Eid Mubarak 2006

Eid al-Fitr has since came and went. May Allah accept our fasts and supplications. I pray that the Blessings of Ramadan have rejuvenated our Islam and that we continue to seek to please Allah, our Creator and Sustainer.

While I missed my family in Japan, this year was especially nice. For the first time in seven years, I had the Blessing of sharing Ramadan with the community where I accepted Islam. Insha'Allah, I will be able to return to Japan during this Blessed month as well as share iftar with those who've I've been separated from someday.


This year, Eid was held on a beautiful autumn day. The sun was shining exposing the spelndor of Allah's creation wherein we are shown the magnificence of His signs. Allah teaches us in the Holy Qur'an that we must balance our learning between those found in the books and those found in creation. Today was a time for both.

Please make du'a for the unity of the Ummah and for the steadfastness and liberation of the oppressed wherever they might be. One note, we have until the end of Shawwal (November 21st) to complete the optional six days of additional fasting and contemplation in praise of Allah as taught by the example of Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, who is to have remarked , “Whoever fasts Ramadan and follows it with six days from Shawwal it is as if they fasted the entire year.”

Anniversary

Ah, the light scent of spring cherry blossoms swirls through air as their soft pink pedals slip off the dark twisted branches, carpeting the landscape beneath the baby blue sky. In every direction therein lie the signs of Allah. As the Qur’an reveals, "He is the One who sends down from the sky water, whereby We produce all kinds of plants. We produce from the green material multitudes of complex grains, palm trees with hanging clusters, and gardens of grapes, olives and pomegranate; fruits that are similar, yet dissimilar. Note their fruits as they grow and ripen. These are signs for people who believe.” (06:99).


One year ago, today, by Allah’s grace, Tsugumi and I entered the marriage covenant. In celebration of our first year together, we enjoyed an afternoon strolling through the herb garden that overlooks the city of Kobe. I packed some fruit along with a couple of peanut butter and jam sandwiches for us to share outside under the clear blue skies. Many of the perennials remained closed while those on the trees were in their final bloom. I suppose in some ways this is symbolic of the love we share for one another; like lovers’ arms outstretched, much of the wider beauty has already been revealed while the smaller, more intricate aspects of our love will open in time.

We commemorated our special day at Umenohanna, an exquisite restaurant overlooking the bay from eight flights up. It was a wonderful ending to a fabulous day as we sat together enjoying the widest selection of tofu dishes I’ve ever experienced. I’ll miss being away next year, insha’Allah, but I’m also looking forward to what lies ahead. I pray that Allah continues to bless us and that our love for each other continues to blossom and grow. Ameen.

Beijing Winds

This past March, Tsugumi and I visited the one place in Asia that has been on the top of my list of places to see since before I came to Japan: Beijing. We ordered our flights through a JAL•Pac deal that included air, hotel, and a lender cell phone. We wanted to save some money so we overlooked the genuine unaccommodating travel agency which failed to mention that, as an American, I would have to apply for a travel visa, which takes a minimum of one week to process. It so happened we found out 10 days before our flight. That was a Wednesday which meant that I had to wait until Friday to apply, eight days before we were scheduled to leave! Skipping out on my morning duties (of which there are none other than my being physically present) at the district office, and racing to the Chinese Embassy in Osaka, I submitted my application. (^_^;) Fhew!

Having left the embassy to make the next train back in time for my 10am class, I realized I didn’t have my passport! Frantically, I ran back and was looking everywhere. I found out that the woman at the counter had not given it back! “What?” I thought, “I’m in a foreign country without my passport? And the Chinese government has it? This is not good.” I was told that they had to hold it until after my paperwork cleared. Talk about control issues! As if I were planning to defect into China! So, there I was… I’d handed my passport over the Chinese authorities, praying that I would get it back. I was not hip on the whole ordeal, knowing what a corrupt regime the Chinese live under and that a US passport is worth a lot of bank in China. Al-humdulilah, a week later, we were able to retrieve my passport, travel visa decal already applied.

The next morning, we got onboard our flight- barely. For whatever reason, we just made it. Much to my surprise, we waited at the hanger for another 10 minutes for a couple who hadn’t made the deadline. I didn’t mind the extra wait because it gave us time to get situated and we didn’t seem to be the ones holding up the takeoff. The only other thing I have to say about the flight is the fact that service to China on JAL is not nearly as good as it is en route to or from Japan from other places, namely, the US or Indonesia. They made a mistake with Tsugumi’s meal, overlooking the fact that she had ordered a vegetarian lunch. The overall service was at half rate, i.e., typical American airline service.

After our short flight across the Sea of Japan, we could see Chinese soil beneath us. It was a little bazaar. There were a lot of fields and factories, maybe warehouses, as we flew over the otherwise empty landscape. I imagined a bunch of small children laboring away, making Nikes and things for GAP Kids that they would never be able to afford on 30 cents an hour. I even saw a nuclear power plant, slightly unnerving- probably producing nukes in response to GW’s goal of space weaponization (Russia’s production is also on the rise, although you’d never know it from watching the six o’clock news).

We arrived at the airport and I had an eerie feeling that I was being monitored by Big Brother. The terminal itself was not unlike Kansai or Detroit, i.e., very nice. People were offering us cell phone deals and after getting past customs we had a little while before we were to meet our shuttle. Lo and behold, there was a Starbucks! It was the average size, packed with people and not a clean table in sight. We were looking for water or juice but decided to hit the vending machine up instead.

We found our shuttle guide who ushered us and two other couples to a minivan. In the parking lot were several black Benzes, BMs and other very nice automobiles. The ride to the first stop, the other couples’ hotel, took about an hour. Traffic was somewhat reminiscent of Seattle- a lot of stop and go. There were military everywhere, another unsettling feeling. Besides the lingering thought of being detained by the soldiers, the apparent lack of traffic rules was equally alarming. As we neared the city, we began going down a road designated as three lanes yet we were amidst five lanes of cars (and I thought driving in Japan was crazy!).

We got to the first couples’ hotel, the Marco Polo , and went in to use the facilities. The hotel was immaculate. “Great! Our hotel’s probably like this, too!” We made our way to our humble abode, the Beijing Rainbow Hotel . It was noticeably older but inside was lined with marble with long chandeliers dangling from the vaulted ceiling. At first glace, it wasn’t bad. Looking a little closer, one could see cracks in the marble and areas were water had leaked in. We made the ascent to our room. The hallway smelled of stale cigarette smoke, dark green carpet, and pale yellow walls. We went inside our room to find much of the same. I would venture to say it hadn’t been painted since its first coat in ’71. The washroom was unclean and the mildewed shower was not at all inviting. We did have a view though and the bedding seemed fresh.

We unpacked our bags and went out to explore. An old woman who ran a fruit stand across the street from the hotel sent us in the direction of Tiananmen Square. We made our way toward where the woman had pointed and looked about. The stained sidewalks were covered with dust. The sun was out and the air was cold. Old men were sitting outside shabby apartment buildings, playing serious card games, apparently gambling for something or other. I was stunned at how dirty things were. It was if the sidewalks were set against a dirt road an had never been hosed down.

