Gaijin

by Sarah Z Sleeper

  “How do you know there have been thousands of unreported rapes during those years?” I was in reporter mode, far off my script of questions about collaboration between women’s groups and determined to get the story she wanted to tell. She maintained a friendly demeanor, smiling and polite but beneath her professional polish, I sensed her passion for this cause

  “Lucy, you know women are reluctant to report rape. Even in the most civilized countries and situations, few women come forward.” I thought about the humiliation I had felt after my upskirt assault, my empathy with Midori Ishikori. I didn’t want to let those situations affect my objectivity.

  “Do you have data to back up your claims?” It wasn’t so much that I doubted her veracity, but I needed proof for any story that I might eventually write.

  “Your own government provides compelling data,” she said. “In 2012, the U.S. Department of Defense announced that in one year there were an estimated nineteen thousand sexual assaults inside the armed forces. Soldier on soldier, not even counting soldier-civilian instances. Nineteen thousand, in one year. Hard to grasp, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t see how that relates to Okinawa.”

  “Well, consider that in a press conference in Washington D.C. your government spoke about the rape of a woman soldier by her superior officer. They talked about it as an example of all that was wrong in the U.S. military. That rape took place on a base on Okinawa. If rape can happen on base, can’t you see how it can happen even more so off base, where soldiers roam freely?”

  This woman was beyond articulate. She provided me with data, quotes and context, not only for a news story, but for the broader story about what was happening on Okinawa. I might not be able to use it but would pass it along to Amista.

  “Let me give you an anecdote,” Akari said, pointing to a photo on the wall of a young girl, snuggling a creamy brown rabbit on her lap. “In 2005, this ten-year-old girl was victimized.” After hearing that news, Akari explained, another woman came forward to report that twenty years earlier, three American soldiers raped her. Because she didn’t take the case to court, it wasn’t counted among the one-hundred-and-twenty. “I wonder how many more invisible victims there are? From every year and in every era?”

  The truth of her statement settled into me. I knew she was right and felt deflated by this sad set of facts. I changed course and asked, “What is the goal of your group, Women Against Military Violence?” I knew she probably had a stock answer, but I wanted to hear how she put it.

  “Our goal is to reduce or remove U.S. forces from Okinawa. This as the only way to end the violence that comes to us from the bases.”

  I wanted to bring the conversation around to my story, although my story seemed silly at this point. “Akari, the subject of my piece is how you work together with American women’s groups.” I sounded ridiculous, but I went on. “Do you work with American women’s groups?”

  Akari’s face went hard. “We work with anyone who will fight to end U.S. violence against Okinawans.” She sat back in her chair, serious now. “What about you, Lucy? Will you work with us to end violence against women?”

  She’d turned the tables on me, and I didn’t have an adequate answer. “I’m here as a reporter,” I said, lamely.

  “I understand. Think about it. At least consider the possibility, okay?” She was serious. Think about becoming an anti-military activist for a Japanese nonprofit? The idea was farfetched, but her sincerity was piercing. “Lucy, have you ever been victimized?” Completely disarmed, I said I had, but not as bad as rape. “Is any level of assault okay?” she asked.

  I told her I needed some air and she nodded sympathetically. “It’s difficult,” she said.

  Hisashi followed me outside. “Don’t let her rattle you, Lucy,” he said, concerned.

  I was relieved he wasn’t still angry because of our earlier disagreement. I took deep breaths of florid subtropical air. We went back in and sat down.

  “Please let me share just a few more facts,” Akari said. She went on to say that eighteen percent of Okinawa’s land was in use by military bases, cordoned off by fences, where U.S. soldiers lived and worked. Anyone associated with U.S. forces can go in and out of the gates freely. “Okinawans must stay outside the gates. If you look at it this way, you can see that all of Okinawa has essentially been handed to the U.S. military.”

  “Handed to them?” I wanted clarification.

