Thursday, December 29, 2005

This is not a Happy Place

(As published in http://www.theforeigner-japan.com/archives/200601/denyingshame.htm).


During the winter Tokyo becomes a single mass of grey upon grey. Cold weather sets in, the scant greenery subsides, and the few large parks seem unable to contain the invasion of concrete all around. Far away from the neon-glitz of downtown Shibuya, suburbs and mid-points remain quiet in their anonymity. Some less anonymous places have other reasons for silence.

Straight from the sixth exit of Kudanshita station lies the infamous Yasukuni shrine. A huge promenade and two looming Torii gates lead the way into this, the resting place of the souls of the Japanese Imperial Army. On every side, blackened cherry blossom trees sprout leafless like menacing tentacles, exacerbating the dark colours of the main shrine. A pristine white cloth with artful patterns hangs on the front, giving the place striking contrasts of imperial grandeur. Outside, neo-fascists bow reverentially while sombre temple girls carry on with their duties. The tone is grave and the execution martial. This is not a happy place.

Once the hub of religious imperial frenzy, Yasukuni is both the lovechild and the lover of Japan's extreme right. Its name literally means "peaceful country," but it would be wrong to assume Yasukuni is a monument to pacifism. Quite the opposite, Yasukuni is a place of reverence to the heroic feats of Japan during every war since the Meiji restoration, when the shrine was founded. This includes Japan's invasion of several Asian countries and World War II. Not only are the names of over 2.5 million soldiers revered here, but also the souls of Japan's biggest war criminals are supposed to rest within its dark halls. These include 14 Class A criminals, such as former Prime Minister Hideki Tojo and general Iwane Matsui, one of the people formally responsible for the Nanjing massacre (aka the "Rape of Nanking") in 1937. The concept of peace impulsed by Yasukuni, in short, is the kind exercised through a gun barrel.


On one of the sides of the main building there is a large box with a number of leaflets about the shrine and the many organisations that support it. In one of them, a peace dove explains how the War was necessary to maintain Japan's independence, to make it a truly peaceful country and spread its peace through Asia. Another leaflet tells how only by fighting in Asia could the continent be rid of the "white menace." Yet another leaflet advertises a documentary which tells the "true" story of the war, from Japan's altruistic pan-Asian intentions to the unfairness of the Tokyo War Trials. "Show this to your children and grandchildren," says the advert, "to raise their awareness and patriotsm." Near the dark Torii gate, a girl no more than 10 years old bowed at almost 90 degrees to the altar in the shrine.

Yet, for all its conspicuous propaganda, Yasukuni itself is not the blatant monument to imperialism one wishes it to be (as it would be much easier to ignore that way). It is not a shrine built on revisionism, but rather the latter follows as a consequence of the nature of the place. Yasukuni is a memorial which caters to feelings, not history. The feelings in question are those of "patriots" and their families. And because this is ultimately a religious site, propaganda is shrouded under the guise of morality, a mixture of culture, piety and pride, based on honour, heroism and suffering.

The suffering of the soldiers' families - pointed out repeatedly in several inscriptions around the shrine - is the kind of moral detergent used to review history from the point of view of the aggressor as a victim. It is not unlike the constant references to Hiroshima and Nagasaki one finds in Japanese history books, to show that neither side is ever free of guilt. Albeit a sound argument, it is one that requires objectivity and a large degree of introspection, too. The lack of either in Japanese post-war rhetoric is enough to write off Yasukuni's imperialist arguments of Japan's "just" war.

And yet, the fact remains that human lives were lost, and suffering - though far less brutal than in the colonies - was as much a reality in Japan as it was elsewhere. This is the stepping stone that the Yasukuni establishment uses and exploits, by justifying the war through vicarious suffering. Their mission is not to give an objective account of history, but to describe it in moral/religious terms. Thus, sending millions of children to their deaths was not only necessary: it was heroic, pure and borne out of duty. In the Yasukuni mindset, the soldiers are innocent because their intentions were pure, laying their lives for their country trying to create a utopic world. Nazism was not too different. Yet we do not find memorials to fallen SS officers in Germany these days.

