War is not merely a matter of the past but exists all around us today.
This essay reflects on the defects of the media, the author’s lifelong mission to illuminate hidden truths, and his conviction that his words—his “children”—will endure for two thousand years. It explores the contradictions of capitalism, the limits of public discourse, and the foolishness that gives birth to war.
In this March 2, 2011 blog post, the author Kisara discusses their mission to shed light on truth and criticize the Japanese media and elite.
They argue that "war is still everywhere," beginning with individual acts of "vulgarity" and hurting others.
The author asserts their writing's purpose is to guide people toward truth and prevent future wars.
War is still present everywhere, even at your side.
March 2, 2011
Yesterday, just as I had hoped, the number of visitors on Ameba exceeded 500 for the first time in a while—516 people read and viewed my post. Yet, considering the effort and thoughts I poured into it, I honestly wished that more than 1,000 people would have come.
The number of “Peta” clicks also surpassed 100 for the first time in a long time. I try to read as many of your blogs as I can in return.
I began publishing the second chapter of “The Turntable of Civilization” as a paid newsletter, for the reason I’ve already mentioned—to write without euphemism, without hesitation.
For example, just this morning I thought of a piece that will be written after April 5. Through the lens of a certain sports figure (whose real name I will use in the newsletter), I see how strangely they have been treated, and through that, how our nation’s media reveals its hopeless flaws.
What is it that my writing offers? In a good sense, it embodies what Jared Diamond expressed so well: that human beings are the first living creatures capable of learning from history. And yet, in our capitalist society, that very capacity is often cast aside.
To live and struggle in capitalism is, one might say, akin to living as a dinosaur or a grizzly bear.
The moment I became conscious, when my own reflections began, I instantly knew my mission—this was the same as glimpsing Japan’s history in a single flash.
I have always, at all times, lived by gazing at and contemplating history.
Thus, I write from perspectives unseen and unimagined by most, not only about Japan but about the truths of the world.
Some may say, “Kisara, that’s not true, everyone thinks about such things.” Those who say this are often my classmates or those among the establishment.
But no, that is not the case. My classmates are gentle, cultured intellectuals, but they are absorbed in their work at major corporations, striving day and night for the sake of Japan. They cannot afford to direct their energies elsewhere.
What I must correct are the errors of those 30,000 or more concentrated in Tokyo—our nation’s opinion makers—and those who rely on them, who read their commentaries, or who, even without reading, simply watch television day and night without a shred of doubt, thereby forming what we call public opinion.
These very people may say, “Kisara, we know that already. After all, we graduated from Waseda Political Science, from Tokyo University.”
But where were they when Japan embarked on its worst war in history?
They were there—countless in number—just as today.
To shed light on hidden truths, on truths concealed from view, is a task entrusted only to certain people—the role of true artists.
To shine light on Japan’s truths, to express them, and to help establish a true 21st-century humanity—that is a role that only I can fulfill.
Why? Because it is my role, my mission. It is for that alone that I was given life, and for that alone that I have lived.
It seems increasingly likely that I may end my life without having children of my own (though this is not the place to write about it; I will in the newsletter). Yet the words I write, the words I continue to write—these are my children.
Unlike the tangible happiness others may have—“White gold, yellow gold, or jewels, none surpass the treasure of a child”—I may end my life without this, which is almost unbearable. But because I lack that happiness, I believe my children—my words—will be preserved by God for two thousand years.
What is the benefit of reading my writing?
Yes, I can speak of the essence of making money as well as anyone, but many others can do so. That is not what I offer.
So what is the meaning of reading my words?
I wish foremost that those who pride themselves in the world of discourse would read them. But in truth, it is the laboring majority—more than 90%—who most need them. It is natural and right that they strive, even for a single yen, to secure peace in their old age.
But when the 10% make mistakes, and the rest fail to notice, when they only watch television or confine themselves to narrow areas of interest—what happens then? My writing is meant to prevent that.
Why? So that we may never again go to war.
You may say, “Kisara, what nonsense. There will never be war again.”
But that is not true.
War is still present everywhere, even now.
When a man wounds a woman, that is the beginning of war.
When one deceives and harms another, that too is the beginning of war.
War begins in foolishness—in what I have always called “vulgarity.”
