan as a "moratorium state," thus suggesting that Japan's authorized suspension of its right to wage war was legitimate and did not require a rethinking of the foundations of the postwar "peace state." Peace was, in fact, serving the national interests just fine.

In 1991, Japan spent $32.6 billion on defense, or almost the equivalent of the combined totals of Italy and Canada. At 246,000 armed forces personnel, Japan has almost as large a defense force as the U.K. (293,000).
Japan 1994: An International Comparison
Why should we be surprised at the suggestion that an ideology of peace can serve nationalist goals, all the while denouncing "militarism"? Perhaps the lessons of Hiroshima as history might lead us to question our assumption that militarism and nationalism are essentially synonymous. Those who have shared this assumption often have failed to apprehend not only the significance of Hiroshima in the context of contemporary Japan, but also much of the dynamics of power in postwar Japan as well. So long as the lessons of Hiroshima are simply reduced to such moral blandishments as "May they lie at peace. Never shall it happen again" and the postwar Japanese governments are allowed to hide the existence of a strong nationalism behind their "peace agendas," then history will remain a cruel hoax not only for those Japanese who were in Hiroshima in 1945, but for Chinese, Koreans, Filipinos, and others who are forced to suffer Hiro-shima once again. It is only in this more precise sense that I will readily join in the cry, "No more Hiroshimas."



Kevin M. Doak is assistant professor of modern Japanese history, with appointments in the Department of History and the Department of East Asian Languages and Cultures at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign. A specialist on nationalism in twentieth century Japan, he is the author of Dreams of Difference (1994), a study of romantic nationalism in wartime Japan, and "Nationalism as Dialectics" in Rude Awakenings (forthcoming).



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Responses to Hiroshima
in Japanese Literature
by  DAVID G. GOODMAN

There is no single response to Hiroshima in Japanese literature. Reactions have differed with the historical context, with succeeding generations, and with political and economic circumstance.
The fifty years since the end of World War II can be roughly divided into three periods. The immediate postwar period stretched from the surrender in 1945 to the renewal of the U.S.-Japan Mutual Security Treaty in 1960. This was a period of national reconstruction, when the Japanese were preoccuped with recovering from the aftermath of the war. The second period, from 1960 to the mid-1970s, was characterized by a government policy to stimulate rapid economic growth, a decline in the power of the old left, and the rise of the new left. The third period began in the mid-1970s and continues to the present. It was a period of commercialization and conservatism in Japanese culture, when Japan became the world's second largest economy but failed to develop the political influence it felt it deserved, leading to resentment and increased nationalism.

Early Postwar Literature
During the immediate postwar period, survivor writers struggled to publish their first-hand accounts of the bombing against the resistance of both the Occupation authorities and Japanese critical opinion. The novelists Hara Tamiki and Ôta Yôko and the poet Tôge Sankichi published trenchant works describing their experiences, but the Occupation censored their writings, and when unexpurgated editions appeared in the 1950s, they were generally not well received. The literary establishment criticized them for being too narrowly focused and too ideological, and the Japanese public was largely unsympathetic, not wanting to be reminded of the horrors of the war.
One of the chief problems that survivor writers faced was their sense of being constrained by the facts of Hiroshima. They found it difficult to take literary liberties with their material, and their works consequently tended toward the documentary and the memoir. Their motive was essentially testimonial, and their purpose was memorialization. There was thus some basis for the critical establishment to be less than enthusiastic about A-bomb authors' works, which did not always compare well with major war novels, like Ôka Shôhei's magnificent Fires on the Plain.
Non-hibakusha (non-survivor) writers were considerably more successful in transforming their material. The playwright Hotta Kiyomi, a native of Hiroshima, wrote The Island, the first drama about the Hiroshima experience, in 1955, and it was subsequently staged successfully by Mingei, one of Japan's leading theater companies. In 1959, Tanaka Chikao, a native of Nagasaki, completed The Head of Mary, a Roman Catholic drama set in Nagasaki, which was also successfully staged and is widely regarded as one of modern Japan's finest dramatic works. What these two plays have in common is the attempt to integrate Hiroshima into a larger system of values that can inform the experience and give it meaning. In Hotta's case, that system is the mixture of True Pure Land Buddhism and popular culture that characterizes the Inland Sea area where Hiroshima is located. In Tanaka's case, it is the popular Catholicism of Nagasaki, Japan's most Christian locale. Hotta sees salvation for the victims of the bombing in the transformation of factual memory into mythical memory and in the grace of the all-forgiving Amida Buddha. Tanaka seeks salvation in Christian faith and in the loving compassion of the Virgin Mary.
Although it was published later, Ibuse Masuji's 1966 novel Black Rain should also be mentioned in this context. Black Rain is the most widely read work of Japanese atomic bomb literature, having sold 263,000 copies in hardback and 1,160,000 copies in paperback by 1981. The novel was made into a highly successful film in 1989, winning five Japanese Academy Awards. Like the works of the hibakusha writers, Black Rain incorporates documentary sources, but Ibuse, like Hotta a native of Hiroshima, weaves these sources into a narrative that integrates the atomic bomb experience and the mass death it caused into the larger pattern of Japanese religion and culture, thus offering some small salvation to the victims. Ibuse's novel is thus related to other writings by non-hibakusha authors of the immediate postwar period.