Culturally conditioned pride -"face"- plays a big role in this. Denying the souls the purity of their ideals would bring shame upon the suffering of the families who have already paid the price of defeat. It's a particularly diabolical argument: that of sustaining the sanctitude of human life by showing complete disregard for it at the same time. And yet reason might not be enough to deal with pride. For what good are arguments to assuage the pain of an aching mother who has just lost her son?

On emotional grounds, then, Yasukuni could be justified at an individual level. The problems happen when these cases are brought into the political arena. When the Prime Minister visits the shrine in his capacity as such, he is representing an individual emotional matter as a collective national issue. It is not the suffering of a family anymore, but the suffering of the Japanese nation as a family. The great lie of nationalism is fed through individual pain. This, at the same time, gives itself to further political machinations where purity of action through following orders becomes an excuse for bloody deeds, putting ideological principles on top of life and civility. When history is explored in religious terms it makes way for political agendas. In Yasukuni's case, the agenda is to legitimise a particularly ruthless and self-righteous -but more to the case, outdated- brand of authoritarianism.

As the tourists around me took pictures of the shrine, I overheard a conversation between an American woman, an expat living in Japan, and her visiting friends. She was explaining the controversial history of Yasukuni to her guests, when she said something that caught my attention: "Many war criminals are honoured in here, yet I feel we might not be too different in the US. After all, our war criminals are still alive and in office." Here was the introspection needed to understand places like Yasukuni, the same argument that the shrine in all its monumental pomposity lacked. It was, ironically, brought forth by the blatant attempts all around us to obscure history. Inadvertently, Yasukuni had become an advert for values opposite to those it exalted.

The cold winter sun shone through the leafless branches, but from where I stood the black Torii gates suddenly didn't look so big and menacing anymore.

Sunday, December 18, 2005

...Y Mostraron la Hilacha

“Hilacha” is a quirky Spanish word to describe a loose thread in a piece of clothing and “mostrar la hilacha” (lit. “to show the loose thread”) is a widely used colloquialism. In the same way a loose thread on an expensive shirt undermines its quality, “mostrar la hilacha” is to find a blemish on an otherwise flawless image. Its meaning is close to the English “to show one’s true colours,” and its use is not uncommon in the political arena.

As predicted, Michelle Bachelet won nearly 46% of the votes (4% under the 50+1 needed for election) on last Sunday’s election. Both right-wing contenders, Sebastián Piñera and Joaquín Lavín, followed with 25% and 23% respectively and Tomas Hirsch with 5%. A run-off has been set for January 15th between Bachelet and Piñera, and as the final countdown begins both coalitions have already started showing their teeth.

The first incident happened soon after the election, when members of Bachelet’s team accused Piñera of receiving phone calls from his party offering bribes. Bachelet, standing by her constituents, accused Piñera of using an (sic) “age old tactic of the right wing, which is to offer money and presents in exchange for political support.” She was, of course, referring to the well-known practice of cohecho, punishable by law. Piñera swiftly denied the accusations and in turn accused Bachelet’s coalition of spreading false rumours for electoral purposes. Bachelet proceeded to clarify it was not members of her party who were offered bribes, but a number of citizens in poorer sectors. In the light of this sudden change of rhetoric, Piñera questioned Bachelet’s honour and credibility in public.

Soon after, Piñera’s own moral authority was challenged when dirty episodes of his political career were brought to light, such as a telephone-tapping scandal with UDI senator Evelyn Matthei in the early 1990s and the dubious selling of stock for the then newly privatised electricity company, Endesa.
On the side of the losers, former UDI candidate Joaquín Lavín announced his “intimate friendship” with Piñera –even after months of gritty confrontation with the RN candidate-, and Tomas Hirsch urged his supporters to annul their votes on the upcoming run-off. While Hirsch’s original candidature was received coldly by most left-wing parties because it fragmented the bloc, his comments alienated the left even further. The communists, in a turn of events, decided not to back Hirsch and offered their support to Bachelet if she complied with a set of five demands, one of them issuing the abolishment of the binomial electoral system established during the dictatorship. Bachelet’s team, wary of a sudden upsurge in right-wing votes, agreed to these demands and urged Piñera to establish his position on the subject through a televised debate.

