Gokoku Jinja

   One of my favorite places in Fukuoka City is Gokoku Jinja, located just south of Ôhori Park. According to the Encyclopedia of Shintôism, Gokoku is a shrine built for the protection of the nation and "dedicated to the spirits of individuals who died in Japanese wars from the end of the early modern period through World War II."

   These shrines were known as shōkonsha, or "spirit-inviting shrines", in the prewar period and numbered over one hundred. In 1939, however, they were renamed gokoku jinja. Following Japan's defeat in the Pacific War, "the shrines were placed under strict observation by the occupation armies, and many of the shrines changed their titles, though most have today reverted to their original name. . . In most cases, they have added to their lists of enshrined kami individuals who have died in service to local public organizations. Tokyo's Yasukuni Jinja acted as the central or home shrine for gokoku jinja nationwide." (See note below.)

   I wrote about Gokoku Jinja in my second novel A Woman's Nails:

   Many of the more interesting sites in Fukuoka are fortunately within a short walk from my apartment: the castle ruins with its maze of stone ramparts, and Ôhori Park, which has a beautiful Japanese garden. A Noh theatre and art museum are also located in the area, as is Gokoku Jinja and a martial arts center simply called Budôkan.

   Gokoku Jinja, like Tokyo's infamous Yasukuni, is a shrine dedicated to those who died defending Japan. Had I known this little fact before visiting the shrine, I may have been moved in an altogether different way. Instead, I was inspired with a deep sense of awe, the very awe which was sorely absent when my father would drag his unwilling brood at an ungodly hour every Sunday morning and stuff it into the first two pews of our dimly lit, dusty old house of worship where we'd reluctantly take part in that hebdomadal morose pageant, Mass.

   No, if the divine and mysterious were to be felt anywhere, it was in shrines such as Gokoku, a serene island of ancient trees, expansive lawns and painstakingly raked gravel. It's a spiritual oasis in the heart of a frenetically bustling desert of asphalt and condominiums and if you're not moved to the core when visiting the shrine, then you have no core. With the Catholic church, the nearest I ever got to appreciating the power of the Almighty was at the coffee and donuts bonanza after Mass when dutifully sitting-standing-genuflecting automatons were resurrected with copious amounts of caffeine and sugar.

   After a purifying ablution of my hands, I passed between a pair of komainu statues and through a towering wooden torii gate, entering the shrine. At the end of a long the broad path of combed gravel was the shinden, a long, one storey golden structure with a gracefully sloping roof at the edge of a lush and verdant woods. Iron lanterns and straw braiding hung along the eves, and a young woman, her black parasol leaning against the offertory box, bowed her head in prayer. Drawn by both curiosity and a spontaneous reverence, I made my way along the gravel path, ascended the short flight of steps and offered up a pray, myself.

   One day my father will ask cynically, "So, now you're a Shintôist, are ye?"

   I'll reply, "When was I never one?"

   What did I pray for? Happiness, of course.

   With the change in my pocket, I bought an o-mikuji, a small folded strip of white paper with my fortune written in Japanese on one side, and, to my surprise, in English on the other.

   "Your flower is heather," the o-mikuji prognosticated. "It means lonely."

   Wonderful.

   "You are introverted and like to be alone."

   Not really.

   "But man cannot live on without others."

   Hah! No man is an island! Plagiarist!

   "Let people into your heart, and you'll be happy."

   Bingo!

   Regarding my hopes and ambitions, I was told to "make efforts, and try to be friendly with a lot of people."

   By gum, try I will!

   "You studies will be all right, if you keep calm." I took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, releasing a small fart, redolent of sour milk.

   Any more relaxed and I'd be dead.

   I was advised to be cheerful, but to not aim too high when looking for a job. It was also suggested that being quiet on dates wasn't always the wisest thing to do, and, because I was, again, too introverted I must "behave cheerfully."

   Dutifully noted!

   Not particularly impressed with this fortune--it was only shokichi, a four out a scale of about six--I tied it onto a narrow branch of a nearby tree and left the shrine. 

