Gaijin

by Sarah Z Sleeper

  At the other table were two Japanese men in suits, sitting silently. A side door opened and there she was, the elusive Midori Ishikori, flanked by her parents and two big bodyguards. The room went silent, all eyes on the tiny teenager. Her lawyers rose and escorted her to the table, while her parents and the guards took seats at the front of the gallery. Stone didn’t look at her, but she glanced at him and then away. She was even prettier in person than in the two photos I’d seen, more mature than her fifteen years, with big eyes and shiny lip gloss. She wore a navy blue and white polka dot dress with a demure lace collar, and a tear bloomed in the corner of her eye.

  Hisashi and the other photographers were prohibited from taking photos in court, but he made a little sketch of the scene in his notebook. Amista sat and first looked at Midori, then turned to examine Stone, then back at Midori. Along with everybody else, I quieted my breath, anxious about what would happen.

  The next thirty minutes went by in a blur. One of Midori’s lawyers made a brief statement, as did Colonel Abdir. Neither Stone nor Midori took the stand, but there was an electric moment where the judge asked Midori a question and she turned toward Stone and pointed a delicate finger at him.

  At first, Stone stared into the distance and didn’t acknowledge her at all. But then, as the judge began to read the charges against him, “statutory rape, sexual battery,” Stone shot up out of his chair. A guard jumped over and grabbed Stone’s arm and tried to force him back down, but Stone yanked his arm away. Before police officers could respond, Stone strained toward Midori’s table, the chains from his leg irons clanking on the floor. “Whore,” he growled.

  With one collective intake of air, the spectators and media in the courtroom ossified. “Whore,” Stone said again, his voice firm and furious. Before he could speak again or sit back down the two guards grabbed him and dragged him out the side door. Then the judge yelled something, hit his gavel on the bench and left the room too. Police told the rest of us to stay seated and cleared the way for Midori Ishikori. She ran out of the main doors of the courtroom, her head down, lawyers, guards and parents running alongside her.

  “What a headline,” Amista said.

  Despite the policemen’s orders, Hisashi jumped up and ran after Midori, camera in hand. No one stopped him, so other reporters followed. Then the whole courtroom got up and pushed toward the exit. Amista took my hand and we wove out through the crowd. Hisashi was nowhere to be seen and neither was Midori’s camp, so we got into Amista’s car and drove to the office.

  * * *

  Amista’s story, published that Friday, featured a photo of a fleeing Midori, taken by Hisashi. She was running toward a waiting black sedan in the courthouse parking lot. Her face was wet with tears and raindrops and her polka-dot dress was soggy and too big for her tiny body. Her parents were also in the frame, looking back at Hisashi’s camera, startled expressions on their wet faces. Hisashi was the only one to get a photo from the day’s proceedings and Amista’s story had the headline, “Accusation from the Accused,” and subhead, “Stone disrupts courtroom with slur.” I couldn’t help noting the parallel to the slur shouted at me during my day in court. In Okinawa a slur could be hurled at anybody, anytime, it would seem.

  Hisashi told me he had to go down south to Naha to take a series of photographs of the new buildings constructed in Okinawa’s biggest city. The story had been assigned to Cece, which bothered me, eager as I was to write more important stories. This wasn’t a fluff piece because it wasn’t only about architecture, it was about a visit to Naha by several high-ranking government officials from Tokyo, there to address the protests and calls for base closures. As happened so many other times since World War II, Japanese officials would attempt to quell Okinawan outrage and maintain the status quo with their American friends. Years earlier, the U.S. had promised to shut down one of the many American military bases on Okinawa, the Marine’s Camp Futenma, but didn’t.

  I planned to spend my weekend researching the American Welfare & Works Association and Women Against Military Violence, the two groups I’d interview. The first group was American military women who did local charity, school fundraisers, volunteering at hospitals and the like. The second group was comprised of Okinawan women who fought to reduce American crime against Okinawan citizens. I realized the second group was a bit of a stretch in terms of a fit with my assigned story, how American and Okinawan women work together, but I decided interview them anyway and enjoyed a pang of satisfaction because I knew I was bending the rules about the scope of my story. I didn’t want to disappoint Ashimine-san, but I was intrigued by the anti-violence group and thought I could learn about it even if I had to leave it out of my final story. I liked the idea of following my gut instincts instead of someone else’s rules.

