Occupied City

The Twelfth and Final Candle — The Lamentations

‘This city is a river,’ I hear you say. ‘Made of blood and made of sweat, made of shit and made of piss, it is the Sumida River.

‘And with its blood and with its sweat, with its shit and with its piss, the river is this city, the Occupied City.

‘And here in the Occupied City, here on the banks of the Sumida River, here at this crossing, I am its Ferryman. I ferry the people across the river, eastward, and then back again, westward, in and out of this city. And as we cross this river, I tell the people stories to pass the time, I tell them tales, as we go back and forth, in and out of this city. So now in the twilight, here on the riverbank, I stand in the sleet and the wind, among the ruins and the ashes, and I shout, It is sundown! All aboard!’

And now the people whisper, ‘We stand in line, bundles on our backs, bundles in our arms, lice in our clothes, lice in our hair, edging forward, step by step, step by step, but turning back, glance by glance, glance by glance, to whisper, lip to ear, lip to ear, about the woman at the rear of our line, the woman with no bundle on her back, no bundle in her arms, the woman who parts the crowd, who stands before us now, a single sasa branch in her hand, a mad woman — ’

And that woman is me. For it is too true; a poor mother’s heart, though not in darkness, may yet wander lost, lost for the love of her child. This I know well as I have roamed astray through this city, along its streets, its riverbanks, among its people, as I seek the place, the place where my son has gone. But how can they know? How can they know …?

And the people whisper, ‘See now as the mad woman standing before us, the single sasa branch in her hand, begins to dance, an anguished dance, to the sound of a drum, a rotten drum, her feet in the mud and her chant on the wind — ’

‘Frail is the dew upon the moor,’ I sing, ‘and I as frail, am I to live on, ever bitter at my lot? I who lived for many years in Saitama, to the North of here, with my only son. Until one day, alas, one January day, disaster fell upon me. For my only son, he left our home for work, work in this city. But he never returned. He vanished from me. And I yearned for him and at last I learned he had been taken from me in the Occupied City. My only son, alas, lost in this city. And this news so distressing, it confused my wits. The one thought left me was go, go find my boy. But now in my quest, I too am lost, so wholly lost…’

And now the people whisper, ‘A thousand leagues are never far to a fond mother’s heart, so they say, when she cannot forget her child. And they say, that bond in life is always so fragile, yet now he is gone, is always so fragile, yet now he is gone — ’

‘Oh, if only he had stayed for a little while longer, stayed at home with me, a son with his mother. But now we are sundered, a mother from her son …’

And the people whisper, ‘Just so, long ago, all mothers grieved to see their nestlings fly away — ’

‘And now this anxious heart can go no further. To the Occupied City, I have come at last. Here where the road ends and the river begins. So to the Sumida River, I have come at last…’

And now the people whisper, ‘See the woman has ended her dance. Hear the woman has stopped her chant. See the woman now drops to her knees, her face in the cold earth, her hands with the sasa branch, outstretched and raised, before the Ferryman — ’

‘Please, Ferryman,’ I ask you, ‘let me board your boat. Please Ferryman, I beg of you …’

‘Where have you come from?’ you ask. ‘And to where are you going?’

‘I have come here from Saitama,’ I say, ‘and I am searching for someone, wherever that search may lead me …’

‘You are a woman,’ you say. ‘But you are mad. And so I cannot let you come aboard.’

‘You are a man,’ I reply, ‘and so too a liar. For if you were truly the Ferryman, the Ferryman on the Sumida River, then you would say, Please board my boat. Instead you mock me and say, You are mad and cannot board. And so I know you are no Ferryman …

‘You are but a liar. Not a Ferryman.’

‘You are mistaken, woman!’ you shout. ‘I am the Ferryman!’

‘Then, Ferryman,’ I say, ‘you should know that here at this very crossing, Narihira once sang, If you are true, then Miyako birds I ask you this; does she live, the one I love, or does she die?

‘Come Ferryman, those birds over there, in the sky up above, those birds are none like I have seen before. So what do you call them, those birds up above? Speak, wise Ferryman, what do you say?’

‘They are scavengers,’ you say. ‘They are crows.’

‘Perhaps among the corpses,’ I laugh, ‘they are carrion. But why don’t you answer that here, here on the banks of the Sumida, here those crows are Narihira’s own birds …?’

‘You are grieving and you are stricken,’ I hear you say now. ‘I am sorry, I was mistaken.’

‘Ferryman,’ I ask, ‘have you never felt stretched or torn apart? So do not these evening waves now wash us back, wash us both back to times long past, when Narihira asked of those birds up above, My love, does she live or does she die?

‘So eastward my love goes to the child I seek and, just as Narihira sought his own dear lady, so now I seek my own dear son, asking the same question of those birds up above …’

‘I know this story well,’ you say. ‘The story of Prince Narihira. And so I can see, the two stories are one; your own story and his, these two loves now one.’

‘So does my child live, or does he die?’ I ask. ‘For again and again, I question the birds, but no answer comes. No answer ever comes. Oh, Miyako birds, your silence is rude!

‘Miyako birds, your silence is cruel!

‘So now I stand on this bank and I wait, lost in the depths of the East, I wait for an answer …

‘So please, Ferryman, your boat may be small, your boat may be full. But, kind Ferryman, make room for a mother and take me aboard, please, Ferryman, please …’

‘Come aboard, but hurry,’ you say. ‘This crossing is difficult.’

