Ichiro

Apologies for the lack of posting this past month (and more). I have been in Japan for some weeks, freezing my butt off in sub-zero temperatures. I returned to Sydney today and having a difficult time adjusting from -20°C (near Mt Fuji summit) to 25°C. I am terribly behind my goal as a result, but I'm trying not to get too caught up in the numbers. Here is a story from my Japanese adventures. It is longer than usual, which means it is very long indeed.

I saw a film several years ago. The story is about a 13-year old child prodigy violinist, who lives with his father in a provincial town. Recognising his son's gift, the self-sacrificing father sells all their belongings to journey to the city. The father hopes the city's violin master, who is holding auditions to find his new apprentice, will take in his son. The pair endures much. The ingenuous father has his cap stolen, where he hides the majority of their money. The son rebels by selling his own violin to purchase a fur coat for his much older crush. Eventually, the son is accepted by the violin master, however, in order to take up the apprenticeship he must choose to leave behind his father and the provincial life he has always known to live in the city. And as much as this final decision is a choice between his father and his ambition, the decision is just as much a choice between traditional values and modern aspiration. The son, torn between the two, is struggling like the rest of society to find a comfortable balance between aesthetic ideals of the old world and material temptations of the new.

Perhaps this is how I would describe Japan. A struggle between tradition and modernity.

It is a quite a unique experience. One day I would be walking down the streets of Gion in Kyoto, glimpsing maiko (apprentice geisha) rushing to their appointments. I'd enjoy an authentic kaiseki meal (similar to degustation) in a guesthouse, or perhaps a lesson in how to perform a tea ceremony. Another day I would be caught in the middle of a giant pedestrian crossing with a thousand other commuters in downtown Shibuya (in Tokyo). Here bright lights and mega-screens seem to dominate. A j-pop boy-band called Arashi (Storm) is all the rage. Straight from the boy-band factory, like modern day Monkees, their billboards fill the skyline. Middle-aged businessmen congregate in the Pachinko parlours (slot machines).

Statistics would suggest that only 1 to 2 percent of Japan considers themselves Christian, with only 0.44 percent considered being evangelical. The majority of Japanese subscribe to both Shintoism (around 90%) and Buddhism (around 80%). However, to most young Japanese people it would seem more to be a cultural practice than a religion following. Interestingly enough, according to a Japanese guide, more than 50% of engaged couples opt to have their wedding ceremony at Christian churches (they like the Western style). This will often be their only contact with a church ever.

Unsurprisingly, evangelising in Japan is difficult. People are polite and to raise the topic of religion seemed all too often inappropriate. Before I left Australia, I talked with a Christian who had been in Japan and they gave me some general advice. They said in order to give face one should never be too controversial or provocative. Avoid speaking with people older than yourself about religion, as it can come off as disrespectful. Avoid speaking with people of the opposite gender about religion, as that can sometimes be taken the wrong way. Gee, I thought, that certainly narrows the field. There was the added difficulty of speaking the language. I went to Japan with only a handful of very basic Japanese phrases, more than half of them probably being food terminology (e.g. sashimi). But even then, going into restaurants I had to point to wax models to order dinner.

I tried to be clever about this. I had a cunning plan. Pretending to be an ignorant traveller, I would ask the nice hotel concierge or receptionist if she (in my mind it was always a woman) knew if there were any Christian churches in the local area. This would lead to a conversation about all sorts of Christian related things. But being the Baldrick that I am, my cunning plan didn't work as I had anticipated. The one time I got up the courage to ask the receptionist, who was actually a grumpy sort of fellow, he promptly told me he didn't know and he doubted there were any churches in the area. I was left to proverbially 'sod off' back to my room.

My next cunning plan was to converse with foreign travellers. If they spoke English, at least that would give us some common ground. I had my chances, though I capitalised on none (allowing social etiquette to get the better of me). There was a pair of Australian girls who stayed on the same floor as us. A bloke from New Jersey who I did my laundry with. A group of Europeans who had turned the tiny downstairs hotel lobby into a pub crawl (as it was the only room in the whole place where smoking was permitted). But alas, I was always too afraid. Soon enough I let my busy travel schedule consume my time and I no longer felt bothered by the lack of conversations. Every morning I would tell myself it was okay because I was on this thing called a holiday. Self-justification is easy on the ears.