We made it to the main street and were amazed by the traffic in the streets. There bicycles, pedetrians, cars, motorbikes, busses, and trucks, interwoven
with people and horns. I was surprised to see what looked like brothel, and may have very well been- women in scant clothing, positioned in storefront windows, shared with neon lights. There were lots of restaurants and other shops lining the streets. We decided to take a stroll down an alley off the beaten path, behind the stores, into where people lived.

Behind the restaurants, in small, filthy cages, chickens awaited their fate. The houses consisted of brick buildings, resembling brick garden sheds. I’m not sure if they had running water but there were electrical lines going into them. A few jalopies were parked here and there. The next street we came upon was lined with outdoor markets, packed with people. Food vendors offered their fare, which we politely declined. There were tons of counterfeit retailers, and other shops. At the end of the market was a very wide street, swarming with taxis and busses speeding down the street with no regard for the poor souls trying to get to the other side. We were offered a ride in a covered motorcycle taxi but we decided to risk running across the road like a pair amphibians on Frogger .

We preceded past the KFC and golden arches , ISO a decent place to eat a non fast food, non pork filled meal. I had the name of a veggie place but it wasn’t easy to find (like a fool, I left a complete set of listings on my desk at home). We found an internet café without a printer. The building it was in was huge and also housed several electronic/cell phone businesses, and one restaurant- all practically empty. I found the address of a café I had printed out in Japan, jotted it down on a scrap of napkin and set out for our quest.

After walking up and down the road we were initially on, Tsuchan’s stomach began to rumble and she settled for some treats at a nice little grab and go cake shop with a walk up window. There was also a nice looking place with sliced vegetables of all kinds on open display on the corner. We thought about giving it a shot but the fact that everything was out in the open, on a busy street, discouraged us. Thankfully, a young man, who could speak very good English, came out and helped us find what we were looking for. He hadn’t been to the restaurant but he gave a shot at helping us out. After pacing up and down the street a little while longer, we found it! It became our solace for the rest of the trip. The restaurant was clean, the food well prepared, and the affordable (prices were much higher than we thought). After dinner, we found a great bakery with fantastic raisin bread and huge cakes. (Anyone who knows Tsugumi can imagine her delight!) I was happy to pick up some very good raisin bread. After that, we made our way back to the hotel, stopping off at the fruit stand on the way. Unknowingly, we stocked up on water and tasteless fruit, inflated by 300% over the going rate.

The next day, we set out for the sites that I had waited years to see; the tomb of the Ming and the Great Wall . These tours were provided (fee not included) in our travel package. The hotel offered tours also but we thought it best just to stick with our agency. Our hotel included a buffet breakfast. We entered the dining area, to see a huge crowd and tables overflowing with western style fare, most of which was beyond my pallet, a.k.a. Porkedy Pig’s Pork Delights. I found a few rolls and watered-down OJ. The next challenge was finding silverware… there was none to be found. Turns out, the hotel was missing a lot of things, as guests quickly began filling their bowls with bacon and eggs as well as using them for coffee. The huge, round tables were crammed with people who were meeting each other for the first time. Those of us who were less lucky found one of the chairs that lined the hall to sit down on. It was an absolute zoo.

After breakfast, our tour guide picked us up and we headed to see the tombs. Getting out of the city was an experience. We took some sort of oversized roundabout, used by trucks, taxis, bicycles, and busses, all passing one another, horns blaring, a few colliding. We made it out without a scratch! Once we got out to the countryside, things were fine. We passed by many tombs but Ding Ling , the mausoleum of Zhu Yijun (1563-1620) was the one we were taken to see (although I would have liked to have seen more). When we arrived and got our tickets, the first thing I noticed was that the place was teeming with soldiers. I was very uncomfortable. It would be interesting to ask Americans of varying generations how they felt being around so many members of the so-called “People’s Liberation” Army (begging the question, “liberation from whom?”). Anyone my age or older grew up indoctrinated with Cold War propaganda so I imagine younger people would have a very different response, as would those of my parents’ generation. Of course, anyone who knows anything of the brutality Chinese soldiers have committed against their own people (or the Tibetans) may feel unnerved by their presence. I asked our guide about the soldiers and he informed me that most were off duty. Apparently, they get free admission to historical sites if in uniform. I suppose it gives an exaggerated military presence to keep the people in line (or liberated from their oppressors).

We walked through the museum, displaying various wardrobe items warn by the royals and concubines, including a few sets of miniature slippers worn by women to cover their tiny bound feetthat once hid the twisted and mutilated bones, decaying inside them(perhaps they were one of the groups liberated by the Cultural Revolution as Chairman Mao prohibited this practice). Among other artifacts were intricately designed vases, plates, and vanities. Aside from the age of the articles, the exhibit was fairly limited. The 500 year-old structures erected on the grounds of the mausoleum were much more impressive.

Interestingly, Emperor Zhu Yijun was widely despised by those he ruled over- perhaps the reason for the end of the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644). He is remembered for his lavish spending, high taxes, and corrupt government. This could also explain why his tomb is the only one of the 13 that has been excavated. In 1956, the Chinese government ordered the opening of his tomb. Located 27 meters (around 80 feet) below the surface, finding a door wasn’t an easy task. When the entry finally was cleared, they discovered untold treasures of the dynasty, all perfectly preserved. Even the giant oil lamps that were to burn for an eternity remained full due to a lack of oxygen after the tomb was sealed. All that currently remains are replicas of the coffins and a few statues (the rest is probably inside the governing office of the proletariat- or the national museum, perhaps). The tomb was very crowded and due to the lack of artifacts, difficult to fully appreciate.

When we got back to the van and drove down the road, I could see part of the reason for the amount of dust in the air. In the name of “progress” the Chinese government has drained several lakes and rivers in the area. In addition to the yellow sands that blow across northern China this time of year, the alkaline lining the riverbeds has worsened the problem. There were televised announcements, warning the elderly and people with respiratory problems to remain indoors. We both wore our glasses to prevent the sand from going into our eyes. On a larger scale, thanks to rapid industrialization without regard to the environment (largely fueled by US corporations who want to avoid pollution regulations, not to mention the demand for cheap products, rapidly eating away at the American economy leading to our own demise), the pollutants in the air are making their way to North America, destroying decades of air pollution reduction efforts by raising them to pre-cleanup levels.

Our next stop was a visit to the Great Wall , built by the Ming as an effort to fortify the northern boarder against a Mongol invasion, who they had overthrown. (Although its construction ended with the Ming, former structures are dated as far back as the 3rd century BCE). Our guide gave us an hour, which I was grossly disappointed by- I could have easily spent the entire day there. We had a choice between taking the men’s route or the women’s route; we chose the men’s (misogynously named for the route less traveled, hence, more difficult). It was an amazing feeling to walk upon the oldest human-built structure able to be viewed from the moon with the naked eye. Catching first glance at it was breathtaking- the way it rests along the peaks of the mountains, following each and every twist and bend as though Allah, the Creator and Sustainer, had created it there. Up on top of the mountain ranges, it was very cold. The wall is riddled with steps that I overheard described as “being more like ladders.” I tried to imagine the agony of those who built it had to endure: cold, heavy, chiseled stone bricks, of no uniform size, stacked and mortared a couple of stories high and wide enough to allow artillery trailers to be transported upon. There were several watchtowers erected from which we could look out for miles.