  She took her time in responding. “Okinawa is an open target for those with evil intent. We are off the radar of many Japanese, who prefer to forget about us. We are off the world radar because we are so small and powerless.”

  To my surprise, Hisashi spoke up. “She’s right, Lucy. Okinawa is exploited and ignored.” I was a spectator at this point, a civilian, dropped into a conversation with two veterans, about the proxy war on Okinawa with its longstanding battle zones. Akari Takazato had a few final points and I kept my recorder on and didn’t ask anything more.

  “Marine Expeditionary Force Commander Lieutenant General Nicholson pledged to ‘tighten discipline.’ That hasn’t happened. After each crime, we stage protests and the U.S. imposes a temporary curfew or lockdown. But only until the uproar dies down. Then another heinous crime is committed and on and on. It’s an intolerable circle of pain,” she said.

  I was at a loss for words. I didn’t have the bravery or the energy to say I’d join her cause. But she said it again, “Consider joining us.” I thanked her for her time. “I look forward to reading your article, Lucy,” she said.

  I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that I wouldn’t be writing the article about what she shared, just giving the information to Amista. For once I was glad that Ashimine-san had me on fluffier stories. She was right, I should join her cause, but I lacked the will, didn’t see myself as an activist.

  I rolled my window down and turned my face into the wind. I’d just been schooled by a woman my age, but much wiser. Okinawa itself was turning out to be my biggest sensei.

  When he dropped me off, Hisashi told me we ought to go to Tokyo sooner and not later. “We both need a break,” he said. I was surprised that he still wanted to take me, but too bewildered and tired to question it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  I slept the next day away. My spirit had given out and I climbed into bed with no plan to get out. I didn’t play music, just stared at my chipped ceiling tiles until my eyes closed. The sounds of car engines, yelling protestors and hawking vendors on Kadena Gate Street woke me up a few times and I fell right back to a dreamless sleep. My cell phone dinged with texts and calls from Rose and Mom and Amista and Hisashi and even Ashimine-san. When I woke up Tuesday night I knew exactly where I was though I was no longer sure who I was. The person I used to be had evaporated or disintegrated. I ate boxed noodles and fell back into bed until the morning. Then I limped into work as if still asleep.

  I gave Amista the interview recording and told her it might help with the rape story. Work on the women’s group story seemed ridiculous. Rumiko had concern in her eyes. I knocked on Ashimine-san’s door and asked if I could take a few days off. “I’m exhausted,” I admitted. And like the kind, fatherly man he was, he agreed to give me the time off, but warned that I’d need to finish my story the minute I got back.

  * * *

  Hisashi guided me through the airport procedures at Naha terminal with the efficiency of a seasoned bodyguard. We made it through baggage and check-in in about ten minutes and onto the plane in another twenty. I came around from my exhausted stupor as it dawned on me, I was leaving the pressure cooker of Okinawa. I hadn’t realized how out of it I’d been.

  “You sat at your desk Wednesday for three hours without doing anything,” Hisashi said. “Even Rumiko was worried.” Ashimine-san, he added, recognized the toll that the whirlwind few weeks on island has taken on you and suggested this trip. “He said you’d feel better after seeing more peaceful parts of Japan.”

  I asked Hisashi if his parents knew we
were on the way and he said yes, and we’d stay with them. I could have been intimidated after all Hisashi had told me about his family, but I was more numb than afraid. “I will be glad to see your mother,” I said. “She was so gracious to me.” I didn’t say anything about Mr. Ota.

  “Dad knows I’m bringing you,” Hisashi said, answering my unasked question. I gave him a skeptical face. “It’s best not to mention Owen around my father,” he added. More advice to keep my mouth shut. Out of respect, I would do it.

  “Can we see Owen?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid not. We think he’s in Tokyo, but he’s asked us not to contact him. Said he needs time to restart his life, outside the reach of his family.”

  “Ah. Understandable,” I murmured. I barely admitted to myself that I felt a touch of relief; it would have been awkward to see him. It seemed better to hold on to our shared memories, as unvarnished as they were by harsh realities.