© Aonghas Crowe, 2010. All rights reserved. No unauthorized duplication of any kind.

注意：この作品はフィクションです。登場人物、団体等、実在のモノとは一切関係ありません。

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A Woman's Nails is now available on Amazon's Kindle.

   Gokoku Jinja holds a special place in my heart. It was, in fact, where I was first married. And though that first marriage could hardly be called a success (My second marriage in a Christian church in Honolulu has gone much better), I still have many fond memories of the wedding day.

   Anyways, I've take quite a long time to get to what I wanted to write about: the Mimata Matsuri, or the Souls' Festival that is held from the 13th to the 16th at Gokoku Jinja.

   Like the similarly named festival at Tôkyô's Yasukumi Shrine, Gokoku's Mitama Matsuri is a festival in honor of those who died in the service of the country. That may sound sinister considering Japan's history, but (at least here in Fukuoka) all this really involves is lanterns being displayed on the grounds of the shrine.

   The first time I discovered the "festival" was about ten years ago, during one of my evening jogs. Seeing the lanters, I took a detour and headed into the shrine. There were only a handful of people milling about, but the lanterns must have numbered in the tens of thousands. It was awe-inspiring.

   In recent years, the shrine has tried with a modicum success to attract more visitors by offereing concerts, food stalls, and other attractions. Unfortunately, the number of lanterns has steadily fallen year by year and the feeling of awe that struck me the first time has waned considerably.

   Sixty-six years have passed since the end of World War II and those who participated in it are now in their 80s and 90s, if still alive. Those who lost children in the war, people who'd be most inclined to keep a lantern burning for the souls of their loved ones, are even older. My own Japanese grandmother, an octogenarian who is now bedridden after a massive stroke, lost her husband in the war. The more that time passes since the end of hostilities in the Pacific, the easier it is for me to imagine that the yearly calls of "Never again" might one day become too faint to prevent another destructive war. Just a thougth. 

Fidelium animae, per misericordiam Dei, requiescant in pace. Amen

Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

Note: "The origin of Yasukuni Shrine is Shokonsha established at Kudan in Tokyo in the second year of the Meiji era (1869) by the will of the Emperor Meiji. In 1879, it was renamed Yasukuni Shrine.

"When the Emperor Meiji visited Tokyo Shokonsha for the first time on January 27 in 1874, he composed a poem; "I assure those of you who fought and died for your country that your names will live forever at this shrine in Musashino". As can be seen in this poem, Yasukuni Shrine was established to commemorate and honor the achievement of those who dedicated their precious lives for their country. The name "Yasukuni," given by the Emperor Meiji represents wishes for preserving peace of the nation.

"Currently, more than 2,466,000 divinities are enshrined here at Yasukuni Shrine."

            --  From Yasukuni's official home page 

Yuki Onna

   Another bone-chilling tale from Lafcadio Hearn's Kwaidan:

Yuki Onna

In a village of Musashi Province, there lived two woodcutters: Mosaku and Minokichi. At the time of which I am speaking, Mosaku was an old man; and Minokichi, his apprentice, was a lad of eighteen years. Every day they went together to a forest situated about five miles from their village. On the way to that forest there is a wide river to cross; and there is a ferry-boat. Several times a bridge was built where the ferry is; but the bridge was each time carried away by a flood. No common bridge can resist the current there when the river rises.

Mosaku and Minokichi were on their way home, one very cold evening, when a great snowstorm overtook them. They reached the ferry; and they found that the boatman had gone away, leaving his boat on the other side of the river. It was no day for swimming; and the woodcutters took shelter in the ferryman's hut,—thinking themselves lucky to find any shelter at all. There was no brazier in the hut, nor any place in which to make a fire: it was only a two-mat hut, with a single door, but no window. Mosaku and Minokichi fastened the door, and lay down to rest, with their straw rain-coats over them. At first they did not feel very cold; and they thought that the storm would soon be over.

The old man almost immediately fell asleep; but the boy, Minokichi, lay awake a long time, listening to the awful wind, and the continual slashing of the snow against the door. The river was roaring; and the hut swayed and creaked like a junk at sea. It was a terrible storm; and the air was every moment becoming colder; and Minokichi shivered under his rain-coat. But at last, in spite of the cold, he too fell asleep.