It took us about a half an hour to reach the end. “The end?” I thought.What took me by surprise was that beyond the section that we had been walking on, lay the crumbling and dilapidated remnants of the strongest military barrier ever known. I later learned that much of the wall is in similar condition. In some communities, the peasants dismantled the stones to build their homes. In other places, it has fallen victim to the gradual geological shifting of the mountains. Approximately 30% of the wall remains intact. When we made our way down, I came across a sign honoring the “Islamic Republic of Pakistan” (quite a misnomer in my opinion, as are most such designations) for its “friendly donation… as a token of eternal friendship” between two oppressive regimes- how fitting.

That evening, we went back to our hotel, showered, and bundled up to wander the area and find something to eat. The winds were absolutely frigid. What I really had hoped to find was the Muslim quarter. In China, pork is a staple food and not being able to speak the language or read the menu, I was very concerned at what someone was going to set in from of me. I had read that there were a number of restaurants that catered to halal diets but we walked for a long time before finding one. It served primarily Uyghur cuisine (Uyghurs are one of the many ethic groups of China, overwhelmingly Muslim). Our server was a sweet old woman with an endless smile, Allah Bless her. We ordered rice, salad, fish, and naan. It was an interesting experience, to say the least. The rice and salad was okay, and the naan was in the shape of a large pita and quite good. We also tried to order something to drink. What we got was a salted milk drink which I made a futile attempt at drinking (I prefer my lassi sweet, I guess).

When the fish came, I had felt myself taking a deep breath to relax- not so did Tsugumi, who looked like she was going to jump out of her skin. It was a big fish, deep fried whole, with an orange colored glaze poured over the top. I slowly poked away through the fried shell with the end of my chopsticks only to find a maze of tiny bones. I have no idea what kind of fish it was but when I removed a portion of flesh, Tsugumi noticed a small quiver and because it was fried without the fins removed, she also thought it had an arm; she let out a small yelp. I really had no idea how we could eat this fish, even if we had wanted to. We decided to go back to the rice, that is, until we found a long, black hair slithering between the grains. We sat dumfounded, not wanting to waste the food we had ordered (something I never do if at all possible) or to appear rude. We were very hungry and ordered a few more naan before leaving. We tried asking our server where we could find the mosque but without success.

We made our way back to a halal market we had passed on the way but it was nearly closed and I think we may have left with some dried fruit or something. On our way out, we ran into the people from the Marco Polo who we had gone to the Great Wall earlier. Tsugumi and them exchanged stories and we continued on our way. Near our hotel was a small ma and pa record shop. I noticed a copy of Rebirth of a Nation in the window and decided to check it out. The shop had books, DVDs, and a modest collection of Chinese and international selections- all very cheap. I picked up three CDs for under $10. They looked legit and were clearly factory pressed with Chinese labels and translations. A few were pressed on gold discs. It wasn’t until I got home and attempted to watch the DVD on the Devils and Dust , DualDisc I picked up. The copy I had lacked this feature, despite it indicating otherwise. Live and learn. Aside from that, there is no problem with the audio. A friend of ours taught in China and used to pick up DVDs in Thailand. He said he’d seen a few that had been filmed with a camcorder inside a movie theatre.

We reached our third and final day in Beijing. We set out early to see Tiananmen Square and the Forbidden City . To save time, we grabbed a taxi. The cabby got us there quickly, we paid our fare and he directed us where to go. The day was cold and windy but the sun came out every so often. When we got to the square, we could see Mao’s mausoleum. I later leaned that the building has been vandalized on a few occasions and at one point, it was reported that there were attempts to dynamite it (of course, coming from the government, any report has to be taken with a grain of salt- likely a political set up). It’s quite a vast open space, beneath the gaze of the cameras. I kept remembering the footage aired on Good Morning America from 1989 when I was a kid at the breakfast table. Watching the tanks roll in and the “Liberation” Army unloading on the protestors left a deep impression on me as a teenager. Walking on the same brick that had been stained with the blood of people marching for freedom 17 years prior, I silently wondered how many others were thinking the same thing. It didn’t help that we’d seen Red Corner a few weeks earlier.

We then went through the underpass to the other side to the gate of the Forbidden City. Above hung the infamous painting of Chairman Mao in his usual calm and determined military posture. We entered through the first gate only to find we were still outside the main portion of the city. Who would have thought, in the heart of the most powerful communist regime on the planet, they would charge us an entry fee? Actually, I expected to have to purchase entry passes but for a moment I thought we were getting in free since we were not charged at the first gate. We passed on the optional virtual guide headset though, in hindsight, it would have been nice to have. The Forbidden City is a huge complex that takes several hours (if not days) to fully appreciate- knowing exactly what each exhibit was would have been worth the price of a virtual tour guide.

Each section of the city has its own entry gate. Once we passed though the paid entrance, I was in awe at the square that lay before us. I recalled scenes from The Last Emperor as we made our way down the steps, onto the ancient grounds where centuries of royal families had been brought up. Originally constructed under the leadership of the Yuan Dynasty
(1271-1368) the Ming had the grounds raised and rebuilt. A considerable amount of reconstruction was taking place in preparation for the 2008 Olympic Games. I had been under the impression that the grounds had been meticulously maintained throughout the reign of the Ming but upon viewing the pictures on display, dated around in the first few years of the twentieth century, I found that they had been nearly completely overgrown. The actual state of things was in some way disappointing- at the time of our visit, about half of the main squares had been redone in an extraordinary manner, stunning, really. What was disappointing was not the elaborate renewal but a combination of either having allowed them to become so weathered to begin with or that visitors in the future might be mislead to believe they had been so well preserved. Ultimately, however, I felt very fortunate to be there.

The day we decided to visit the Forbidden City was the coldest of our journey. The winds sent a deep chill through us both. It didn’t help matters for Tsugumi that I was obsessed with viewing every inch of what was open to view, leaving her to drag me along at times. As much as I was enjoying myself, the one thing that I could not get over was the frigid wind seizing my body at every step. What I wouldn’t have done for something warm to drink- a ginger amasake would have been the perfect remedy. Knowing that this was something unique to Japan, I wasn’t expecting one, nor did we come across any. What we did stumble upon was both a blessing and curse. Of all the places its tentacles could reach, I would have thought the Forbidden City would have been absolutely off limits- but there it was, crammed into an empty space of the original structure, next to a small gift shop was something that would have made both the Last Emperor and Chairman Mao turn in their graves: a Starbucks. The heat was radiating from the doorway, along with the smell of hot coffee. Resist? What, capitalism at its worst in the heart of Red China? Not hardly- we succumbed to our materialist vices and squeezed though the entryway to where we could warm or frozen toes. While the baristas, sporting American nametags like “Bob” and “Bill” were polite enough, don’t expect the same from the folks behind the counter at the adjoining gift shop. I purchased a tie baring the signature of an emperor- a nice novelty that I could wear to class and talk about with my students. Making an effort to be overly courteous to the clerk, using what little Mandarin I knew during the transaction didn’t seem to matter- she tossed my change on the counter and looked the other way. I’m not sure if it was because I’m American or that’s just they way some people are in China, but I didn’t expect it- nor was it the last time it was happen. I gathered my change and set out in the cold again to explore the rest of the city.