  Hisashi stretched in his airplane seat. First class on Japan Airlines was like a television commercial, the flight attendant kept filling our little champagne glasses and, though a quick flight, she fed us plates of warm ham and cheese and cups of mint sorbet. The plane ride went by in a flash of clouds and blue ocean.

  As quickly as we boarded in Naha, we deplaned in Tokyo. The Tokyo airport was crowded and nondescript as was the start of the cab ride, down a busy grey-walled highway. We exited into the city and wove through traffic, crisscrossed deeper downtown, crept slowly into the city, our vehicle speed impeded by the throngs of walkers at the edge of the lanes. People, people and more people. Crowds waited at each crosswalk, and then moved across it as one tightly sewn piece of living fabric. The streets were lined with all types of businesses, from a matchbox-sized yellow-and-red McDonald’s, to steel-and-glass skyscraper Citibank and BNP Paribas offices. It was a crush of bodies and commerce and my impression was serious, serious people in a hurry on their way to important places as they stared at cell phones. I did see some teenagers dressed to the hilt in funky clothes—knee socks, mini-skirts, patent-leather shoes and bright red lipstick—finally, the hipsters I’d expected from music videos. In person they looked like kids playing dress up, which probably is what Owen was too, when I knew him.

  We exited the heart of the city into a more suburban area, drove up a long driveway lined with tall trees to arrive at a striking white contemporary house. Before I could open the car door, someone opened it for me. Standing in front of me was Mrs. Ota, exactly as I remembered her. Beautiful, with skin like polished silk. “Lucy!” She seemed delighted to see me. “Welcome. What a small, small world. You told me you’d come to Japan and here you are.”

  She ushered us into a front hall with double-tall ceilings and an enormous bouquet on a huge pedestal, purple morning glories and pink lotus blossoms. “Let me show you your room,” Mrs. Ota said. “You must be exhausted.” As we headed down the hall, I turned back and took a quick photo of the flowers.

  Hisashi headed down another hallway and I found myself alone in a spacious bedroom with sliding doors out to a little patio and garden. The bedroom had fluffy bedding and more vases of fragrant flowers. The bathroom was ivory marble with a spa-sized tub and a television on the wall. I’d never been in such a luxurious room. It seemed impossible that a few hours ago I was in my tiny sparse apartment and now I was here in this posh room, in Tokyo, at Owen Ota’s house. We must have been on a hill because when I went outside, I could see all the way to the city and the mountains beyond. And right before me, in the center of a manicured back yard, stood a tall Japanese maple tree with fiery red and orange leaves. I’d seen such trees depicted in photos but had never seen one in person. Its color was splendid against the jade-green lawn. I took a photo and texted it and the flower photo to Rose.

  She responded immediately, “Whoa. Where are you?”

  “Tokyo. Owen’s house.”

  “Double whoa!”

  Hisashi texted me. “Meet us in the garden room?” I brushed my teeth, smoothed out my rumpled dress and patted down my unruly hair. In the mirror my cheeks had a soft rosy glow, not a hot-pink flush and not the skinny timid face I had when I arrived in Okinawa a month ago. Tuning out for a few days, sleeping, and not thinking, had smoothed the stress lines between my eyes.

  Down the hall and past the expansive dining room I found a living room with doors flung open to an enclosed patio. Hisashi stood and introduced me to his father, Mr. Ota, who looked so much like Owen my heart jumped. Same deep-set eyes and high cheekbones, tall and lanky. “Miss Tosch, welcome to our home. Hisashi says you’ve always wanted to visit Tokyo.”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said, swallowing my surprise. Mr. Ota was a three-decades older carbon copy of Owen. I collected myself and said, “Your home is beautiful.”

  The four of us, Hisashi, Mr. and Mrs. Ota, and I, chatted for a few minutes. They asked how I liked Okinawa Week and if I missed my family. They wanted to know if I planned to stay in Japan. “I’m not sure. I’m still deciding,” I said, the first time I’d voiced that particular truth to anyone but Rose. Hisashi opened his eyes wide, questioning.

