If you (like me) harbor an inscrutable fascination with the concept of evil and the indelible stamp it has left on our history as a species, the graphic examination of human cruelties depicted here should be enough to quell your thanatopic compulsions for awhile. Have you ever, while experimenting with a certain synthetic ergoline alkaloid, egressed through the wrong Huxleyian postern into the waiting arms of a nightmarish trip which forced you to confront the sinister kernel deep within your being which would allow you to subordinate yourself to a mob and commit unspeakable acts of coalitionary violence? Here you will find further confirmation of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn’s immortal assertion: “If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?”
This book is the product an amazing woman’s implacable will. Iris Chang, who was determined to wrest this event from the Orwellian Sarlacc Pit which threatened to bathe this tragedy in the powerful digestive enzymes of our transient attention (the collective amnesia cultivated by the Japanese government as well, which conservative Japanese academics accept and perpetuate to this day, insisting that the claims made in the book are massively exaggerated, and the motives of the Japanese army thoroughly mischaracterized.) and dissolve it from history. The Rape of Nanking, as the name may suggest, is not a book for the squeamish, especially those who are sensitive to depictions of sexual assault. Hundreds of thousands of people were subjected to a ruthless culling, many tortured in ways that stagger the imagination. Children were not spared, with young girls being raped to death by soldiers, or held at gunpoint to be raped by their own fathers for the amusement of officers. (Before being skewered by bayonets.) Please note that this meager list of horrors is far from exhaustive, and you’ll find much else to turn your stomach in this theodician chronicle.
Chang’s book covers three aspects of this event; the assault of the city and the subsequent occupation (with all its attendant ghastliness), the brave efforts of the International Committee for the Nanjing Safety Zone to provide protection for Chinese residents, and the efforts of the postwar Japanese to cover up the atrocity.
Marveling at suffering on a scope and scale that would embarrass even the most ambitious psychopath, I asked myself the question (not for the first time, as this seems to be a perennial query) “Why I we read about things like this?” Which may be tantamount to asking why people study history at all, since peace and prosperity rarely seem to occupy our attention the way strife does. I don’t think this question admits of a simple answer. But, as I alluded to in my opening, I think it’s vitally important to realize how otherwise normal individuals can become complicit in the worst acts of history. How susceptible each of us are to indoctrination. How easily nationalistic fervor can circumscribe our ability to see the common humanity in others. How we disindividuate in large groups and offload our cognition to the barbaric whims of the super organism which collectively animates our tribal emotions. We would all like to think that we’re exceptions to this; the facts suggest otherwise.
Violent psychopaths represent about 1% of the population, if the official score is to be believed, and I assume, unless you’re living in a country ravaged by war, your every day experience bears this conclusion out. As, presumably, you are sitting in relative comfort and viewing this through the most magical Rube Goldberg machine ever designed since Pee-wee Herman’s mechanistic genius served him breakfast through a system of levers, pulleys, dominos, fans, candles, anvils, ferris wheels, tubes, gears, simple heat engine birds, fossil pterodactyls, pneumatic arms with suction cups mounted inside squirt guns, gilded cherub statues, mandibular force production curtesy of tyrannosaurus skeleton, and pancake flipping Animatronic Abraham Lincoln, (i.e. The Internet) and there is no one presently attempting to burry you up to your waist in order to make sport of your helplessness as packs of ravenous German Shepards eat you alive. (Yes, that’s in the book). Even if we account for a disproportionate number of those individuals gravitating towards military service, you still can’t escape the reality that ordinary people, under the right circumstances, can be truly monstrous.
I think another reason that I read history of this kind is to fill my gratitude meter. When times are difficult for me, it’s not uncommon that I find myself reaching for dark books. For myself, it must be a kind of palliative against becoming so entangled by my own comparatively trivial struggles that I lose that vital sense of perspective which allows me to be thankful for the great blessings still present in my imperfect world, much of it unearned and, arguably, undeserved.