The layout is somewhat of a maze, really. After a series of main squares, we came into the royal quarters. They had been ar- ranged to reflect the lifestyle of the emperor’s family and concubines, all behind glass and blan-keted in a layer of dust. There were many chambers that we went into, some with clothing and the like on display. The ceilings were inttri-cately designed, many of them peeling. We noticed that each section had several large bronze vessels- 308 total. Although they were empty, at one time they were filled with water to be used in the event of a fire. A lot of the chambers in this area of the palace were in poor condition, i.e., neglected grounds, dusty exhibits, many of which were not labeled. Many of the rooms were cluttered and held nothing of any historic value, others had their windows blocked and contained broken tiles, brooms and ladders.

When we finally reached the northern end of the city, we came into the emperor’s private imperial gardens. This was place highly regarded by the royals as a place of solitude. Interestingly, the gazebos featured golden dragons carved into the ceiling that were said to sweep down and devour anyone who didn’t belong in them. There were also a few ponds in which coy could been seen swimming beneath the murky waters, along with trash left behind by inconsiderate tourists. Each corner of the garden featured a pavilion, each representing a different season. Although the intent of the garden was to appreciate the natural environment, at the far end sits an artificial hill of stone with a cave, resembling a huge meteor from which the emperors enjoyed the view with their loved ones. Also in the garden was a library where the, beginning at one time an emperor took lessons in English language by an instructor from Britain- undoubtedly the only foreigner allowed inside the sacred grounds.

On our return to the main entrance, we took a slightly different path, this one having been completely renovated. There were a variety of displays mostly relating to Chinese culture as opposed to strictly the royal household. These areas were constantly being swept to keep the exhibits clean but with little success due to the dust being carried to and fro. I imagine that by the time the Olympics come around, the entire complex will have been updated and undoubtedly be stunning, with fresh blood red walls and elaborately painted Chinese patterns to match the originals. When we were visiting, even the steps with their beautiful dragon patterns were being reset, as were the bricks- perhaps the most painfully slow and difficult undertakings. The masons who were responsible for this job chiseled away at the bricks, some using picks, all with out gloves or eye protection. Anyone who’s handled cold steel and rock without gloves in the blistering wind can attest to the numbness these men surely felt as they worked out in the cold for hours on end- it would be interesting to learn if they were paid for their services or if they shared the same fate as the political prisoners sent to die mining asbestos.

We left in time to wander the old neighborhood on the periphery of the Forbidden City- a area that is drastically being reduced in preparation for the foreign onlookers who come to see the Games. In fact, there have been several reports of people being served 24 hour eviction notices to make way for “progress.” Unfortunately, not everyone has the resources to get up and relocate on demand. Many of those who find themselves in these situations are awoke at four o’clock in the morning by bulldozers at their doorstep. In China, all property is owned by the state and while a person may technically own the land on which they build their home, the land beneath it can be confiscated at any time.) Most of these people are living in extreme poverty with blue tarps on their rooftops, held down with rocks and tires to keep the rain out. The government has also been cracking down on democracy activists who may bring unwanted attention to the people visiting Beijing in 2008. The rate of state-ordered execution has risen in preparation for members of the free world coming to tour the “New China.” Some people have attributed these crimes to lack of a capitalistic economy but from the way I see it, capitalism combined with totalitarianism is primarily what is fueling this situation.

Anyway, as we walked down the broken sidewalks and through the narrow streets, dodging cars and bikes alike, in search of a café Tsuchan had read about, we came across several townsfolk who greeted us with friendly smiles. The sun was out and the winds had calmed, leaving us refreshed. We never were too sure whether or not we had found the place we were looking for. We entered one small housing complex that may have been the hard-to-find restaurant but the only clue was what looked to be the kitchen of a small café with a dead, skinned chicken hanging upside down in the corner (not a place that I’d like to eat in after all). After giving up our search, we stopped at a small, western-style bakery and bought a few cookies. Tsuchan’s belly was rumbling at this point and demanded to be fed. Not knowing exactly where the Muslim quarter was at this point, we headed back to Gongdelin for another Chinese veggie meal that couldn’t be beat. The first taxi we hailed was driven by a young man that we learned was likely one of the many young people who moved to the city in hope of finding more opportunity. (As seen here, homes on the countryside display the disparancy of the proletariat). He drove us about a block before giving up on us and asking us to disembark. He was very polite about it and said he simply could not communicate with us- in so many words. The next cabbie was older and got us to where we wanted to go.

After dinner, we finally found someone who knew how to take us to the Muslim district (he also explained why the young cabbie had reached his wit’s end earlier). As we made our way there, I noticed an Islamic school- which I was very surprised to see and wondered how much influence the state wielded over its curriculum (many of the Christian churches are highly regulated and parishioners of all faiths are required to register with the government to attend services and even to pray inside their own homes). The taxi let us off in front of a huge Muslim shopping complex which took up both sides of the street. The complex housed restaurants, grocers, tea shops, and other retail spaces. It was nearing Maghrib and we asked one of the women working at a café to direct us to the Niujie Mosque . Tsugumi had pointed it our earlier but I didn’t think she was right because it didn’t at all resemble traditional Islamic architecture. The grounds of the mosque also held a community center and a host of other buildings, including the tombs of some of the founders of the early community. The initial structure was built more than 1000 years ago, in 996 CE. The only thing that gave an Islamic impression was the Arabic calligraphy interwoven with Chinese designs. The interior of the mosque was very spacious and had been expanded a number of times. The Brothers I met spoke very little English but were very kind and accommodating. Apparently Muhammad Ali once made salaat there, too, while visiting Beijing. I heard one Brother making his Sunnah prayers in Chinese, which was interesting because typically Qur’an is always recited in its original Arabic. One of the beauties of Islam happens to be that regardless of where you may find yourself in the world, in any mosque, the ithan, or call to prayer, and the prayer that follows, is always comforting to hear as it unites people from all walks of life even if it’s the only thing we share in common. The diversity within the Islamic world is unlike any other.


After making my Sunnah prayers and wishing the Brothers and Sisters my salaams, we went back to the retail space where we had arrived earlier. Unfortunately, we both had our fill at Gongdelin and couldn’t justify eating for no other reason than just to eat- indeed to do so would be haram or forbidden for reasons of excess. There was a great deli with every kind of food imaginable and unlike our first restaurant experience, these places were very clean and we would have had no difficulty ordering. We toured the market and bought a few random things like dried fruit and various juices. By this time we only had time to go into one more shop. There was a quaint tea shop with high quality teas and traditional tea sets- all reasonably priced. I spent a very long time trying to decide between a set decorated with Arabic calligraphy or one with a Chinese design. Ultimately, I choose the Chinese, in part, because I was in China and may never return, and also due to the gold used on the others- discouraged in Islamic circles because the vanity associated with the use of golden utensils.