  “Once you see Tokyo and the surrounding areas you’ll never want to leave,” Mr. Ota said. “We can’t understand why Hisashi wants to live so far away.” His tone was sweet, kind, not the growling ogre I’d expected. He sounded like any parent who missed his child, like my mom, when she asked me to come back to Illinois. “Okinawa is a world away from Tokyo,” he added.

  I had no idea what if anything they knew about my tumultuous time on Okinawa but didn’t think this was the time to mention any of it.

  “Lucy and I plan to go south tomorrow, to Mt. Fuji,” Hisashi said.

  “Lucy knew Owen,” Mrs. Ota said, sucking the air out of the room.

  “Ah, well,” Mr. Ota said, as if waiting for an explanation.

  “They knew each other briefly at Northwestern,” Hisashi said. “Right, Lucy?”

  “Yes. We were friends.” I wasn’t sure what Mr. Ota would say, maybe spit vitriol or walk out of the room because I knew the son he was ashamed of.

  “That’s nice,” Mr. Ota said. “Nice to know he had a friend in Illinois.” His shoulders slumped and his eyes were weary. “We miss him.” His sadness was palpable, and I glanced at Hisashi. I’d been led to expect a fiery judgmental dictator and here, a sad father who missed his son.

  * * *

  We had a casual dinner on the patio and spoke about Okinawa and all its problems. The Otas were thoughtful, well-informed, and of the opinion that the U.S. should reduce its presence there. “Americans have outstayed their welcome,” Mr. Ota said. About whether or not Airman Stone was guilty, Mrs. Ota said what most Japanese believed, “He probably did it.” Both parents expressed admiration for their son living on Okinawa and working as a journalist to expose difficult truths. I sensed nothing of the scorned father I’d expected.

  “You’re in the truth business too, right, Lucy?” Mr. Ota said. “Is journalism going to be your lifelong career?”

  I’d been thinking about my meeting with Akari Takazato. “I thought so, but now I’m not sure. I’m going to explore my options.” Hisashi shot me a look and I shrugged. Saying it out loud made it real. I would contact her when we went back to Okinawa.

  Dinner with the Otas was not strange at all. It reminded me of a more elegant version of dinner at my own childhood home, chatting about news of the day. Owen’s name did not come up again, but there were family photos on the mantel showing him as an adolescent, same handsome face, same mysterious aura. Sitting with people who had twenty-one years of photos with Owen—birthdays and family gatherings—reinforced how little I really knew about him.

  Hisashi walked me back to my room after dinner. “What was that about not being sure you’d keep on doing journalism?”

  “I don’t know. I might need to get out into the real world more.”

  “You’ve had a big dose of the real world in the last month.”

  “Yes, but Takazato-
san made sense to me. I’m thinking.”

  Hisashi said I was full of surprises and told me to be ready at eight a.m. because we’d have a long day touring. “We’re going to Aokigahara,” he said, and the hairs on my arms stood up. He hadn’t mentioned a trip to Suicide Forest and was resistant to the idea when I’d brought it up before. “It might be good for both of us,” he said. He kissed me on the cheek, the way a brother would do. He pointed out my back window across the city. “Look out in the distance. You can’t see it yet, but Mt. Fuji is out there, not far. And Aokigahara is near its base.”

  I stared out across twinkling Tokyo lights and into the dark distance. I was finally in a place I’d longed to be for years, had fantasized about. Not with Owen, but with another man who I liked and felt protected by. Okinawa, its trials and troubles fell away like a layer of dust from freshly washed skin.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I woke up doused in anticipation about Suicide Forest, both fearful and eager, emotions that typically didn’t coexist in me. It was much cooler in Tokyo than it had been on Okinawa and on that day, the sky was pale blue washed in layers of low clouds. Haze floated outside my back window.