My Life, My Country

I open my eyes and I see despair. The place that I had once called home is gone. Everything has changed. This is not what the old emperors of Japan had envisioned when they established this kingdom. However, times have changed, the year is 1946. World War II has come and gone, and consumed my country along with it. The American scum have destroyed it. Everything has changed here. I was thirteen when the war started, and even though I hated to see my country’s men in body bags, I prefer it to the forceful westernization that is now going on.

My country is a wasteland, America is the trash. I pity Japan. I pity the monks, whose beautiful temples have been turned into factories. I pity the geisha, whose art have been destroyed, and are now seen as prostitutes, often times being raped. I pity my family, once nobly renowned, forced into hiding because of the occupation of Americans raiding households for war criminals. My father is dead because of the poor living conditions and me and my mother work as rice workers. But the disgusting Americans are not all to blame; the people of our country did nothing to stop it. I was named Kazuki, “hope” in Japanese but I have done nothing to show Japan any hope.

I was passing by a bar known for the promiscuous “geisha girls” when I heard a mixture of catcalls and a radio playing the music of an American musician named “Johnny Mercer”. I lived near an American naval port, in an area notorious for rapes. A crowd of drunken men were trailing like a flock of vultures. One ugly gorilla in particular was yelling sexual slurs.

He was a big man propositioning me. I started to hurry. Shoving aside various people, some in western style suits, some in robes.
I started I flew into the alley past a chashitsu to catch my breath. Once I was sustained I looked above me and sighed. Advertisements. Since the Occupation of America had started there seemed to be nothing but advertisements plastered everywhere, this one in particular of a Japanese woman taking on the role of an American one. I spat on it.
Many people saw this “Westernization” as an improvement for Japan, woman getting more freedom, no more wars, and more and more money. These people are idiots.
The woman did get more freedom, after they were forced to work in factories. Japan won’t have any war, because our military and only means of defense was taken from us. And we do get more money, but that’s just more money for the Americans.
I spit on the poster again, then fell to my knees and started to cry. Cried for me, cried for my family, cried for my town, and cried for my country.
“Need help there?”
I looked up from my tears and saw the silhouette of a burly American man, the one who had been following me before. I pretended not to see him and turned, however, I was at a dead end.
“Looks like you’re stuck there”, he slurred, “Come on my little geesha I won’t hurt ya”
“I’m not a geisha”, I tried in some English I had picked up, “and I must go”
“You’re not leaving”
I tried to make a run for it, but he lashed out at my waist and grabbed me down. I screamed and he bust me against the head. For a couple seconds I blanked out, I was weak and fully aware of what was happening. He started to rip off my kimono, and I tried to scream, but I couldn’t.
I started to weep. After all I could be doing for my country, the country that I love and need, I am laying here letting a disgusting American have his way with me.
How could I?
No. I won’t. I won’t let him.
He started to unbuckle his pants when I pushed him over and looked around me. I needed to find something, something to defend myself. I couldn’t run, I needed to stand for my country.
I found a piece of jagged bamboo discarded and picked it up. He tried to lash out towards me again put I stabbed him in his leg. I pulled out and jabbed. I kept of stabbing it back and forth deeper and deeper puncturing his femoral artery so he couldn’t and get up. I could taste the blood spatter. He was swine. I was like the butcher.
Suddenly it went through me. I landed on the ground, as hard as a rock. I looked up to see that I had been shot by an American man dressed in a naval uniform.
I looked at the man with the bamboo shoot through his leg, another military man was checking his pulse. I heard nothing but saw him mouth the words, “He’s dead” to the other officer.
I smiled as death closed in upon me. Japan, I have atoned for you. Japan, I have made you proud.





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