I was very sad to have not found this part of Beijing earlier in our trip. I had never been to such a well organized, minority Muslim community before. It was both pleasing and inspiring to see a small Muslim community have a proper organization that was not only adequate for the needs of its own, but welcoming to others as well. I pray that Muslim minorities elsewhere can be guided in the same direction.

On the way back to the hotel, we had the taxi driver dropped us off a little before the Beijing Rainbow. We took one last visit to the record shop we had patronized the day before and stocked up on several more titles. We came to find out that the same owners had a tea shop next door. We spent a while in there, too, and left with some great tea and some Chinese tea cups to accompany the teapot I had purchased at the Islamic marketplace earlier in the evening. We went back to our hotel and got a good night’s sleep.

The next morning we rose to a sunny day and decided to venture out one more time for the final hours before our shuttle was scheduled to pick us up. This time around, we were familiar enough to find a few halal cafes and a local market that would have been great to have known about when we arrived. We took one last walk through the neighborhood, though an area populated by people who had clearly missed the economic boom underway in China and wondered why it was that the basic tenant of communism- that of communal sharing and wealth distribution was not filtering down to the have-nots. I guess that’s the way of state-run systems- whether capitalist or communist, as long as the state is in control (in this case, absolutely) power remains to be exclusive club handed out to the masses only as they see fit. While I'm hardly educated about modern China, I wouldn’t be surprised to see a revolution “from above” unfold in China, much in the same as occurred in Soviet Russia. Whatever the future brings for China, I feel very fortunate to have seen it when I did. Who knows what the next decade will have in store for China and the World as a whole.

Peppermint Candy

Back in January, I read in the entertainment section of the Daily Yomiuri, an announcement that the White Stripes were to perform in Osaka! I was jacked. I immediately picked up my mobile and sent a text to the wifey, asking her to call Zepp Osaka, the venue hosting the show. When she called, they informed her that the show had been postponed and that a reschedule had not yet been arranged. “Bummer,” I thought but, eventually, expected another date would be set and it was.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting at my desk at school, flipping through the newspaper and learned they rescheduled the show for the 10th of March, last Thursday. Yes! Tsugumi called Zepp again and they told her how to get hold of a pair of tickets. The process was relatively easy- only because we live near a Lawson convenience store- they’re everywhere around where we live. All we had to do was go to an automated machine, not unlike an ATM, punch in a code, and make our selection. It then spit out a slip of paper to be presented to the cashier, who printed and issued us the tickets. Not at all as easy as being able to buy online- Japan hasn’t really caught on to that yet, probably because credit cards are not nearly as common as they are in the States.

The show nearly sold out by the time we secured our spot. Neither of us had been to Zepp and didn’t have a clue what the format would be like. We were able to select our choice, general or reserved, both at for same cost- a measly $65! Okay, yes, crazy price but everything costs double in this country. The main reason we wanted to see the White Stripes here is the rep Japan rock concert scenes have: great acoustics and mellow crowds, (we’re not into the mosh thing- gave that up in high school).

The doors were scheduled to open at 6pm and we arrived about 5:15. It was freezing outside and not knowing what sort of accommodations to expect, we dressed light. There were a few vendors selling overpriced French fries and takoyaki, octopus balls- pass. They had a nice lounge but the smoke was so thick it just about made our eyes water. We opted to wonder over to a wine museum to use the washrooms. I bought a bottle of water from a vending machine, knowing they would be way over priced once we got inside the concert house.

We made our way back to the entry of Zepp, expecting a line; nope. A guy yelling through a loudspeaker was calling out ticket sections, one at a time. I didn’t understand the point of not allowing a line to form but, whatever- we were just happy it didn’t rain. Tsugumi told me that they were calling something out about having an extra $5 ready. “For what?” I asked. Turns out, they charge a beverage fee at the door. I told the woman at the entrance, I didn’t need one but she said it didn’t matter. Lame. I gave her the five spot and she handed me a token I used to exchange for another bottle of $1 bottle of water, though this one was marked up 500%. (Needless to mention my irritation, though not the fault of the band.) As if $65 a ticket wasn’t enough!

We went upstairs to the reserved section and were elated at seeing a non-smoking sign on the door. About the only non-smoking place in Kansai one can find is Starbucks, so I was really relieved. Our seats were just right of center and only three rows back. The floor was about the size of an infield, the stage being less than fifty yards in front of us. We couldn’t have asked for better seats! I was expecting a much larger space but this one was really small; the reserve section was only about seven rows deep and fifty across. Even better, seats on either side of us remained vacant for the whole show.

The set display was decked in back, red, and white designs, with a white, pulsating apple in the center- not unlike what is featured on the band’s website.
There were three or four vintage guitars, including 1964 JB Hutto Montgomery Airlines, a Harmony Rocket, a 1970's Crestwood Astral II, and a mandolin resembling something Whitey might play on Leave it to Beaver. Also present were a grand piano, some kind of keyboard that I don’t recall ever seeing before, and a marimba. There was the standard drum set along with two large timpani. Having never seen them live before, I wondered how they would pull it off, being a duo with no stand-ins.

They started the set with the hard edged When I Hear My Name, wasting no time in getting the audience moving. Sure enough, following his opening riffs, Jack quickly sat down, turned down the dial on his '64 JB Hutto to zero, and began playing the piano. It was excellent. Throughout the show, he was running between the piano, key board and drum kit with impressive precision. From time-to-time, men dresses in black vintage suits and derby hats, looking like twin Chaplins or low-ranking bootleggers working for Al Capone, jumped onto stage to untangle wires or replace a toppled mic stand. The show was a testimony that rock still is far from disappearing from the scene- if anything, indy bands like the White Stripes and the Black Keys (another two-person act) have demonstrated how strong back to basic rock and roll still is.

Besides the actual performance, I was also impressed by their set list, which included a wide selection of tracks from all five albums, unlike a lot of groups who stick only to the most requested or most recent songs. The crowd in the reserved section was a little too reserved for me; no one stood up and nobody really applauded until the end- not even during the encore, besides the two of us, that is. The floor was more wild- probably due to the high number of drunken gaijin in the crowd. I would have liked to have jumped around a little bit but not for the entire show. Watching salary men, dressed in suits and ties, packing briefcases, and apparent middle aged housewives showing up and taking their seats- many of whom came solo, made for interesting people watching. That’s one thing that’s pretty cool here; it’s not uncommon to see people in their 60s and 70s standing around watching a punk show at a park, whereas back home, it’s a more than rare sight- unless one takes into consideration the Stones.

After the final track, they expressed their thanks and said it was the last show of the tour. We were really happy to have made it. I don’t know when I’ll ever have the opportunity to see Meg and Jack White in this kind of setting again but if I do, I’ll certainly take it.

Black Coffee Blues

Being a Seattleite, the label of “coffee snob” is already implied. Home of Starbucks, Seattle’s Best, and Tully’s, all easily found throughout Japan, Seattle’s reputation for coffee preceeds itself- in Japan, anyway. To the rest of the world, these coffee giants represent McCoffee- a cheap rip-off from the coffee shops of old, at least as far as good quality taste is concerned. Sadly, these shops are the only place I can readily find a decent shot of espresso, topped with a proper dollop of foam. Upon my arrival in Japan, I tried to avoid these places in hopes of supporting local establishments. Too many times, I got burned, leaving with a soured tongue.