He was awakened by a showering of snow in his face. The door of the hut had been forced open; and, by the snow-light (yuki-akari), he saw a woman in the room,—a woman all in white. She was bending above Mosaku, and blowing her breath upon him;—and her breath was like a bright white smoke. Almost in the same moment she turned to Minokichi, and stooped over him. He tried to cry out, but found that he could not utter any sound. The white woman bent down over him, lower and lower, until her face almost touched him; and he saw that she was very beautiful,—though her eyes made him afraid. For a little time she continued to look at him;—then she smiled, and she whispered:—"I intended to treat you like the other man. But I cannot help feeling some pity for you,—because you are so young... You are a pretty boy, Minokichi; and I will not hurt you now. But, if you ever tell anybody—even your own mother—about what you have seen this night, I shall know it; and then I will kill you... Remember what I say!"

With these words, she turned from him, and passed through the doorway. Then he found himself able to move; and he sprang up, and looked out. But the woman was nowhere to be seen; and the snow was driving furiously into the hut. Minokichi closed the door, and secured it by fixing several billets of wood against it. He wondered if the wind had blown it open;—he thought that he might have been only dreaming, and might have mistaken the gleam of the snow-light in the doorway for the figure of a white woman: but he could not be sure. He called to Mosaku, and was frightened because the old man did not answer. He put out his hand in the dark, and touched Mosaku's face, and found that it was ice! Mosaku was stark and dead...

By dawn the storm was over; and when the ferryman returned to his station, a little after sunrise, he found Minokichi lying senseless beside the frozen body of Mosaku. Minokichi was promptly cared for, and soon came to himself; but he remained a long time ill from the effects of the cold of that terrible night. He had been greatly frightened also by the old man's death; but he said nothing about the vision of the woman in white. As soon as he got well again, he returned to his calling,—going alone every morning to the forest, and coming back at nightfall with his bundles of wood, which his mother helped him to sell.

One evening, in the winter of the following year, as he was on his way home, he overtook a girl who happened to be traveling by the same road. She was a tall, slim girl, very good-looking; and she answered Minokichi's greeting in a voice as pleasant to the ear as the voice of a song-bird. Then he walked beside her; and they began to talk. The girl said that her name was O-Yuki; that she had lately lost both of her parents; and that she was going to Yedo, where she happened to have some poor relations, who might help her to find a situation as a servant. Minokichi soon felt charmed by this strange girl; and the more that he looked at her, the handsomer she appeared to be. He asked her whether she was yet betrothed; and she answered, laughingly, that she was free. Then, in her turn, she asked Minokichi whether he was married, or pledge to marry; and he told her that, although he had only a widowed mother to support, the question of an "honorable daughter-in-law" had not yet been considered, as he was very young... After these confidences, they walked on for a long while without speaking; but, as the proverb declares, Ki ga areba, me mo kuchi hodo ni mono wo iu: "When the wish is there, the eyes can say as much as the mouth." By the time they reached the village, they had become very much pleased with each other; and then Minokichi asked O-Yuki to rest awhile at his house. After some shy hesitation, she went there with him; and his mother made her welcome, and prepared a warm meal for her. O-Yuki behaved so nicely that Minokichi's mother took a sudden fancy to her, and persuaded her to delay her journey to Yedo. And the natural end of the matter was that Yuki never went to Yedo at all. She remained in the house, as an "honorable daughter-in-law."

O-Yuki proved a very good daughter-in-law. When Minokichi's mother came to die,—some five years later,—her last words were words of affection and praise for the wife of her son. And O-Yuki bore Minokichi ten children, boys and girls,—handsome children all of them, and very fair of skin.

The country-folk thought O-Yuki a wonderful person, by nature different from themselves. Most of the peasant-women age early; but O-Yuki, even after having become the mother of ten children, looked as young and fresh as on the day when she had first come to the village.