Piñera is now faced with the dilemma of the binomial issue. While his own party (RN) is not in favour of the system, half of his voters (the 23% who supported Lavín) and the authoritarian UDI do not want it to change. Mario Puccio, spokesperson for the current government, has referred to Piñera as “a victim of the extreme right,” while Piñera himself claims the debate on the binomial system is just another “political manoeuvre.”

The debate is scheduled soon after New Year, and teams on either side are busy trying to complicate matters further in search for additional votes. Power politics are never silky, and right now there seem to be enough hilachas to reel a few spools.

Sunday, December 11, 2005

Deck the Polls (with boughs of folly)

This Sunday at approximately 10pm (Monday morning for us living in “the future”), the short-term destiny of yet another small and random country will be decided. It will not be a significant event in world history, nor will it change the fate of humanity at large. For the most part, it will only provide some interesting trivia at dinner parties and a chance to show off in front of that special someone. For some, however, it will mean much more. At that time, Chile in all its anorexic glory will welcome a new president with open hands (and possibly the customary Molotov cocktails provided by our dear lumpen).

I would assume most readers to my humble blog are fairly clueless about Chilean politics, much in the same way I am clueless about local politics in, say, Gambia. Perhaps some will have heard about the infamous General Pinochet. Others might be aware of the 9/11 1973 coup-de-etat, and fewer still might know about the short-term effect of President Frei’s land-reform policies in rural communities at the pinnacle of radicalism in the 1960s. The fact remains that not many people know about modern Chilean politics, with the possible exception of crazed poncho-garbed Latin American Studies graduates (who always specialise in Peru or Colombia anyway).

In an effort to educate the masses and make sure that you, too, can bore others to tears (including that girl you wanted to impress), here’s a little run through of the main contenders for this year’s tricolour sash:

Michelle Bachellet
Political analysts, statisticians and other wizards agree that Ms. Bachellet has the highest chances of winning the first electoral round. A member of the “concertación,” an alliance of left-wing parties, including the Christian Democrats (DC) and the Socialist Party (PS), she is widely supported by many sectors of the population. Her widespread popularity is due to two main factors: 1) She is the daughter of a famous air-force official assassinated during the dictatorship and 2) she is the first woman to ever run for president in Chile. Her past closeness to tragedy, ‘simple middle-class mother’ public image and progressive views bring her closer to the sectors who suffered the most during Pinochet’s reign of terror (except, perhaps, for communist militants). Furthermore, the fact that she is female appeals to great masses of downtrodden women and sexual minorities in what is a particularly chauvinistic and conservative society. Some maintain that a skirt in La Moneda Palace would upset traditional social and political mores in a country blighted by conflicts related to codpiece bulk.

Points in Favour: She will continue with the work of the current government, making sure that several social policies –especially in regard to health, transport and education- escape private interests, and help to address the unfair distribution of income.

Points Against: La Moneda will be closed for a week each month, when the President will be unavailable to address “touchy” subjects. Expect laws ensuring leaves of absence for feminine reasons. (Conversely, it is estimated this will produce a welcome boom in the chocolate and romantic novel industries).