In the last week of the Japan trip we stayed mostly in Tokyo and my travel companions delighted in the prospect of shopping for consecutive days on end. I had my moments of shopping madness, purchasing a collection of the most bizarre items - wooden 'victory paddles', ear picks, dog-coats, anime merch. But for the most part, flashy shoes and outfits interested me very little. So escaping my friends, I took refuge in any nearby museums. This worked out well in museum districts like Ueno, but often I would struggle to find any points of interest in heavy shopping districts. In pure desperation one particular day, I stumbled upon the Salt and Tobacco Museum. There were three floors devoted to tobacco (a massive bong collection took up half a floor) and one floor devoted to salt. Of all places to have a conversation, this somewhat obscure and bizarre museum was where I met Ichiro.

I am told Ichiro is a common name in Japan for men. It is of course not the person's real name. I chose the name because it bears an uncanny resemblance to the name of the main character in a popular anime series. (A prize to the person who can name the character and the series.) We met at the top floor of the museum, which was hosting a special temporary exhibit on Japan-Mexico relations over history. There was a small section of the display that described early Catholic missionaries (or Kirishitan bateren as they were known) in Japan from Spain, New Spain (before Mexican independence) and Portugal in the 16th and 17th centuries. Ichiro knew a lot about the subject.

I started by asking him whether he thought the past experience of Christian missionaries in Japan has an impact on the way contemporary Japanese people view Christianity today. Ichiro started by describing some of the history of Portugal and Spain. He spoke good English, considering he was native Japanese. Portugal and Spain, he said, as with most European powers at the time, were seeking to expand their spheres of influence by colonising most parts the world for trade and power. Japan was a place both nations wanted to extend to. By sending missionaries, it was a political way of indirectly exerting influence over Japan.

Catholicism grew quickly, and eventually the shoguns felt threatened by the possibility of European invasion or colonisation. The missionaries were soon an uncomfortable presence, which undermined traditional Japanese sensibilities. By the Tokugawa (Edo) period, Japan had retreated into isolationism (sakoku). Catholicism was banned and missionaries expelled. Most that stayed became martyrs. External trade was mostly curtailed. Ichiro's opinion was that it was a highly political decision, and he felt that the religious persecution did not stem from any hatred towards the Christian or Catholic faith, more a disdain for Western imperialism. His words were, "it is unfortunate that politics and religion always mix". Though he admitted that a lot of it was tied up in trying to reclaim a cultural identity that Christianity seemed to subvert.

It wasn't until the Meiji Restoration that Japan was forced by American gunboat diplomacy to once again reopen her doors. Ichiro tried to explain to me how this history might have fostered some resistance to external intrusions and foreign distrust. Overtime, such distrust has subdued, but not disappeared. He tried to say in so many words that perhaps this is why Western religion has not really taken off in Japan. Traditional culture and national identity or uniqueness, to which Shintoism plays a significant part, is important to the Japanese people. This is why Ichiro thinks Christianity does not really appeal to Japanese people. "It seems foreign and different to the things we know, like an interruption. Many people stick to Shintoism and Buddhism as part of their identity. But it is not a serious religious practice."

I asked Ichiro if he had a religion. He said he was not religious, but he would partake in cultural festivals, often involving quasi-Shinto and quasi-Buddhist practices such as visiting shrines and ancestral worship.

I asked him if he saw a future for Christianity in Japan. He was doubtful. He said, unlike China where there has been much growth in Christian numbers, Japan has not seen much of that. He related the growth of Christianity in China to a result of China's westernisation and modernisation. As more Western influence has seeped into China, more have turned to Christianity as they have become aware of its existence. But Japan, he said, has modernised and westernised already. People are aware of what Christianity is, they just don't find it so compelling.

The conversation about Christianity ended there. The museum was shortly closing as a courtesy message was coming over on the PA system. I departed having thanked Ichiro for the conversation and insights. I shook his hand and we went our separate ways.

I left the building a little bit more worn. I was saddened (or perhaps dismayed is a better word) by what Ichiro told me. I thought what he said was partially true about the state of Christianity in Japan. And as I walked along the street as the sun went down, I felt alone. Even though the street was filled with locals and even though the shopkeepers were shouting at me to come into their store ("dozo, dozo"), I felt alone for the first time in two weeks.

I continued walking to the place my companions and I had agreed to meet. I was early. I stood oddly in the middle of the station entrance waiting for my friends to return. I was in the way of everyone and so I moved to a more isolated corner. I looked out into the crowd of faces before me, none of which gave me a second glance. They were all eager to get to their destination. They held clear plastic umbrellas in their hands and a mobile-music device in their pockets. They had few distractions apart from the occasional need to stop at a red-light crossing. And as I watched wave after wave go by, for some reason unknown I was filled with a sense of hope. I grimaced wryly, knowing the challenge had been set.