Forgiveness
This seems to be a common aspect of the culture I am
surrounded by. The people I have become
close to. Some people more than others,
but all seem to just… forgive.
We all know about World War II. We are taught about it in school. It’s basic history, something they teach us
so we don’t repeat it. We are told about
the Holocaust survivors, the horrible things that happened to humanity in the
face of the Nazi dictatorial reign. All
the pictures of starved babies, men so emaciated they looked like skin wrapped
skeletons, mothers and children separated, and many other atrocities I can’t
put words to because that would only make it seem shallow.
Many, many things happened in Europe.
There was also Pacific Asian Theater. There were many others, more than was ever
taught to me in school. I’m just going
to focus this lesson on the Pacific side, specifically Japan.
I was not taught much about this, and the majority of what I
was taught was about the bombings. The only
nuclear bombings in history, both on a single country. Hiroshima and Nagasaki. If you want a true history lesson there are
plenty of better informed books written by officials in this field with real sources
of information beyond what they personally learned.
I have visited the museum in Nagasaki. The horrible things caused by one bomb, it
was too much. It was too much for me to
look at without being disgusted and horrified, appalled at the sheer level of
hurt in the pictures. I was not mad at
either country, I was mad at humanity for having been able to do this to each other. I was so sick that day. It wasn’t a physical sickness, it was in my
soul. I ached, I ached for these people
who were hurt, who were killed before they were even born, for the huge scars
left not only on the skin but the peoples’ spirits, and for those who are still
affected by it.
I walked through the streets of the city. I thought to myself with each step I took,
wondering about the history of the earth below my feet. Was this a site that was once a house? Was this a site where atrocities of war happened? Did someone die here? There were many more similar thoughts, but I
think you get the idea. My soul ached
the whole day.
Inside the museum there were also testaments to human
strength.
Stories of children dragging their parents to safety, mother
surviving just long enough to bring their baby someplace it would be safe, people
who survived and told their stories even as they died from radiation poisoning
(which was unknown at the time), the doctors and nurses who ran the clinics
with limited supplies and patients who died suddenly, and the people who hoped,
who loved, hard enough to survive and tell their stories even today.
The last people, stories about them are my favorite.
There are plenty of these stories, but most of them go
unnoticed. So much of our history is forgone
in the wake of the bigger battles, the biggest glories, and the largest
conflicts. What of the small
stories? The small deaths that go unnoticed
and unnoted. These stories make my heart
break.
Norman. An American soldier
from World War II. He was twenty three
when he died. He died November 23rd,
1944. Sixty-nine years ago, his plane
crashed into the mud flats of Kashima. There
were maybe seven or eight people that were on the bomber, but he was the only
one pulled from the wreckage. It is
believed the rest jumped with parachutes.
There were three confirmed deaths that day and the rest went
missing. Their history is unknown, their
names forgotten, all except Norman.
Maybe he was the pilot, trying to desperately change their
course. Maybe there was important
information he couldn’t leave on the plane and was trying to get it off the plane in time. Maybe it was something else. We will never know. He died on contact they think, the crash was
pretty violent after all.
Imagine a hug bomber, much like Enola Gay crashing at full
speed, gravity pulling it down from the sky, into the mud flats. That’s like ramming a car at seventy miles
plus into a solid cement wall. Mud is as
unforgiving as water in terms of firmness.
This twenty-three year old died violently that day. His grave says he died fighting though.
He was taken to a hospital, he confirmed dead and was
cremated by the people of Kashima and Takeo.
It is unknown if he has family, or any living
relatives. The Navy here has checked the
books over and over, but there is no Norman among the names listed. He is a ghost with no place. I don’t know how they know his name, no one
explained this to me. It was written on
his grave in Katakana and I can’t translate his last name into anything remotely
English (Katakana does that to words).
I cleaned his grave.
I swept the years of dirt off of the stones and I pulled the weeds. My Rotarian friend trimmed weeds and did the
heavier work. We talked about Norman,
about what he was doing and who he might have been.
My friend made a comment, one that made my heart break more
than just a little.
“You know Gabi, I bet you Norman-san is happy today.”
“Why’s that?”
“You are here.”
That’s when it hit me, this poor sod, this poor boy from
war, his remains are all alone here. He
has no home, no family, and no relatives to visit his grave and pay their
respects. Sure Rotary cleans it, the
ground his ashes are placed on were donated by a Rotarian out of kindness
towards this unknown enemy, but he is alone.
I’m the first American to visit him in probably a decade or two.
“He must be lonely.”
“Today he isn’t, he has someone who he can understand speak
to him.”
I almost cried. I
almost broke down on the grave of a fellow American, a fellow human so very far
away from home and all things familiar.
The differences between us aren’t small, I’m alive and I’m not alone
while he is long dead and so very alone.
I’m not sure what I believe religiously. I’m not very spiritual, but there is
something to be said about isolation.
Norman is isolated, there is no one to pass on his story besides the
Japanese. They don’t like to talk about
World War II, I don’t blame them. I don’t
want to offend them so I keep my questions to myself while I’m in a delicate
position.
His grave was worn and dirty. There were weeds growing out of the
stones. There was dirt pilled
around. Nature was reclaiming him as
their own.
My heart went out to this boy. No one comes to visit him, no one tells his
story anymore, he is slowly being forgotten, and my heart broke for that.
No one deserves being forgotten.
My mom told me that if history like this can be remembered
after sixty-nine years, it can be remembered for another sixty-nine years. I don’t want to forget him and I don’t want
him forgotten. His story is sad and not
well known, his history is a mystery, and I only know a few things about
him. It’s enough for me to take a liking
to him.
We have a lot in common.
But I have family, I have people who love me and talk to me and take
care of me. His grave has been left to
be forgotten except for cleaning every now and then.
So Norman, this is for you.
You aren’t forgotten, your story is being told to others, and as soon as
I know more I will tell a better story.
I’m going to visit him a few more times hopefully, next time I’ll ask if
we can give him an offering of beer (tradition calls for Sake but he’s an
American).
Here's to the Japanese as well, giving this poor boy a place to rest even if it far away from home. Even though he was their sworn enemy, they took him to a hospital to try and save his life, even if it was in vain, they tried. That's more than what most people would even think about doing for their enemy.
This makes me just how many little things in history go
unnoted, go untold, and are forgotten after a few years. It’s sad really. It also shows just how that even though you may detest someone, may hate their very existence, but you can still put the behind you and move towards a brighter future. There is much to be said about that.
Mata chikaiuchini
また近いうちに
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