Joaquin Lavin
The George Bush of Chile, Joaquin Lavin is a devout Catholic and an ardent Opus Dei militant. In fact, his religious convictions are so strong he resembles the closest thing to a South American Ayatollah. As could be expected, he is also a staunch conservative and a right-wing nutter (some would say, a few rigatoni short of Il Duce). He is a member of the Union Democrata Independiente (UDI), conformed by wealthy industrialists and “Pinochetistas” (pro-dictatorship). In short, it's a party with as much social vision as Bush’s kleptocracy in the US. While many consider them to be an anachronism in Chilean politics, the girth of their financial muscle and flagrant nepotism are overwhelming.
A former candidate in the last presidential election, Lavin has been pushing for a place in La Moneda for what seems an eternity. Needless to say, everyone is tired of his populist rants and demagogical fascism, as well as his personal history of Pinochetismo (which he now denies). Although he came to a close second place 6 years ago, his popularity has been dwindling constantly since then, especially after the Pinochet-Riggs case last year. Sudden humiliation and sullen desperation have seen him unleash his venomous tongue repeatedly against the other candidates in public.

Points in Favour: He is a good Catholic, and believes in helping the needy.

Points Against: In Lavin’s utopia, the rich hold sumptuous charity banquets of pheasant and game to give the less-fortunate cans of tuna in brine. Heathens get gizzard salad.

Sebastian Piñera
A candidate for the Renovacion Nacional (RN) party, Piñera belongs to a different strand of conservatism than his counterpart Lavin. Millionaire extraordinaire, Piñera has the financial backing of the industrialists and enjoys the popular benefits of an anti-Pinochetista. To many, he is the modern incarnation of former President Alessandri, a very popular conservative in the 1920s and 30s, who successfully addressed many social issues with a mix of private and public policies.
Early this year Piñera stirred the ranks of the right wing by running for election, thus bringing an end to the “Alianza por Chile,” an alliance between the RN and UDI parties who originally supported Lavin as the only right-wing candidate. Since then, relations with his political adversaries have been difficult, and many of his former friends have turned their backs on him. In spite of this, polls have shown his support grow in the last few months, even surpassing Lavin at times.

Points in Favour: He is a good conservative. If Piñera gets to La Moneda, economic policies turned to privatization of public enterprises may increase their value and efficiency. He is also a famed environmentalist, and thus massive tracts of land would privatised and protected from illegal loggers and industrial interests.

Points Against: He is a good, rich conservative. His policies would fail to address the single biggest problem in Chilean society, which is the unfair distribution of income. His environmental policies could also backfire under the pressure of multinationals, free-trade agreements and industrialist lobbying from his close circle of friends.

Tomas Hirsch
Hirsch is the man no one really knows, the humanist rebel who has been present in the past three elections and failed to get more than a tiny fraction of the votes. He is a member of a left-wing alliance between the humanists (his own party), radicals (PR) and communists (PC). His popularity has increased somewhat in the last few months, especially after the death of the communist leader, Gladys Marin. His support is discrete, but he could well be a worthy adversary in the future. Or so it has been predicted for the last 15 years.

Points in Favour: He is the right on candidate supported by hippies, environmentalists, artsy people and liberal lefties in general.

Points Against: Unfortunately for him, these are the same people who are usually too stoned to vote in the elections.

And that’s it. I hope you have been enlightened in your understanding of the sordid world of Chilean politics. Good luck in your dinner parties!

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

This is Not a Poem, Just Misplaced Haphazard Prose
(and purposefully obscure, ungrammatical Japanese)

The air gets colder
with each passing minute;
My red fleece socks,
They tell me:
Going out every night
is not more an option
than sucking ice
from frozen pipes.

冷たくなる一方
空気が、一分毎
赤い靴下は
管の氷吸い
同様、毎晩
出かけるはイカン。

My bicycle, alone
In the shed at night
Yearns for exercise.
I tell her:
Why face searing blasts
of icy wind on mine,
if I can crawl under a blanket
and become a junkie
for paraffin fumes?

一人ぼっちチャリ
真夜中に宿で
俺は慰める
風が顔を打つ
布団にホッとし
灯油を吸いつづ。

What was a picnic
A minute from now
Is a steaming nabe;
It tells me:
The rugged park
swapped its freedom
for the constrained softness
of the living room.

