by Daisaku Ikeda I have a mirror. I always keep it with me. Actually, it’s nothing more than a piece of broken glass about the size of my palm. A piece of broken mirror, somewhat on the thick side, the kind you could probably find on any trash heap. But to me, it’s anything but trash. When my mother married, she brought as part of her trousseau a mirror stand fitted with a very nice mirror. How many times it must have clearly reflected her face as a young bride! Twenty years later however, the mirror somehow got broken. My eldest brother Kiichi and I sorted over the fragments and picked out two of the larger ones to keep. Not long after that the war broke out. My four elder brothers went off one by one to the front, some to fight in China, others in Southeast Asia. I felt very strong feelings of revulsion against the war effort. My four brothers, who were in the prime of life, ready to work and contribute to our family, were taken from us, each by a single piece of paper—the conscription notice. I will never forget the disgust and anger with which Kiichi, on leave from China, described the inhuman atrocities he had seen committed there by the Japanese army. Japan was wrong, he said, and he felt deeply for the Chinese people. I developed a profound hatred for war, its cruelty, stupidity and waste. Tragically, the Pacific War saw the savage rampage of Japanese nationalism across Asia. The Japanese became emissaries of hell, causing untold suffering and grief to both our Asian neighbors and the citizens of Japan. We must never forget the terrible cruelties we inflicted on the beautiful countries of Asia. I offer my sincere apologies for the untold misery caused by the Japanese military at that time. My mother, her four oldest sons taken away from her, tried not to show her grief, but she seemed to age suddenly. Then the air raids on Tokyo began and soon they were a daily occurrence. I kept my piece of mirror with me always, sticking it carefully inside my shirt as I dodged my way through the firebombs that fell all around us. The war had cast its shadow into every single corner of our lives. Finally, the end that we all knew was coming arrived. Defeat. On August 15, the war, which had been started and fought in the Emperor’s name, now ended with the Emperor’s voice on the radio, urging the Japanese people to “. . . bear the unbearable.” At seventeen, my heart was torn between hope and anxiety. People just sat around in a daze. But then we realized that the skies were quiet for the first time in months. A sense of relief seemed to spread. That night we could turn on the lights at last. How bright! I thought—what a good thing peace is. We were all relieved, but no one dared come right out and say, “I’m glad we lost. Thank goodness the war’s over.” My mother’s only wish, her only hope, was for the safe return of her sons. She was particularly worried about Kiichi. We hadn’t heard a word from him since he reported having left China for Southeast Asia. From time to time, mother would tell us that she had seen Kiichi in a dream, and that he had told her he would soon return.
Posted on: Fri, 04 Oct 2013 04:25:30 +0000
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