The Rise of the New Left
After 1960, a new period in postwar Japanese history began, distinguished first of all by the passing of the survivor authors. Hara Tamiki committed suicide in 1951 by jumping in front of an oncoming commuter train; Tôge Sankichi died during an operation in 1953 at the age of thirty-six; and Ôta Yôko died of a heart attack in 1963, embittered by the failure of the Japanese literary world and the Japanese public to embrace her and her work.
In a broader context, this period was also distinguished by the discrediting of the old left, the rise of the new left, and the high-growth economic policies of the ruling Liberal Democratic Party, all of which resulted from the failure of the communist-led left-wing establishment to block renewal of the Mutual Security Treaty in 1960. Renewal of the treaty, which among other things authorizes the stationing of U.S. troops on Japanese soil, ratified the policy put in place by Prime Minister Yoshida Shigeru during the Occupation to entrust Japan's military security to the United States and to concentrate the nation's energies on economic development. Renewal also permanently weakened the left-wing political opposition, putting the Liberal Democratic Party in such a position of strength that it remained in power until 1993.
Because of these changes in the literary and political landscape after 1960, the atomic bomb experience would henceforth have to be treated by writers with no direct connection to Hiroshima from a less ideological perspective. Typifing this new kind of atomic bomb writer was Ôe Kenzabur, who won the 1994 Nobel Prize for Literature. In 1965, Ôe published Hiroshima Notes, which described several trips he made to the city in 1963 and 1964. Hiroshima Notes was part of the major project of the left in the 1960s to formulate a new, humanistic, liberal politics in the wake of the Security Treaty debacle. The essay pointedly criticized the old left for its cynical exploitation of Hiro-shima and called for a new relationship with the survivors who, Ôe asserted, provided the existential key to survival in the nuclear age. Hiroshima has continued to be the touchstone for Ôe's literary activity and for his attempts to envision a moral politics for Japan.
The Liberal Democratic Party's high-growth economic policies produced a rapidly expanding economy that fueled a period of enormous creativity and variety in the arts in Japan. Betsuyaku Minoru's 1962 play The Elephant and Satoh Makoto's 1969 Nezumi Kozô: The Rat exemplify this creativity and variety. Betsuyaku's play, an absurdist drama in the mode of Samuel Beckett and Eugene Ionesco, explores how two survivors of Hiroshima develop diametrically opposing strategies for dealing with their experience. Satoh's play is a much more ambitious work, which locates a wish for self-destruction deep in the integuments of Japanese culture. Satoh sees the bombing of Hiroshima not as a unique event, but as merely the latest in a series of attempts by the Japanese to liberate themselves from the burden of history. The play is an incisive examination of precisely those impulses that inform such phenomena as Armageddon theology in American Christian fundamentalism, which regards the bomb as a source of eternal salvation, and it is therefore highly relevant to us today.

Conservative Tendencies Accelerate
The third period in postwar Japanese history began in the mid-1970s. Japanese economic growth slowed following imposition of the Arab oil embargo in October 1973, and concerns about Japan's vulnerability combined with the continuing atrophy of opposition politics to produce an accelerating conservative tendency in Japanese culture and society. Japanese art and literature became increasingly commercialized, and authors turned away from politics to themes that were more and more escapist. Furthermore, as their economic accomplishments failed to translate into enhanced international status and prestige, the Japanese came to see themselves increasingly as victims of the postwar system. A 1992 survey found that 78 percent of respondents thought the United States was using Japan as a scapegoat, and 77 percent said that Americans were contemptuous of Japanese.
These developments influenced Japanese formulations of Hiroshima. Increasingly, Hiroshima was invoked to demonstrate Japan's special victim status, which was regarded as comparable and even "superior" to the victimization of the Jews during the Holocaust.
This reformulation of Hiroshima as a unique experience of victimization that set Japan apart from the nations of the world was countered on the left by the argument that Hiroshima did not belong solely to Japan but was an experience that united Japan with all humankind. Typical of this new left-wing humanism was Oda Makoto's 1981 novel The Bomb. The Bomb resembles Norman Mailer's Why Are We in Vietnam? which explores the roots of violence in American culture, dealing only glancingly with Vietnam itself. In Oda's novel, Hiroshima is mentioned only toward the end of the book, and it is invoked as the culmination of the complicity of diverse populations in both Japan and the United States in making nuclear war possible. Oda wants to illustrate the theory he articulates in many of his books that there are no pure victims or victimizers in the world, that everyone is simultaneously both, and that we are all complicitous in creating atrocity-producing situations. Thus the ostensibly innocent American Indians, whose worshipful attitude toward nature Oda applauds, are shown dying of cancer at the end of the novel, the result of their labor in uranium mines. How we are to extricate ourselves from this state of universal complicity is not clear, however, and Oda's practical politics, which simplistically divide the world into opposing forces of light and darkness, are less than helpful.
In short, while the bombing of Hiroshima has occupied an important place in postwar Japanese literature, that place has by no means been dominant, nor has it been unchallenged. Japanese literary responses to the atomic bombing of Hiroshima have been diverse and have changed over time, consistent with larger changes in Japanese culture and society.



David G. Goodman teaches Japanese literature at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. His books include After Apocalypse: Four Japanese Plays of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and, most recently, Jews in the Japanese Mind: The History and Uses of a Cultural Stereotype. His Long, Long Autumn Nights: Selected Poems of Oguma Hideo, 1901-1940 won the 1990 Columbia University Translation Center Award.



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