  It was Friday evening, and Amista wanted to take me out on a quick trip up the coast. I agreed, but said I needed to make a stop on the way. I guided her to the shopping center where Hisashi and I had tea, to a little stonework shop next door that sold garden fountains and statues.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked.

  I scanned the aisles and there it was, a partner for our office shisa. It was grey stone embellished with red and gold, a near-perfect male to match the female that guarded Okinawa Week. I paid the clerk and put it in the trunk.

  As we continued the drive, Amista said, “I should have done that years ago.” We’re going to Okuma,” she said. “It’s a military vacation spot. Like a retreat center but with a bar.”

  It was nighttime, and the street was what I now knew to be a typical Okinawa scene. Brightly lit pachinko parlors and bars, next to small strip malls and mom-and-pop shops, sidewalks crowded with both revelers and protestors. As we neared Okuma the commercial sites disappeared, and the street was lined with lush trees and flowering shrubs. We turned into a long driveway and Amista flashed her military ID at a gate guard. We stopped at a little complex of dark wooden cabins and a larger wooden building, glowing with light and full of people.

  Inside was an old-fashioned dining room with rustic tables and a mirrored bar. One side of the building floor-to-ceiling windows faced a little strip of water that reflected the moonlight. Amista greeted several people, including a couple seated for dinner, and we found a table and ordered wine. I asked her what this place was, and she told me it was a place where anyone from any branch of the military could come for a getaway. It reminded me of a country club in a town near Oakville where I’d had dinner once as a teenager, the guest of a more affluent friend. Jocular voices, streamed jazz music, the thick scent of cooked beef and buttery mashed potatoes. We sipped wine while I took it all in.

  Here I found myself at another place like nowhere I’d ever conceived. A tiny, fancy camp site in the middle of Japan, just for Americans. “Do the Okinawans have resorts like this?” I asked.

  Amista laughed and told me Manza Beach, where the Ishikori family had been staying, was one of many such resorts that cater mainly to Japanese. “The difference,” she said, “is that American military can only afford log cabins, while the Japanese stay at five-star hotels.”

  I thought about the wealthy Ishikori family who’d stayed at Manza Beach, and about the Okinawans I interviewed about English classes they’d taken to get ahead in their careers, to earn a better living. Plenty of Japanese people didn’t frequent five-star resorts.

  “Lucy,” said a voice from behind my chair. I turned to see Nathan, fit and handsome in jeans and a polo shirt, smiling down at me.

  I introduced him to Amista, who raised her eyebrows and squelched a smile. I squirmed and mumbled an apology. I hadn’t spoken to Nathan since our impromptu date which seemed like a lifetime ago. He said something about following my stories in Okinawa Week, and I thanked him. He paused as if to suggest another outing, but didn’t, said it was great to see me. I agreed that it was nice to see him too, but he might as well have been a stranger. I was happy when he returned to his table full of friends.

  “Ouch,
” Amista said.

  “It’s not what you think,” I confided in her that we’d shared a meal, but that was it, there had been no hint of romance. “He was like a teacher, he told me about military life. And, it sounded so foreign to me.”

  “Does this place, Okuma, seem foreign to you, since it’s an American military place?”

  I pondered the question for a moment, inhaled a noseful of tangy white wine and said, “To be honest, there’s nowhere I’ve been in a month that doesn’t seem like another planet.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  My interviews were set for Monday and Hisashi went with me, to translate, if necessary, and take photos. As we drove toward the base, the protest crowd was as big and vociferous as always. At the gate the guard checked our Okinawa Week ID cards and directed us to the Kadena Officers’ Club, where we’d meet representatives of the American Welfare & Works Association.