One night, after the children had gone to sleep, O-Yuki was sewing by the light of a paper lamp; and Minokichi, watching her, said:—

"To see you sewing there, with the light on your face, makes me think of a strange thing that happened when I was a lad of eighteen. I then saw somebody as beautiful and white as you are now—indeed, she was very like you."...

Without lifting her eyes from her work, O-Yuki responded:—

"Tell me about her... Where did you see her?"

Then Minokichi told her about the terrible night in the ferryman's hut,—and about the White Woman that had stooped above him, smiling and whispering,—and about the silent death of old Mosaku. And he said:—

"Asleep or awake, that was the only time that I saw a being as beautiful as you. Of course, she was not a human being; and I was afraid of her,—very much afraid,—but she was so white!... Indeed, I have never been sure whether it was a dream that I saw, or the Woman of the Snow."...

O-Yuki flung down her sewing, and arose, and bowed above Minokichi where he sat, and shrieked into his face:

"It was I—I—I! Yuki it was! And I told you then that I would kill you if you ever said one work about it!... But for those children asleep there, I would kill you this moment! And now you had better take very, very good care of them; for if ever they have reason to complain of you, I will treat you as you deserve!"...

Even as she screamed, her voice became thin, like a crying of wind;—then she melted into a bright white mist that spired to the roof-beams, and shuddered away through the smoke-hold... Never again was she seen.

Bon - 2

   In an hour or so, I will be risking life and limb, and very possibly the immortality of my soul. I will, in other words, be spending the afternoon at the sea . . . duing O-Bon, during Japan's Buddhist festival of the dead. Call me reckless. Call me a fool, but I can't let a sunny day like this go to waste, even if it is on the first day of the Bon when Japanese superstition warns us that the lid of hell's cauldron has been opened and evil spirits will drag you down to the Netherworld (地獄の釜の蓋が開いていて連れて行かれるから、お盆に海に入っちゃいけない: jigoku no kama no futa ga aitite, tsurete ikareru kara, o-Bon ni umi ni haccha ikenai). 

   I have written about this before, but during, and particularly, after the Bon festival, the beaches grow depressingly quiet. There are fewer people playing in the sand, even fewer in the water. Superstition plays a part in the evacuation, but so do the jelly fish which always manage to time their unwelcomed arrival in mid August. Just walking along the waterline can mean risking getting stung by a dead jellyfish that has washed to shore. I imagine that's where the superstition comes from: not the threat of being pulled down to Hell, but to being stung by a jelly fish.

   So as to not tempt fate, I'll be sure to keep a safe distance from the water.

O-Bon 1

Sets of O-bon offerings on sale at the local supermarket

   O-Bon, Japan's Buddhist festival of the dead, begins tomorrow for most living people in Kyüshü. While the festival is generally held from the 13th to the 15th of August, other areas in Japan may observe Bon in the middle of July or as late as September. 

   Ask the Japanese if they like the Bon festival and they'll usually answer by screwing their faces or sucking air throught their teeth. The holiday doesn't have quite the cachet of O-Shôgatsu (New Years). Perhaps that's because the Bon is more about things you have to do rather than would like to do.

   On the 13th, families are expected to visit their ancestor's grave where they tidy it up and make offerings of flowers and incense. Some will light a lantern known as a mukae-bi (迎え火) at the cemetery and carry it all the way back home to guide the spirits of their ancestors. In the past these lanterns would have contained an actual flame, but in today's modern Japan, the flame has been replaced by a flickering lightbulb. (Safety first, I guess.)

   A Google search of mukae-bi will show you small fires lit before homes. Personally, I have never seen this, nor have I heard of anyone doing this. Most families hang a lantern up in front of their home, especially if it is their hatsu bon, that is the "first bon" since someone in their family has died. 

   To be continued.

The Beach in September

It may still be hotter than hell outside, but you won't see many bikinis at Japanese beaches after the Bon festival of the dead (Aug.15). By late summer, when the kurage (jellyfish) arrive, people keep to the sand, huddled under parasols and tents, and come September the seashore is virtually deserted. You can't help but feel lonely at this time of year.