Two haiku that capture the child-like innocence of the characters of daughter and son are written by Sei Sagara of the Tule Lake Valley segregation center: “At midday / children chasing dragonflies / their teeth are white,” and, “Children’s flowers / bloomed first / pleasant summer morning breeze” (Cristoforo, 257). These two haiku place children in scenes of natural beauty, reinforcing the goodness of child-like innocence. While life in the concentration camps was more difficult than life pre-concentration camp for most of the residents, children could still muster the will to find pleasure among their surroundings. Sagara’s reference to white teeth is comparable to a scene in When the Emperor Was Divine when the daughter worries that there is something wrong with her face. Her mother assures her that there is not, telling her, “You have a fine set of teeth,” to which the daughter replies, “Teeth don’t count,” and the mother finishes, “Teeth are essential” (15). These haiku reinforce the innocence of the children and the practical approach of the mother.
Finally, Otsuka concludes with a brief chapter told from the Father’s point-of-view. Up to this point, the reader has been hooked by the mother’s steadiness in the face of adversity and the children’s innocent telling of life in the concentration camp, but now the reader who has made this journey is addressed directly by the novel. Otsuka uses the pronoun “you” to directly communicate the important message of her novel to the reader. The father’s chapter becomes both a confession and an accusation. The confession is, “Everything you have heard is true” (140). Knowing that those of Japanese heritage do not like to talk about their experiences at the concentration camp, Otsuka delivers this statement to reinforce that she has spoken about it. What comes next is an angry tirade of false confessions meant to show the absurdity of detaining American citizens. These false confessions amount to an accusation directed towards the reader. The son and daughter have already shared what things were like for the family upon their return to Berkeley and now the father is pointing the finger and telling the reader that he or she allowed it to happen, even if indirectly, and he or she has a responsibility to see that this type of thing does not happen again.
The “you” the father is speaking to is the universal reader. In an interview, Otsuka describes the experience of Japanese-Americans during World War II as “universal” and acknowledges that “all throughout history people have been rounded up and sent away into exile” (Yoon). Because of this, she has written a novel for the universal reader – anyone can pick it up, get caught up in the mother’s story, experience life with the children, and then face the angry father’s accusation. Hisao Fukuda wrote another applicable haiku: “Pathetic / cowboys’ boots are lopsided / cattle being dehorned” (117). The internment of Japanese-Americans certainly was a pathetic act and it is important that readers of When the Emperor Was Divine don’t become dehorned like the cattle mentioned in the poem, but strive to do what’s right. Ishiguro has a similar message, but uses slightly different means to address his universal audience.
In An Artist of the Floating World, Ishiguro uses a first-person narrative to tell the story of Masuji Ono, a retired artist whose marriage negotiations for his younger daughter, Noriko, are threatened by a past he has yet to confront himself. Ono, once a well-known and respected artist, gave up his continued mastery of art to paint propaganda for Imperial Japan. By using a first-person narrative and directly addressing the reader as “you,” Ishiguro reveals the wrongs of an individual during war and invites the reader to avoid the same mistakes in the future.
A first-person narration gives the reader an opportunity to experience the same things the main character is experiencing. In this case, Ono is haunted by his past, but is in denial that he may have done any wrong. During a discussion with Noriko about the reason the most recent marriage negotiations failed, Ono says, “They gave their reason clearly enough at the time. They felt the young man was inadequately placed to be worthy of you.” Noriko responds, “But you know that was just formality, Father.” The conversation continues with Ono restating it was a matter of status, to which Noriko questions her own beauty (which is similar to the daughter in Otsuka’s novel wondering if she is pretty enough). Ono reassures her that is not the case and Noriko replies, “Well, Father, if it wasn’t to do with me, then I wonder what it could have been to make them pull out like that” (Ishiguro, 52). The conversation ends and Ono, suspicious of what his daughter has just said, fails to admit that his past is the reason the marriage negotiations failed. Ono also seems to have a bad memory. As he reflects on past events he constantly tells “you,” the reader, he’s unsure of what he’s actually remembering, saying things like, “I could hardly recall the conversation I had had,” and, “I believe we did not discuss the matter further after that” (Ishiguro 54, 85). Ono’s denial and confused memory make him an unreliable narrator. The effect on the reader is initially one of questioning, but as Ono continues to admit that his recollection of events may be skewed, he gradually builds trust with the reader. Further, the reader is able to sympathize with the Ono as he comes to grips with his past, making it possible for the reader to grasp the lesson Ishiguro would share with this novel.
Shizuku Uyemaruko, while at the Tule Lake segregation center, writes the following haiku, which may summarize Ono’s conflict about the past: “On certain days / heart is full of hypocrisy / flowers of gobo are purple” (Cristoforo, 269). “Certain days” can be the days when Noriko’s marriage negotiations are forefront in his mind and the hypocrisy is the unvoiced worry he feels because of his past actions. Just as Uyemaruko is able to find a spot of beauty amidst turmoil, Ono is able to reconcile his past with himself and with others.
Ono finally admits the mistakes of his past at a miai, a formal dinner and meeting with the most recent prospective husband and his family. The dinner begins awkwardly as Ono senses through the prospective husband’s younger brother the hostility the family feels towards him. Out of care for his daughter, Ono abandons traditional restraint and boldly confronts his past: “‘There are some, Mrs. Saito,’ I said perhaps a little loudly, ‘who believe my career to have been a negative influence. An influence now best erased and forgotten. I am not unaware of this viewpoint. […] And as for myself, I am now quite prepared to accept the validity of such an opinion.’” He is told that he is being unfair to himself, but he boldly continues, not allowing himself or anyone else to make excuses for his past actions:
There are some who would say it is people like myself who are responsible for the terrible things that happened to this nation of ours. As far as I am concerned, I freely admit I made many mistakes. I accept that much of what I did was ultimately harmful to our nation, that mine was part of an influence that resulted in untold suffering for our own people. I admit this. You see, Dr. Saito, I admit this quite readily. 123.
The result of admitting the mistake of the past is a successful marriage negotiation. What’s more, Ono now recognizes the responsibility of moving into a future that won’t allow for war atrocities to take place. The novel ends with Ono speaking to “you” and looking towards the future: “Our nation, it seems, whatever mistakes it may have made in the past, has now another chance to make a better go of things” (Ishiguro, 206). The result for the reader who has journeyed with Ono is a call to admit the mistakes of the past and a commitment not to repeat the mistakes in the future. Ishiguro also speaks directly to the universal reader by having Ono say, “our nation,” rather than “Japan.” It makes his message accessible not only to the Japanese, but to the British, Americans, and any other who might read his novel.
Certainly messages that speak out against acts that occur during times of war should be meant for the universal reader as war seems to occur at any time and place imaginable. Otsuka effectively uses varying points-of-view of the victims to draw the reader in and end her novel with a call to action. Ishiguro sets his novel with a similar message in a far different location and uses a first-person narrative of one who committed the wrong and speaking to “you” consistently through the story to address the universal reader. The haiku compiled by Cristoforo enlightens these two texts, bringing to life the characters and making them more real, which authenticates the call to action each author makes. Kikuja Okamoto of the Rohwer concentration camp writes, “In my palm – flower seeds / you gave me / with their local names” (145). Otsuka and Ishiguro have planted the seeds of action for the reader and now the responsibility falls upon the reader to harvest the result, ensuring that the mistakes of war no longer continue.
