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192 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1972
Nowadays, though, she might write to her brother "Take care of yourself," but not "Please fight for the country with all your might." She had learned how hard her young heart must have been to have written that message over and over without a twinge of pain.A few GR people have this marked down as Young Adult, for whatever reason. It's about as Young Adult as Grave of the Fireflies is a children's movie, in that both happen to children and young adults and that's just the way it goes. Those who sniff and sneer at the younger audiences of genres, be grateful that these still fairly recent inventions of childhood and young adulthood didn't, in your case, incorporate all the trials and tribulations of firebombs and politics. Death has no minimum age. Consumption has no minimum age. Ideological indoctrination via imperialism and the military industrial complex has no minimum age, and if you can't tell whether I'm speaking of Japan or my own country: good. Even this gun-filled landscape of mine has its pockets where children viewed less as a target of mockery and more as target practice, but that's a story for another book.
They'll shout their slogans about its sacredness and a hundred million glorious deaths, just as long as it's the common people whose lives are at stake, but when it's their turn, and the imperial system and the state itself—the justification for all their actions—come under threat, then there's no reason for them to continue the war.I keep coming back to World War II in reading because a. things get published and b. as time passes, more of the blanks continually erased by the dominant discourse are slowly but surely being filled in. There's not many fundamental differences between what this author wrote and her own experiences as a young Japanese girl in the early middle of the twentieth century, so if you want to quibble about textual condemnation of the Rape of Nanking, you've come to the wrong place. This is war. That means suicide instead of defeat, the leeching of traitors, sacrifice upon sacrifice upon sacrifice until pride outlives faith and survival is rendered nonsensical by being the only one left. It does not often mean a socioeconomic evaluation of life and death on a global scale, but here the author puts this to the forefront, for which I am grateful. Such a viewpoint makes the publication of this in English translation unsurprising, but when the US has as much a penchant for the enshrinement of war criminals in the slightly different terms of city streets and dollar bills, some ugly truths surface as a direct result of the stifling.
Well, I thought, America's not stingy with its bombs.Don't read this if you're looking for a happy ending, or a reason to hate Japanese people, or a reason to hate women, or a reason to hate Japanese women, etc, etc, etc. it's a semi-epistolary novel between two Japanese girls on the cusp of respective adulthoods, opposite sides of a nurturing dichotomy rendered null and void by military operations and various lists of casualties. Give it to your kid, if you like, but only if you're prepared to tell the truth.
And people will still have to go on living after the war's over, you know.
She knew Japan wasn’t winning. But defeat and surrender weren’t the same thing. They might be beaten, but they would never surrender. They would fight till the last man, woman and child had fallen. Wasn’t that why, each time there was news of a Glorious Sacrifice—Attu, Saipan, Okinawa—they had sworn with ever-deeper conviction to defend their homeland against invasion? So Setsuko had been taught, had believed, had lived. (p. 21)
When the all clear sounded, Setsuko spread out one of the pieces of newspaper she was carrying instead of tissue paper, and lowered [workmate] Jun Sawabe’s head onto it. Then she covered his face with a white square of artificial silk, a special-issue item for bombed out families. And then she went slowly back to her workplace, alone. She stopped at the washbasin to rinse the blood from her hands and drink a little water. “Mr. Sawabe of Section Three has died in action.” (p. 21)
It was agony to think of those who would not rise: the dead would be left where they fell at the ends of the earth while the living would come home with their knapsacks of clothing and food. Whether they had gone to the front or stayed at home, the people had staked their lives for country and Emperor, and after they had lost, the country and the Emperor were still there. Then what had it all meant? (p. 97)