A year or so ago, one of my former colleagues treated me to a mocha at Excelsior Café, a Starbucks wannabe. The mocha was like something I’d expect from a vending machine and though the smokers were separated by the floor above, the stench nonetheless lingered in the air. I then found a little shop near my house- the coffee was so weak it couldn’t even stain the whitest of white silks. The only thing that might discolor fine fabrics in this place were the stale nicotine clouds that permeated the place. Then I found Nishimura’s Coffee, a café decorated in a typical Victorian fashion with dainty tea cups and employees dressed in uniforms fit for a scene of Anne of Green Gables. The waiter politely offered me a table and handed me an English menu. Cappuccino: $6. 'Expensive but...okay, I’ll give it a shot,' I thought to myself. I indicated my choice to the server and he returned a short time later, carrying an eight ounce tea cup of what seemed like brewed Folgers’s, topped with whipped cream. A cappuccino Japanese style? I’m not sure. I choked it down, not wanting to completely waste six bucks. I began reading, Islam and Ecology, but was soon engulfed with secondhand smoke again, prompting my exit.

I reached my breaking point. I gave up. I became a coffee whore. An outspoken critic of Starbucks and their policy of targeting of ma and pa shops, I allowed myself to be sucked into the only hope of enjoying a drinkable cup of joe in a smoke-free environment. I was pleasantly surprised when I entered that all too accustomed space, painted in earthy tones of mocha, and forest green, dotted with quaint maroon colored tables, both because of the familiarity I established with it in my uni days and due to the warm welcome I received from the staff behind the counter. When the barista called out my tall soy cap, I was elated to find a near perfect silky dollop of foam floating on the surface of a double espresso, rising above the rim of a ceramic cup (granted, the shot was left sitting while the foam was being prepared, resulting in reduced crème and the extra hint of flavor it once produced, not to mention having to pay an extra $.50 for the second shot, normally standard in a tall size).

Ahhhh…. the closest thing to quality coffee I had experienced in months. Incidentally, when I visited LA, I stopped into a Starbucks to order my usual. I had to interrupt a conversation between the employees before they even acknowledged my presence. If that wasn’t enough, not only was the shot dead, the foam resembled soap suds left over from washing dirty dishes. It became immediately clear that I wasn’t in Japan anymore.

Recently, while on one of our weekend biking excursions, Tsugumi and I stumbled on Tamas, a family owned rustic bakery. Japan is full of French style bakeries but artisan breads are few and far between nor have I yet to come across any sprouted loaves. Tamas not only has artisan breads, they have a great assortment of rolls and pastries. Inside the little blue framed storefront is a cozy space with a street level entrance, displaying fresh baked breads. The smell of wholegrain bread is reminiscent of my childhood; I can recall as though it were yesterday when Vikki, my babysitter, removed her scrumptious, homemade golden loaves from the oven. There’s nothing more pleasant than recalling that buttery aroma, floating in the kitchen and the anticipation of spreading homemade raspberry jam over a warm slice.

Tamas is the kind of place that brings back those childhood memories. This weekend, we returned to relive that experience. We ordered a dark cherry pastry, a folded croissant, along with a raisin role, served hot, a dap of apple butter on the side. Mmmm.
They don’t sell their customers on an array of coffee choices, however; instead they simply offer great drip coffees. Better to do it right than not and try to pass it off as the real thing. They also offer a lunch menu which includes a mouth watering basil, mozzarella, and tomato sandwich, served on… yes, fresh baked bread. We’ve never eaten lunch there but having seen it, there’s no denying the satisfaction of the person who did.

Finding Tamas was a gem. It’s the ideal place to unwind, enjoy great breads, and quality organic coffee. The charming atmosphere of a family run café while thumbing through Tolstoy's War and Peace, while jazz sounds hum in the background, is something I’ve long missed since leaving the Seattle coffee scene behind. Everything found at Tamas comes naturally to the family who makes it happen; homemade breads and pastries, music selected by the people who play it (rather than a pre-programmed list from a corporate office somewhere), authentic murals, painted by local artists (as opposed to the trendy wallpaper pasted to the walls), and family hospitality that just comes with the package, not requiring the clientele to clear their throats in order to be noticed. In short, the experience is an authentic one, unlike the manufactured ambiance of the green and white Siren.

On the weekends, they also sell fresh, organic produce at a reasonable price on the sidewalk out front. Unfortunately, we waited until after we finished our visit to browse the new harvest, which by that time had been pretty well picked over. We bought what we could, stuffing the greens into a backpack, and made our way back over the hill to our flat where we cooked up a big pot of nabe, Japanese stew- the perfect conclusion to a late winter afternoon.

For locals who happen to be reading this, Tamas is located in Ashiya, just up from Ikari Super, a ways north of the Hankyu line, in the Higashiyama-cho neighborhood, at the base of the mountains.

The Little Sicily of Mondoyakujin

Last year, one of my former colleagues recommended an Italian restaurant, only a short bike ride from our flat. We ventured there on a few occasions during the summer but they were always closed. I was worried they had shut down. One day while we were in the vicinity of Mondoyakujin, we followed the sweet scent of simmering tomatoes and fresh oregano to the entrance of La Lanterna. “Alas! It’s open!” we expressed with delightful anticipation. As we ventured inside, we came into a dimly lit space, housing a bar and six or eight stools against the triangular 8 x 12 kitchen (considerably narrower at the end with the cash register), along with a few tables situated opposite the entrance. We managed to squeeze into a tiny space at the bar.

The guys behind the counter were both Sicilian- a hopeful site. The menu features a wide selection of pasta and pizza at typical Japanese prices, $10-$20 a plate. Tsugumi ordered a pasta dish swimming in fresh stewed tomatoes and herbs while I opted for the pizza margarita. The pasta was perfect- served aldente in a light fragrant sauce. The pizza was no less incredible, baked in a large wood fired oven, producing a soft, bubbly crust. We followed it up with espresso and a slice of rich, handmade tiramisu. It’s not everyday that we find Italian food as authentic as this. The only other time I experienced anything similar was in New York’s Little Italy.

Over the weekend, we decided to make our way back there again. We found our place at the bar, this time they were just opening for dinner, the soccer game playing on the television lodged in the corner, near the ceiling above. We were the first arrivals of the evening. Tsugumi decided on the pasta formaggio; I chose the Sicilian pizza. The owner, Salvatore Maggio, is a really friendly guy whose command of Japanese outdoes his English ability. He’s been in Japan for six years and plans to open another spot in Tokyo. He said he imports his ingredients from Italy himself- one would almost have to if they wanted to turn a profit. He also owns a restaurant back home. I don’t know if we’ll ever make it there- for now La Lanterna serves as our imaginary portal into Sicily.