  On the way inside Hisashi whispered, “Can you believe they divide themselves up this way? Only officers can go here. Enlisted have a separate club.” This didn’t come as a surprise; I’d learned from Nathan about the different rules for the two groups.

  The Officers’ Club had thick burgundy carpet, and the musical clicking of slot machines floated down the hall. Hisashi guided me to a set of doors. I was a bit disoriented and felt like I’d stepped into a secret club, might be asked to leave at any moment.

  “I was thinking we could take a quick trip to Tokyo next weekend,” he whispered, and I was caught off guard. “I spoke to my mom,” he said. “She says it’s okay.”

  I was surprised by this news but needed to stay focused. We entered a small conference room and I snapped back into the moment. “Hello, you must be Miss Tosch? I’m Susan Warren and this is Barbara Dailey.” She had a little airplane charm dangling from a gold necklace and a pleasantly wide face. Barbara was pretty in a mousy way and she shifted her weight from foot to foot as though uncomfortable standing up. Susan didn’t say hello to Hisashi, which struck me as strange, but she indicated to both of us that we should sit at the table, which was covered with photos and papers.

  “That’s pretty,” I said, by way of an ice breaker, pointing to her necklace. “Do you like planes?”

  “My husband is a pilot,” she said. It took a second but then I realized she was wearing a plane charm around her neck to advertise her husband’s profession. I pictured my mother wearing an apple or a ruler or some other such elementary school charm around her neck and almost giggled.

  “Who’s your friend?” Susan asked, not in an unfriendly way, but measured.

  I told her that Hisashi was the photographer for Okinawa Week, and also served as my translator. “I have an interview later with a Japanese group,” I explained. Her eyebrows lifted underneath her hair-sprayed bangs.

  She picked up a couple of photographs off the table, shots of smiling women and Japanese children taken at Ishimine Orphanage, Okinawa’s largest, she said, from “Spring Break Fun Day.” Military wives from the Air Force, Marine Corps and Navy went to the orphanage with a local charity group, Help Oki, to set up a bouncy tent, games and a picnic for the kids. “It’s just one of many things we do to help the local community,” she said, sounding like a quote from a press release. She showed more photos from that event, all similar, happy kids and women.

  I asked to see a schedule of their charitable events. It was a bit of a ruse because I knew from my online research that ninety percent of their activities were social: soba noodle class, street shopping excursions, karaoke nights. I wanted to see what she’d say.

  “We don’t have a printed schedule, but the Spring Break Fun Day was one of many charitable events we do in the outside community.”

  “You do social events too?” Hisashi shot me a surprised look. Barbara stiffened in her seat and started tapping her feet and Susan smiled the practiced smile of a PR professional.

  “It’s true, we like to have fun. But since our inception in nineteen-fifty-two, we’ve donated eight million dollars to local charities. That’s nothing to sneeze at. I’ve personally overseen the dissemination of baby blankets and an ultrasound machine to a local hospital in need.”

  I didn’t want to put her on the defense any more than I already had, so I softened my next question. “What’s the best thing about being in this group?”

  “Community,” she said, without hesitation. “AWWA is a group of like-minded women, supportive of the military community but also of the Okinawan community.” She sounded like a PSA. I couldn’t help myself.

  “Do you feel part of the Okinawan community?” I said. Then, “You live behind a guarded gate.” Hisashi bowed his head and muttered under his breath. I pressed on. “Do the protests affect you at all?”

  Susan and Barbara stood, apparently finished with my questions. They extended their hands and thanked me for my time. Barbara was shell shocked, and Susan was angry. “Ms. Tosch,” she said, “is there some reason you assume that the possible rape of a young girl would be any less horrifying to us than to you?”

  “No, but I wondered how much what’s going outside the gates affects you here, on this guarded base.” She took a step closer to me, anger flashing in her eyes.

  “You have no idea how many lives have been lost so that you can traipse around in total freedom and ask rude questions,” she hissed. “I don’t know if the rape allegation is true or not and you don’t either. What I do know is that without the military, Okinawa would be like a third-world country.” Susan and Barbara whisked themselves out and left us standing in the empty conference room. I was shaken but proud of myself for asking about difficult topics, like an experienced reporter.