以前は夏花見
以後は鍋になる
耳に囁いた
公園が自由
居間の柔らかさ
に変身をした。

Drowsiness fills the void
Left by escaping heat;
Old master at my table
Tells me:
Food, warmth, inactivity,
the age-old highlights
of the winter season;
I’ll enjoy them
one yawn at a time.

寝欲が凝縮
暑さが出ながら
机に老師が
食(しょく)、暑(しょ)、動かずの
寒節の特徴
一方的に取れ。

Monday, December 05, 2005

The OL
Miss Ikeda always sat at the bottom end of the small office space, a sort of glorified eikaiwa I used to work for some time ago. Apart from the usual language classes, the job involved translating and editing documents in either hypertechnical Japanese or incomprehensible English, which I had to puzzle over daily. Since the place was small, only a handful of people worked there: four foreigners and four Japanese staff members. Ikeda-san was one of the latter.

Though not an unattractive woman, her shyness often seemed in direct proportion to the generous size of her waist. Quiet and diligent, she would usually come in early and stay until everyone else had gone home, always doing something or other for the boss on her computer. Unfortunately, her meekness and passive nature also made Ikeda-san a usual target for the latter's ego-crushing torments.

The office was owned by two partners, a man and a woman whom my friends and I jokingly dubbed "the Doomsday Duo." The top boss, "Ming the Merciless," and his right hand, "Yubaba" (in allusion to the wicked witch in a cartoon film) were every bit as bad as their nicknames suggested, little more than an overgrown schoolyard bully and his baboonlike stooge.
For one, the main boss was a control freak. At the end of every week we would all be rounded up for what they called a "yuurei," a made-up word meaning "circle of friends" (to me it always sounded more like an identical Japanese word which means "spectre"). The reason for doing it, the bosses said, was to share our experiences and relay to each other our opinions, the things we had learnt in the past week and to voice any complaints that we might have. In reality, the meeting consisted in telling the bosses what exactly we had done that past week, what we were up to now and what we would do afterward - and woe betide anyone who had a real observation or complaint, for they would be hammered down with the same diabolical zeal a hammer beats a loose nail.

These fabled meetings would sometimes be followed up by individual demoralising sessions. The bosses had a peculiar understanding of the concept "motivation," in the same way Gestapo officials "motivated" their victims to talk. Special care was taken into choosing a monthly target for surprise scoldings. Any mistakes, from spilling tea to being 3 minutes late, were written down and mounted up, then fired at us like big black bullets of shame. They always happened in the same way: the boss would say "I need to have a word with you, meet me downstairs," and everyone in the office would flinch. Desperate gazes of support crossed each other, and as soon as the target was identified, sighs of canned relief replaced them. Needless to say, Ikeda-san was a favourite target for these sessions, even in spite of her usual dilligence.
The secretary, a slender woman in expensive make-up and provocative cleavages, sat a few desks away from Ikeda-san. She was in charge of greeting customers and meeting clients, while Ikeda was in charge almost exclusively of the phone. Her job did not involve much socialising, and her biggest client was the computer screen in front of her. She seemed happy enough with this situation, however, and had in a few years acquired enough experience and mastered enough computing skills to do several kinds of jobs elsewhere. But the question of leaving the company never entered her mind. "What would I do?" she'd sigh before going back to her endless typing.
A few months down the line, things began getting worse for me. The demoralising sessions had increased, as had the overtime and my misery. By this time a vicious circle had been created, where the bullying from the bosses would only tap into my inner brat. I was not ready to give up my individual rights for the sake of the company, even if it cost me my job, and made a point by being needlessly rebellious. I was not the first one. Most foreigners who had worked in that office had reacted in the same way before quitting. As the fireworks exploded before the grand finale, Ikeda-san peeked meekly from her desk. This time she saw something else than a light show.