Homage to Hiroshima: Day Two, Miyajima

Midway through our memorial visit to Hiroshima, we ventured out on a much needed one-day excursion to Miyajima, located about an hour beyond the city by train. We hopped aboard one of the many streetcars around eleven am, en route to the nearest train station. Unlike many of the subways, trains, and busses I’ve taken, which typically seem fairly new, the streetcars looked as though they had been in operation since the city’s post-war reconstruction. Thick, riveted, ironclad exteriors, nicely painted and very clean inside, the cars rumbled down the tracks laid down middle of the street. Glancing below at the very large slabs of chiseled granite used to house the tracks, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that they were the originals put emplace a century ago. Had the cars not been weighed down by their heavy frames, it would seem as though they’d be doomed to derailing as they leaned from side to side, noisily down the track, reminiscent of the trolleys that screech along the streets of San Francisco.

As we made our way down the track, I caught my fist glimpse of the Atomic Bomb Dome, a visible skeleton that brings to mind all the souls that were doomed there sixty years before. An eerie silence enveloped my psyche as we passed by, despite business carrying on as usual around me. I really wasn’t ready to see it yet. We passed over the river, along the reconstructed bridge that was the intended as the target of the bomb, which didn’t actually land but detonated 600 meters above to ensure the utmost devastation.

Creaking down the road, we were soon out of the city, traveling on much smoother rails with views of the mountainside and several small orchards to the west with the bay to the east. The day was cold and windy with the sun breaking through the clouds from time-to-time. We disembarked at the ferry station and browsed around the gift shop- nothing special though. As in America, if you been to one, you’ve been to a thousand. Vendors were attempting to entice passersby with samples of octopus tentacles on a stick, similar to corndogs, I guess, which I politely declined.

The ferryboat arrived, slightly surprising me by its small size. It may have been able to hold six cars or so but was nothing compared to the ones I used to take across Puget Sound. Not surprisingly, the same number of people were onboard this one as the ones in Seattle. Occasionally, I’m still amused by the miniature versions of things I’m used to back home, i.e., tiny vacuums, kitchen appliances, itsy-mini vans, and garbage trucks not much bigger than the Lincoln Navigator. That’s not to say everything in Japan is small, however. In fact, sometimes the size ratio of trucks to cars, barreling down the road, through red lights and while alternating between slamming on the breaks and slamming the accelerator, can be enough to dissuade anyone from obtaining an international driver’s license.

We approached the Itsukushima Island, with the blazing orange gate in the foreground- a spectacular site. As with all Shinto shrines, the gate signals the primary entry, only this one, as well as the shrine itself, was built over the bay so when the tide comes in, it appears as though floating above the sea. The motivation to build it in such as way is unclear; some speculate it was built to honor the goddess of the sea while others have guessed that it represents the Buddhist belief that the soul crosses into the afterlife by boat. Whatever the case, it is a beautiful structure. Due to its unique design and significant age of nearly 1400 years, it is designated as a World Heritage Site. We decided to forego the tour and avoid the crowds, instead viewing it from afar.

On the hillside above, sits Senjokaku, known as shrine of “1000 mats” due to the great number of tatami that it would take to cover the floors. Built around the same time as Itsukishima Shrine, it was never actually completed. Inside the dimness were a great number of paintings depicting religious scenes, brushed on slabs of wood. Numerous wooden rice spatulas, some of which were as long as a dining room table, others used as canvasses, were displayed, apparently representative of one of the many Shinto gods. My grandparents used to have immaculately painted statutes of this and other Shinto gods displayed in the china cabinet; they have since been handed down to my Auntie.

Next to Senjokaku is a five story pagoda, brilliantly painted in bright fiery orange over white panels. I’m guessing the age of the pagoda is similar to the shrines. Modeled after Chinese designs, it rests atop the hill as if it were a crown. Though we were not able to access the inside, it supposedly contains well preserved paintings of natural scenes along with dragons and phoenixes. Originally, there were religious images displayed on the outer pillars but have since been relocated after syncretizing Buddhism and Shintoism became forbidden.

We then walked down to the village and browsed around the shops. We came across some amazing traditional wooden carvings, some being larger than life, with intricate depictions of Buddhist themes. In a few of the shops there were no staff present- not that anyone could easily walk off the island with an 8 foot Buddha hoisted over their shoulder; it was just out of the ordinary. We did manage to go into one shop that was staffed where I left with a little hand drum for my godson, Zayne.

Because the island is scared, there is a prohibition against dislodging rocks (perhaps selectively), thereby protecting the island from becom- ing developed thus, preserving its natural beauty. Beyond the shops is Momijidani Park, a quiet and peaceful place to enjoy creation. There are several small waterfalls with bridges connecting paths to the gondola at the foot of the mountains that leads to the top of the mountain.

As the ropeway crept in elevation, we could see the entire inlet in the distance, and snow slowly began to fall. The ride to the top took around twenty minutes. When we arrived, there were large packs of monkeys huddled together, trying to keep warm and dear moseying at a comfortable distance nearby. Signs were posted, requesting people not to feed the animals but to keep them wild, which I think were adhered to by the way they distanced themselves from the tourists (a good thing, in my opinion). Few people ventured up there that day, a nice change from the typically claustrophobic popular destinations. From the top, we could see for miles. It was a spectacular view- the best I’ve seen yet.

We made our way back down the mountain shortly after taking in the view from above. On the way back to the ferry, we stopped in the village and had lunch. The streets were more populated and not unlike most tourist areas I’ve visited anywhere else. The main attraction was fresh oysters, cooked over open flame grills and served with lemon. I don’t know that I’d ever tried one prior, but I decided to indulge and was pleasantly surprised. I don’t think I’d be up to eating them any other way. Afterward we made our way back to across the bay only this time, we happened to arrive at the terminal just in time to hop aboard a brand spanking new train providing for a smooth ride back into the city.

Hiroshima should be obligatory for the itinerary of every American who visits Japan. That stated, I highly recommend that those doing so include an afternoon in Miyajima, if for nothing else than to attain some solitude.

Homage to Hiroshima: Day One

In the last days of my winter vacation, Tsugumi and I made our belated trip to the city of Hiroshima. As an American, it was of the utmost to me importance that I make this trip. The timing of our arrival intentionally coincided with the holidays which lend themselves to family time and traditions, both being very important to me; the later I am just now beginning to establish. Despite my personal assessment of Christmas (see my previous entry, So this is Christmas), the last few weeks of the year, especially in the bitterly cold regions of the planet, are ideal for family togetherness and giving to those less fortunate; faith based teachings blend nicely into the atmosphere. This year’s obvious teachings of choice were centered on the importance of peace and reconciliation.

Having studied WWII in university, I arrived to Hiroshima in a mixed emotional state. Each step nearing the city combined racing images of everyday living with nuclear holocaust. As I gazed out the window of the Shinkansen, speeding overhead of neighborhoods and business centers, I couldn’t stop pondering over what the scene must have resembled sixty years ago, less than six months after world stood still, having witnessed the instantaneous incineration of a modern city. A short time later, taking in the view from the streetcar, en route from the station to our hotel, a few miles beyond, was not unlike any other: traffic congestion in the streets and the bustling on the sidewalks, though noticeably less so than those of Osaka. We soon arrived, checked our bags and were on our way.