  We exited the club, past the blinking, dinging slot machine room, and past the dark bar where couples sat drinking, laughing. “Nice work, Lucy,” said Hisashi, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Okinawa Week will be blackballed from Kadena now.”

  I shot back, “Just like we were called out in the media for my courtroom outburst?”

  Thick tension filled the car during on the way to the next interview. Why should he be mad? It’s a reporter’s job to ask tough questions, to get to the truth. I couldn’t stand his angry silence. “Hisashi, why do you get so upset with me?” It was as diplomatic as I could be in that moment.

  He inhaled and exhaled, exasperated. “Lucy, I like you. You’re smart, a little puerile, but a good reporter. But you don’t get it. In Japan you can’t be so blunt. It’s impolite.”

  “They were Americans, remember? Americans are used to bluntness.” I sensed his irritation but didn’t care.

  “Why can’t you learn? Your ‘American’ manner is offensive, even on a military base.” He’d made little air quotes with his fingers and plopped his hands down hard on his lap. “They’re used to being treated respectfully by Okinawa Week.”

  This conversation was more heated than our past disagreements. Was this to be the nature of our relationship? We’re friends and then not, in the blink of an eye? Was Hisashi going to continue getting mad at me for things I said? I had finally felt comfortable with him, finally had some relief from all the stress and now in a flash, we were back at square one, squabbling strangers. I had to say what was on my mind.

  “You claim to be a rebel, bucking tradition by living on Okinawa. Well, you’re not.” We stopped in the parking lot of our next interview. “You care more about appearances than you care about the truth.”

  More silence. Then, “I’m going to forgive you for saying that,” Hisashi said, and got out of the car.

  I sat there catching my breath and took a look around before I got out. I hadn’t noticed anything on our drive and now we were parked in front of a dilapidated building in a slum area of the island. An elderly man slumped over on the curb half asleep, a scrawny grey terrier lounged in the shade of an abandoned food stand. Two kindergarten-aged boys in tattered t-shirts ran around playing street baseball with a broken bat. The sign on the building said, “Women Against Military Violence,” in
faded red lettering, above a kanji sign I assumed said the same thing. Hisashi was already out of the car, walking toward the door.

  My heart raced, both because of my disagreement with Hisashi and because I expected disapproval or discrimination here because I was American. I’d emailed my interview request to set up the meeting and a woman named Takazato-san had responded in English, so presumably she already knew. Inside the office was spotless and organized, with three Japanese women behind computers. The one closest to the door spoke. “Miss Tosch? Lucy?”

  “Yes. Takazato-san?” She came over and took both of my hands, greeted Hisashi with equal warmth.

  “Please call me Akari.” She offered us two metal chairs by her desk, and we sat. On the walls were photos of Japanese women and girls, their names and the dates of the crimes against them. “Mika Sakaguchi, May 30, 2015,” “Yuka Tomayasu, February 2, 2001,” “Chieko Aiko, October 2, 1995,” and on and on and on, all the way back to “Etsuko Fumie, December 10, 1972.” Akari watched me take it all in. The faces of the women looked out from the wall, smiling, the photos taken at some happy moment before their assaults.

  “It’s difficult to see these faces, knowing what happened to them,” Akari said. She leaned forward thoughtfully and pushed a wisp of hair behind her ear. Her clothes were utilitarian, leggings, sneakers and a plain black t-shirt. “I know you have your questions, but may I first give you some statistics?” I nodded. “These one-hundred-and-twenty photos represent the reported rapes of Japanese women by U.S. men. There are thousands more, unreported,” she said. In 1972, the U.S. military occupation of Okinawa ended, she explained, and before that no data was kept. The Battle of Okinawa ended seventy-one years ago, so for almost thirty years, rapes and other crimes were undocumented. She paused while I absorbed this data. “Heartbreaking, isn’t it?”