Four years ago, I was attending the Nippon Jamboree, an international scout gathering held in Japan every couple of years, and I was touring with my host troop. While walking around, we were wearing our scout uniforms, which had the American flag patched on our right sleeves. And while we were walking around, I heard someone behind me sneer with deep contempt and loathing:
“Americans? I hate Americans.”
I turned around to see an older Japanese boy leering at my friend and me. I met his eyes, but looked away the moment I saw the malicious look he had in them. His hatred shocked me and I was, for the first time on the trip, scared and confused. I spent the rest of the trip wondering, Why does that boy hate us? Why does that boy hate me?
At the time, I had already learned about Pearl Harbor and the bombings of Nagasaki and Hiroshima. I knew what damage USA and Japan had done to each other, but I didn’t see that as any reason to hate us.
A few years later, I attended a memorial for the victims of the bombings in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I listened to a man speak about his experience in the blast. I listened to him talk about having to take his friend who was so burnt his skin was peeling off to pool so he could cool off for his final moments. And through this I heard that boy’s voice in my head
Americans? I hate Americans.
But I still couldn’t see why. Maybe he had a family member die in that or one that was affected by it. But I still didn’t understand. Of course I felt sorry for what happened to the victims of the bombings and those who lost loved ones or were injured and/or diseased by the radiation, but I just didn’t see why the Japanese could hate Americans.
Then, two nights ago, an 8.9 magnitude earthquake shook off the shore of Japan, causing a tsunami that engulfed everything in its path, trapping and killing hundreds, maybe even thousands. I watched from my computer into the wee hours of the morning as news stations frantically called correspondents for insights and information. I saw people jumping at the chance to donate, retweeting, reblogging about the disaster and willingly extending relief. And I thought to myself, “How could that boy hate us now?”
And then I see things like this. I see people hold dreadful grudges and make racist, xenophobic remarks. I see people refusing to help because they bombed us 70 years ago. I see people calling karma on the Japanese like nature keeps tabs on who bombed who. I see people forgetting what we did to them.
And I remember what that boy said and as we meet again in my mind I greet him, scowling:
You know what? Sometimes I hate Americans too.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
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