Quiet day in Yasukuni
On an uneventful Sunday late afternoon in Yasukuni shrine, I have a welcome plastic cup of hot amazake in the shabby food and drink shop in the middle or the large alley that leads to the main shrine building. A group of prewar - or more precisely - war Japan nostalgic people are having a party chanting tunes of those good old days when Japan had balls and no alliance with the US. They make an eclectic lot of men, and one woman, from age between less than 30 years to 70, maybe. One is clad in old army fashion and is taken in picture, martially posing with a real sword he holds like a rifle. A real sword in the middle of Tokyo! But Yasukuni is not Japan, nor Tokyo either. Yasukuni is ultra-Japan. Here, people freely smoke cigarettes despite the smoking ban in Chiyoda ward. They all giggle, sing, congratulate each other in friendly manner. An old guy is clad in a navy commander fashion. One young cuckoo imitates empty handed the gesture of a soldier running against the enemy with a bayonet plugged on an invisible rifle. At the time of second world war, he probably was not even a spermatozoid yet. I wonder who is the current enemy. The woman sports a black blouson with the war time Japanese flag showing a red shining sun in the back and a message calling the grandchildren of Yamato to raise and be proud. When times come to call it quit, they all stand in ranks at a safe distance from the Shrine, start a song in lieu of the national anthem, military salute then profusely bow, before starting unending rounds of thanks around and let’s meet each other again. At the same time, on the opposite side around the parking, a drove of thugs, mostly oversized terrifying men in Armani black, pass by to board an eclectic collection of benz and ominous small buses with black windows. Yasukuni shrine does not proclaim to campaign against the mafia and must also benefit from these powerful visitors. After much showing off of power, they leave the place. Later, when the shrine shops are closed and the parking mostly empty, a policeman on a frail bicycle wearing a mask as any pollen allergy sufferer around does a tour of the parking, well after the parties are over. I go back home humming ” What a beautiful world“, like Louis Armstrong.