A few months later I had to go back to the office to get some documents for my visa renewal. The place looked unchanged, but something felt different. I noticed that Ikeda-san no longer worked next to the boss's desk, and had moved downstairs. When I asked an ex-colleague about her, he told me she had had an argument with the boss. Apparently they had tried to lower her already miserable paycheck on account of "financial difficulties." She had flatly refused. After some yelling and intimidation from the top boss, she had eventually stood up and threatened to leave. The boss backed down immediatey. He wasn't happy (the man never smiled anyway), but refrained from giving her the paycut in the end. He told the others to bully Ikeda-san, not to talk to her, but his orders went unheeded.
I glanced at her as she typed. She looked different, if not happier, more determined. I exchanged a few pleasantries with her, and asked her about her work. "Same old same old", she replied. "The bosses are out, so it's not too bad. If I'm lucky I might not even see them today. I've got plans tonight so I'm leaving early."

The seeds of revolution had been planted.

Thursday, December 01, 2005


Bureaucracy and the Internet

It’s official. I can’t get Internet at home. It’s not that I lack the money for this otherwise expensive luxury. Nor do I lack enthusiasm, manners and almost infinite amounts of patience in dealing with unhelpful vendors. I have a day job, the required age, good command of the language, even what some would call a wistful kind of charm. What I lack, however, is credibility – or, better said, written proof that my credibility is credible enough.

Apart from my alien registration card, valid within 3 months of the signing of the contract, I must produce a bill or receipt of any public service (such as electricity or gas) stating my address and postcode. I need proof of a permanent address. I do not, however, live by myself, and therefore such bills are not addressed to my person. The service in question is for mobile connection, usable (and payable) anywhere in Japan, but proof in the form of a bill for a private service –a mobile phone, for example- will not do. Exceptions are impossible. Someone tells me I could go to the city hall and obtain a legal transcript of my address, but this situation is already proving to be too time-consuming.

The labyrinthine bureaucracy of Japan is famous for its dead ends, its dreary tentacles oftentimes extending beyond public services. Everything must be approved, stamped and signed in triplicate by someone else. Especially infamous are the visa renewal procedures for foreigners, demanding no less than twelve different documents, several visits to the immigration office, numerous phone calls and perhaps the odd trip to the other side of town in order to comply with the latest whim of the bureaucrat in turn. There is no limit to the amount of paperwork needed to do anything in Japan, and the sheer volume of it can be dumbfounding at times.

Japan does not stand alone in this regard, of course. Chilean bureaucrats can be just as bad, perhaps surlier and certainly ruder. The image of the unflinching bureacurat behind his desk armed with a stamp seal and a grizzly frown is common across the world, perhaps more so in countries with authoritarian backrounds. Bureaucracy is, after all, the natural outcome of a system that shirks personal responsibility in favour of general order. Ordnung muss sein. Rules and regulations, ironically conceived to avoid the direct misuse of authority, become a neverending web of nonsense stipulations and small lettering, unable to work beyond its borders and the assumptions it sets for the public. The lack of precedent equals actual impossibility, and logic never enters the question when tautology reigns supreme.

Yet bureaucracy is in principle a dehumanising system, so we cannot expect it to act like a human being. Weber once rightfully described bureaucracy as an Iron Cage, alienating the individual in order to standardise the masses, who are trapped within six walls of constrained reason: reasonable because it follows logical paths, and constrained because these ultimately lead to either roundabouts or barb-wire fences.

Coupled with its modern ideals of collectivism, Japan has for decades been fertile ground for bureaucracy to thrive. The culture of dependence (amae), as described by Doi, creates a perfect environment to elude responsibility, absorbed by an ethereal bureaucratic superstructure created specifically for this purpose. Any complaint or observation can be diverted to it, thus freeing the individual from any moral or personal obligations. It’s a glorified version of the age-old “I’m just doing my job” pretext.

As I sit in an internet café, pondering whether I want this internet service bad enough to justify sitting for hours in the gloomy lobby of city hall, images of a simpler life pass by. The café around the corner might be more expensive in the long run, but it only requires a simple monetary transaction and possibly some flirting with the cute girl across the counter. Suddenly, being deprived of a service doesn’t look so bad after all.