Ryōtarō Shiba once said that “the Japanese and Koreans share common ancestry.”
Haneo Egami also claimed, “Horse-riding peoples came over and founded the Yamato court,” but it turned out to be complete nonsense.
October 29, 2019
This is a repost of the chapter originally published on July 11, 2019, titled: Can’t You Smell the Ignorance and Malice in the Asahi?
The reason for reposting goes without saying: this is a truth every Japanese citizen—and every person in the world—must know.
As I’ve stated before, I subscribe weekly to Shukan Shincho in order to read the serialized columns of Masayuki Takayama and Yoshiko Sakurai.
In this week’s issue too, Takayama once again proves without question that he is the one and only journalist of the postwar era.
Anyone who has read him surely thought, “This man is remarkable.”
Yoshiko Sakurai too is someone worthy of the People’s Honor Award.
Alongside the late Nobuaki Watanabe, she has been fighting a solitary battle from the days when the Asahi Shimbun held a stranglehold on Japan—tirelessly exposing the paper’s abnormality, its fabricated reporting rooted in anti-Japanese ideology, and its complicity in the anti-Japanese propaganda campaigns of China and the Korean Peninsula.
First, I present this brilliant essay by Masayuki Takayama to all the people of Japan—and to the world.
Passages marked with asterisks are my own.
That Distinct Asahi Stench
Masayuki Takayama
Even a terrible wife, when she dies first, seems to drain the life out of her husband, who often follows shortly after.
But when a husband dies first, most wives, rather than losing vitality, are instead filled with newfound energy—and never follow him into the afterlife.
The average life expectancy in Japan is 80 years for men and 87 for women.
This means that after their annoying husbands are gone, wives get to enjoy seven peaceful years on average.
Why do men die earlier?
Because they are men—because they carry the Y chromosome.
It’s sad, but that’s just how it is.
I learned the following from an interview with Kumiko Takeuchi and Mary Batten: in the beginning, every human embryo is “female.”
The proof is the nipples on a man’s chest.
They produce no milk and aren’t erogenous.
They serve no function, but they prove that men, before becoming men, were originally women.
So when does a male become male?
About six weeks after fertilization, a gene on the Y chromosome triggers the development of testes.
The body begins producing large amounts of testosterone.
It showers the entire body, from brain to limbs, telling it, “You are male.”
The male genitalia develop accordingly.
Interestingly, male homosexuals are born with slightly larger genitalia than typical males.
Why God created such a redundant feature remains unclear.
Those born physically and neurologically male are constantly instructed by their brains: “You are male. Be more masculine.”
They grow beards, body hair, and strong muscles.
General MacArthur’s first wife once sneered, “You may be a general by day, but at night you’re a private.”
Men are expected to perform—day and night.
The Y chromosome also supports that performance.
It suppresses cancerous mutations, prevents arteriosclerosis, and clears amyloid plaques from the brain.
Thanks to this, men remain healthy, win beautiful wives, and produce children.
But after their reproductive prime, the Y chromosome gradually weakens.
Arteriosclerosis begins.
Amyloid plaques build up in the brain, leading to dementia.
Cancer cells begin to thrive.
Fatigue from a lifetime of exertion accumulates.
The ideal death—what the Japanese call “pinnpin korori”—is to remain active and healthy until the end, then die swiftly before becoming a burden.
The decline of the Y chromosome seems to be nature’s way of realizing that ideal.
Japanese men likened this ephemeral male existence—striving, achieving, and disappearing once their role ends—to cherry blossoms.
Motoori Norinaga, having lived a full life and reached his sixtieth year, composed the poem: “If one were to ask what the Yamato spirit is—behold the mountain cherry blossom glowing in the morning sun.”
Saigyō too wrote, “Let me die beneath the blossoms in spring, around the full moon in the second month.”
Those poems express the sorrow of being male.
And that Y chromosome—its genetic sequence, it turns out, varies by ethnicity.
According to a recent announcement by graduate students at the University of Tokyo’s Faculty of Science, modern Japanese and Jōmon people share the same Y chromosome structure.
In other words, from the days of the Sannai-Maruyama site over 10,000 years ago, Japanese have remained Japanese.
When this Jōmon gene is compared with that of Chinese or Koreans, there is virtually no overlap.
A monumental discovery.
Ryōtarō Shiba once said that “the Japanese and Koreans share common ancestry.”
Haneo Egami also claimed, “Horse-riding peoples came over and founded the Yamato court,” but it turned out to be complete nonsense.
Japanese history textbooks claim the Yayoi culture came with immigrants—but there were no such immigrants.
As Hiroaki Nagahama writes in The Birth of Japan, studies of mitochondrial DNA (from women) used to be the standard, but that’s child’s play.
“The Y chromosome is the key.”
Even so, the Japanese people are incredible.
Long ago, we understood the sorrow of the Y chromosome.
That’s why we not only cherish cherry blossoms but have preserved our imperial line through patrilineal succession—as a means of safeguarding the purity of our bloodline.
I learned this from a special conversation between Kumiko Takeuchi—who became a truly remarkable scholar worthy of her Kyoto University background—and Moe Fukada, and I felt the exact same admiration that Masayuki Takayama expresses... The Japanese truly are incredible.
Now, the Communist Party and the Asahi Shimbun promote the idea of a matrilineal emperor.
They believe that would be the best way to defile the Japanese people.
Can’t you smell the stench of ignorance and malice emanating from the Asahi?