My disposition was a mental one. As I listened to the usual chatter of passers by and watched women walking along slowly as not to outpace their preschool aged children, pushing their younger siblings’ strollers down the walkways, I imagined that on the clear August morning in which the bomb was dropped the scene must have been much the same. The skies were clear blue, the sun shining down, promising a beautiful day ahead; in a matter of moments, everything was suddenly engulfed in the fire of Hell. Near the epicenter, where we were now moseying, little had remained. Buildings, and their occupants, were crushed; trees resembled shooting flames as if burning Iraqi oil wells, while debris hammered everything in sight. People, just like us, walking down the street, were suddenly vaporized.

Our first stop, not far from our hotel, was the old Bank of Japan building, one of the few structures that survived the blast, though not so did its 42 occupants, preparing for the day ahead. Having since closed and been donated to the city in 1992, it now is used to host art exhibits. Some its rooms remain as they did prior to the bomb, though most of it has long since been renovated for normal business operation. Stepping into the granite floored lobby, the clicks of our heels eerily echoed off the cold cement walls. Atop of the rail, built to separate the tellers from the clientele, stood an angelic, yet morbid cement cast of an infant child, its skin blackened and sizzled- not unlike the roof tiles that were exposed to the extreme nuclear heat. There were numerous other articles on display that had been present inside on that fateful day of August the 6th, 1945 whose surface bore the same scars, though none sent chills through my body like the effigy of the smiling, blistered infant.

At the time of the detonation, the bank’s iron shutters were closed, protecting the second floor presidential quarters from bursting into flames. The power of the blast, however, shattered the glass panes within them, firing shards in every direction, leaving several gashes in the wooden panels across the room.

On third floor, which had to be gutted, as did the lobby, were tens of thousands of origami paper cranes, donated to the city, mostly by visiting students, others from abroad, representing in memorial the story of Sadako Sasaki, an eleven year old girl who contracted leukemia from exposure to radiation nine years earlier. Hoping she would recover if able to fold 1000 cranes (after a Japanese legend stating anyone who accom- plished the task would be granted one wish), she passed away the follow- ing year. By some accounts, she died completing only 644, her classmates having folded the remainder, placed them all in her casket. In any event, she died, innocent of any crime, though condemned just the same. Her schoolmates collected donations and succeeded in having a memorial built in her honor paying tribute to the children killed by the bomb.

As we made our way downstairs, into the basement, similar flashbacks, to a time before I was born, continued reeling away in my head. The air was cold but the space well lit. There, in several rooms, were the main exhibits, not at all as intense as the, gaze of the burnt angel forever etched in my memory. One display, a film, depicting the destruction of the current city, as if by a blast, using edited images, spliced together, seemed all too familiar. It was reminiscent of the thoughts that hovered in my brain before and since the visit. One minute, people were shopping at the market, getting on the bus, eating breakfast with their families; the next, they, along with everything around them, lay in ruin.

Not long after leaving the bank building, we crossed a bridge, leading to the Peace Memorial Museum. As with the rest of the city, there were monuments scattered about, reminding us each in their own special way “never to forget.” The first one we stopped to read about was dedicated to Dr. Marcel Junod, a Swiss doctor who headed the International Red Cross of Japan, remembered for his efforts in securing the delivery of 15 tons of medical supplies to the hospitals of the region and for treating bomb survivors within eight days of having been shown photos of the carnage. Prior to WWII, he had been assigned to Ethiopia, following the invasion by Italy, and later to Spain on the outbreak of the Spanish Civil War- a conflict George Orwell joined and wrote about in Homage to Catalonia. Dr. Junod returned to Switzerland in 1946 to write Warrior Without Weapons, documenting his personal experiences as a field delegate for the International Committee of the Red Cross. Later, he became actively involved with the United Nation’s Children’s Fund in China.

Reaching the entrance of the Museum is a clock showing the current time adjacent to two additional displays: one counting the days since the dropping of the bomb and the other counting down the days since the most recent nuclear weapons test. Entering the dimly lit space was akin to the feeling one experiences when someone boxes their ears- an unseemly pressure builds inside the walls of the skull, hearing becomes as if muffled and a subtle ring begins to sound. At the beginning of the exhibit is a 3 minute film highlighting the tour, which begins with images of the city before the bomb and then eases the viewer into the fury that was unleashed by it. One of the more desperate displays is a series of letters sent to heads of state condemning nuclear weapons testing and pleading for their abolition after the conducting of such tests. Also on display are copies of official, correspondences declassified government and newspaper clippings documenting the lead up to the decision to drop the bomb.

Although President Roosevelt had indeed, eight months before his death, suggested that the atomic bomb “might perhaps, after mature consideration, be used against the Japanese”, Vice President Truman was kept in the dark about the Manhattan Project until after FDR’s passing, April 12th, 1945, three months prior to the first successful detonation test. Once Truman was informed, he became wild with anticipation. Just days before the Soviets, who he greatly despised, were to invade Japan, he signed the order to drop the bomb. His choice in doing so was threefold. He actually went as far as to vaguely and nonchalantly disclose to Stalin that he had in his hands a “weapon of unusual destructive force”, no doubt his way of saying, “I’ve now go the upper hand over you.” At the same time, the Japanese were making arrangements to surrender, though their efforts were hampered due to the emperor’s refusal to denounce his divinity; though absurd as it was, demanding a nation to renounce its god is unthinkable. Knowing this to be the case, the US refused to negotiate. Had we done so, Truman would not have been able to demonstrate our military supremacy to the world, or to Stalin in particular, not to mention having otherwise little to show for the 2 billion tax dollars spent on development. Truman was in such a rush to show off his new toys that his scientists were unsure as to whether or not they would actually detonate (recall, there were only two in existence up that point); unfortunately, they did. Some of these statements were included in the exhibit, others I had prior knowledge of.

As we made our way upstairs, we looked at the path of rebuilding, of hope. There were rescue accounts and struggles of surviving a nuclear attack. I imagined all the people who came to attempt to ease the victims’ suffering out of great personal risk. Hospitals were largely in ruins, though the Red Cross building managed to maintain some of its facilities; supplies were obviously in short quantity as was medical staff, having also been counted among the dead. Whenever I saw an elderly person, I silently wondered if they were among the survivors. Dr. Junod, and others like him, tried desperately to do whatever they could in the service of the dying; true heroes, all of them.

The third floor of the east wing was largely about the nuclear age as it relates to science. There were demos about the number of nuclear armed countries and maps indicating where nuclear testing had been conducted. Of note was a section illustrating the arms race, which began with the Truman Doctrine, and the continuing legacy that haunts the world still. Around the corner was a display of testimonials from world leaders and religious figures, including Pope John Paul II, Mother Theresa, and the Dalai Lama, calling for world peace and solidarity. By this time, however, the closing announcement was aired over the PA system. After about three hours of taking in one of the history’s most tragic events, we decided to call it an afternoon and to return Sunday to continue our tour across to the west wing.

As we exited the building, there I was again, visited by unsettling thoughts, a natural reaction to attending such an exhibit. I made Asr shortly before sunset, saying a prayer for the victims and for an end to the many wars afflicting the world’s people. Afterwards, we went to the library on the first floor of the west wing, separated from the rest of the exhibit. It offered some well written books, critical of both sides of the war, some of which were composed strictly of primary sources. Having taken in our fare share, we left without reading much. I prayed Maghrib and then we set out on an evening walk.