“That was the hardest part of all, wasn’t it?”

Record of Dialogue, July 2010

A Dialogue between Tae (93), Saburo (80s), Machiko (70s), and Hisae (80s)

(Excerpts from 4 participants out of a group of 8)

Tae (93):

Back then, no matter where you ran, you could hear the whistle of bullets flying past. They came from the sky, from the land—and the naval shelling was relentless. Our Okinawan family of seven, including my tiny baby sister, spent our days fleeing through the mountains.

We had no water, no food. Everywhere we went was a landscape of terror. At night, it was pitch black. But when the moon came out, it was even scarier—we’d hide in the shadows of the trees so the Americans wouldn’t spot us. If a child started crying, we were in danger, so we’d have to press our hands over their mouths to keep them quiet…

That… that was the most painful part of all.

(A long silence falls over the group, as if the sound of the wind is the only thing left.)

Saburo (80s):

The moonlight… it was terrifying back then, wasn’t it? Normally we are grateful for its light, but in those days, the light was a death sentence.

Machiko (70s):

I remember doing that too—holding my sister’s mouth shut. I wanted to cry just as much as she did, but I was desperate… I had no choice.

Tae:

We eventually found shelter in a Gama (a natural cave), but it was packed with people and the stench was unbearable. Still, we knew if we stepped outside, we might be shot. We just held our breath and waited for morning to come, over and over again.

Hisae (80s):

To think… that we survived through all that… I don’t even have the words for it.

Tae:

I never imagined I’d make it back alive. For the longest time, I blamed myself. I’d ask, “Why was I the one to survive?” I carried that guilt for decades.

But now, I’ve come to believe that I am able to sit here and talk today because of those who didn’t make it. That’s why I feel I must speak—about what I saw, and what I felt.

(Several members of the group nod quietly.)

Saburo:

When you say you “blamed yourself”… it really hits home. There are so many things I’ve kept locked away and never spoken about. But today, I feel like some of it is finally coming out.

Machiko:

When we share our stories like this, I feel our Chimugurisa—that heart-wrenching pain—slowly begins to transform into Chimugukuru, a warmth of the heart. Sharing our stories doesn’t make the pain itself disappear. But the experience of having someone sit with you, listen, and truly receive your pain… that creates a gentle, warm change inside.

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