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Reflections on Japanese
Reality
by Cory Searcy
It was cold and damp as I approached the tomb of Tokugawa Ieyasu,
the first shogun of Japan. Ancient Japanese cedars towered over a
narrow, steep walkway consisting of over 200 stone steps. In an
area crawling with tourists, it was surprisingly quiet.
“Every step changes the mountain.” As I climbed the steps, I
thought about this proverb I had learned from one of my
conversational English students earlier in the week. Just as each
step forward provided a new perspective of what lay ahead, so too
did it improve understanding of what came before.
After nearly five months in Japan, it occurred to me that Ieyasu,
a man of contradictions and contrasts, and his shrine were symbols
as good as any for the country: past, present, and future. The
social rigidity, attention to detail, and lack of personal
expression I found to be hallmarks of modern Japan could be traced
to Ieyasu’s court in Edo, present day Tokyo.
A calculating pragmatist, Ieyasu became Shogun in 1603, ending a
period of sustained anarchy. During the reign of the Tokugawa
Shogunate (1603-1868) that he founded, Japan experienced a period
of unprecedented peace, but it came at the high price of tight
economic and social control. There were particular restrictions on
personal freedom.
A two-hour drive north of Tokyo, Ieyasu’s 17th century tomb marks
the end of Japan’s most elaborately decorated path, a course that
winds its way through Nikko’s astonishing Tosho-gu Shrine. The
short walk led me under enormous gates of wood, stone, and gold.
It took me past sacred storehouses, stables, and temples adorned
with intricate carvings of cats, elephants, dragons, and what may
be the world’s most famous monkeys. Built to deify Ieyasu – Tosho
being his posthumous name – it was indeed an area befitting of a
god.
After passing through the graceful Omote-mon entrance gate, I soon
found myself before the Sacred Stable, Shinkyusha. The only
unlacquered building in the compound, it housed two sacred white
horses: one carved, the other a real, live carrot-eating machine.
Above the stable door, protecting those beasts from disease, were
carvings of the Three Wise Monkeys. The monkey on the left covered
his ears, the middle his mouth, and the third his eyes. A guide
explained that the carvings represented an 8th century Buddhist
maxim: hear no evil, speak no evil, and see no evil. That age-old
expression captured many of my impressions of the Japanese people
I had met and come to know.
To an outsider, the Japanese appear to be an impassive, cautious
group unconcerned with those beyond their immediate circle. I
remembered seeing a man fall down the stairs in a crowded train
station while thousands streamed by without offering a helping
hand. See no evil. Rare was the occasion I got a sense of being
told what someone was really thinking, particularly on a subject
that might be considered controversial. Speak no evil. When
discussing concerns with my employer, she often went to great
lengths to skirt the issue. Hear no evil. Ieyasu’s policies shed
some light on such behavior. In the time of the Tokugawa
dictatorship, a change in expression or disagreement of any kind
could have resulted in an instant execution. Maintaining harmony
was essential, even if it meant twisting the truth.
Moving away from the Sacred Stable, I passed elegant lanterns of
granite and bronze on my way to the most embellished structure in
Japan, the Yomei-mon Gate. The Japanese had nicknamed the gate
Higurashi-mon, or the Twilight Gate, implying it could be admired
from dawn to dusk. Stretched before me, several stories high, the
gate was adorned with over 400 ornate carvings of lions, dragons,
and other mythical figures. Gold leaf and richly colored coatings
of paint covered nearly every inch of available space. I was sure
the attention to detail would have made the micro-manager Ieyasu
proud, though it’s debatable whether he would have approved of
such grandiosity.
Attention to detail is another characteristic that has carried
over from the Tokugawa period. Trains arriving at precisely the
time they are scheduled lend an aura of organization and
efficiency to modern Japan. Fancy packaging for a fairly minor
item purchased at a department store underscores the emphasis that
remains on appearances. The patience required of children to
merely learn how to write their own language in a small way mimics
that of the craftsmen who spent years on the carvings of Yomei-mon
Gate.
Beyond the Yomei-mon Gate were the central buildings of the
shrine: the Haiden, the hall of worship, and the Honden, the main
hall. Both buildings housed numerous artistic treasures, including
wooden carvings of birds, dragons, and other creatures: each
worthy of their own, separate display. But the main attraction of
the halls was in the innermost chamber of the Honden. It was in
this room that the spirit of Ieyasu was enshrined. During the
Tokugawa regime, only samurai of the highest rank could enter
those halls. Lower-ranked warriors were stopped at the Yomei-mon
Gate, while commoners were not even permitted on the grounds of
the shrine. Despite significant progress, the legacy of the
Tokugawa caste system had survived the centuries.
Japan is still a very hierarchical society. Interactions in the
school system, the business world, and society in general are all
governed by rules that underscore a distinct pecking order. There
are completely different ways of speaking to people deemed to be
of a different status. One of the first questions I was asked by
nearly every Japanese person I met was how old I was. Only then
was it clear if we were on equal footing or not. Although a rigid
ranking system helps to preserve social order, a necessity in so
crowded a nation, it acts as a frustrating encumbrance on
individuality.
My legs began to ache as I finally scrambled up the last of the
200 steps. After pausing for a moment to breathe in the refreshing
mountain air, a few measured paces led me to a large, square
garden of stone. Standing before the tomb containing Ieyasu’s
ashes on that August morning, the wind in my ears, I was surprised
by its striking simplicity: a modest, bronze structure resembling
a miniature pagoda. While the rest of the Tosho-gu Shrine seemed
appropriate for a deity, here was the grave of a man.
I stood in front of the tomb, going over in my mind all that I had
contemplated on my ascent. Of course there were exceptions to the
generalizations I had made. Japanese are certainly capable of
emotion, social inhibitions are often relaxed amongst friends and
drinking mates, and the renowned attention to detail indisputably
does not extend to the nonsensical use of English in marketing
campaigns. Still, all things considered, I held that the
portrayals I made were fair.
If there is one thing my walk through the Tosho-gu Shrine had
given me, it was a steadfast sense of continuity. Although
imperfect as a roadmap, the past is still the best available guide
to the future. Yes, Tokugawa Ieyasu’s grip on Japan has loosened
considerably over the years, decades, and centuries, but he is
still hanging on in places. I doubt he’ll ever completely let go.
© Cory Searcy, 2004
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