And now the people whisper, ‘See how the woman steps into the boat. See how she stands at the bow of the boat. How she stares out across the waters of the Sumida. How she suddenly points — ’

‘On the far bank,’ I say, ‘I see a crowd gathered around a willow. What are they doing?’

‘They are holding a Great Invocation,’ you say.

‘But why?’ I ask. ‘Why there? Why now?’

‘The reason is a sad story,’ you say.

‘Then please tell me,’ I say, ‘for you are the Ferryman. To pass the time, please tell me the tale …’

‘It happened exactly one year ago,’ you begin. ‘On the twenty-sixth day of the very first month, when the Ashura passed by that place, leading a night parade of the recently murdered.

‘One among this procession was a youth, more exhausted and feeble than all the rest. Unable to walk a single step more, the youth collapsed on the far bank. But the Ashura did not hear him. The Ashura walked on and abandoned him there. They left him struggling, they left him weeping.

‘But the local people took pity on him. They cared for him as best they could. But no doubt his karma opposed their help, because the youth grew only weaker and weaker, until he was clearly dying a second time. And so the people asked him who he was.

‘I am Sawada Yoshio, he said, and I am twenty-two years old. But here I am no longer Sawada Yoshio. Now I am no longer twenty-two years old. Now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. But it was not always so, not always so. After my father died in the war, he wept, I lived alone with my widowed mother. Then today at my place of work, I was murdered and so taken away. Now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. That is how I have come to this place. But I worry so much for my mother. And that is the reason I can go no further, that is the reason I cannot follow the others. Now I am always struggling, here I am only weeping. So please build a mound over me, he begged, here on the bank by this river, in the hope that one day my mother might pass, that one day my mother might be near me again.

‘These words said, he called out the Holy Name six times, and then it was over. And now we have arrived on the other shore. Now it is time to disembark.’

But the people whisper, ‘See how the woman stays standing at the bow of the boat. See the single sasa branch in her hand. The single tear upon her cheek — ’

‘We are here,’ you say. ‘Please go ashore.’

‘Tell me, please, Ferryman,’ I ask. ‘Please, Ferryman, when did this happen?’

‘It happened exactly one year ago,’ you say. ‘One year ago today, on the twenty-sixth day of the first month.’

‘And the youth? How old was he then?’

‘Twenty-two years old, I believe.’

‘His family name was …?’

‘As I told you, his family name was Sawada.’

‘And his given name …?’

‘His given name was Yoshio, as I told you.’

‘And after he died,’ I say, ‘by this river, a second time, on this bank, no parent ever came looking for him …?’

‘No one ever came, I believe.’

‘No one ever came?’ I ask. ‘Not even his mother?’

‘Not even his mother.’

‘No, of course not!’ I shout. ‘For he was my boy! The boy this mad woman has been seeking! Oh, can I be dreaming? What plague, what plague is this?’

‘I am sorry, so very sorry,’ I hear you say. ‘I had thought the story I just told, this tale told merely to pass the time, was about someone I myself would never know. But all the time he was your son! What a thing, a terrible thing! But your tears and my regrets are useless now. So in their place, let me take you to his tomb.’

‘My eyes shall behold him, or so I believed until this very moment. I travelled far through this Occupied City, down its streets, along its riverbanks, among its people, only to find him gone from this world. The cruelty of it! The horror of it!

‘For his own death, he left his home and in this city became but earth, earth by the side of this river. Here he lies buried, lies buried with only the grass to cover him …’

But the people whisper, ‘Come let us turn this cold earth over one last time, to show a mother her son as he looked in life. Had he lived on, he would have known gladness, but hope was vain. He would have known gladness, but hope was vain — ’

‘Yes vain; vain as living is to me now, his mother; his mother, whom for a while a lovely figure, he glimmered like all the things in this world and then, like all the things in this world, was gone, like all the things in this world, he glimmered …

‘And then was gone …’

And now the people whisper, ‘Such sorrows lurk in the blossoms’ glory, just as the moon, through its nights of birth and death, is lost from view, behind clouds of impermanence, just so this sad world’s truth is here, so plain to see. This sad world’s truth, so plain to see — ’

‘No lament of yours can help him now,’ you say. ‘Just call the Name and pray for his happy rebirth in Paradise.’

And the people whisper, ‘See how the moon is rising now, and the river breeze sighs as the night wears on, now invocations will surely be heard. So in this spirit all present, urged on by faith, now strike their bells in rhythm — ’

‘But I his mother, overcome by sorrow, unable even to call the Name, lie here prostrate, dissolved in weeping …’

‘You must chant the Invocation, too,’ I hear you urge. ‘For it is his mother’s prayers that will bring the deceased the greatest joy. You must take the chanting-bell, too.’

‘For my own dear son’s sake,’ I say, ‘I will take up the bell!’

‘Cease lamenting,’ you say. ‘And call with ringing voice.’

‘In this bright moonlit night,’ I say, ‘I will invoke the Name.’

‘Then let us both chant together,’ you say.

And so together we say, ‘Hail, in Thy Western Realm of Bliss! Thirty-six million, million worlds ring with one cry, one Name: Amida!’

And now the people also chant, ‘Hail Amida Buddha! Hail Amida Buddha! Hail Amida Buddha! Hail Amida Buddha! Hail Amida Buddha! Hail Amida Buddha!’

In the Occupied City, on the banks of the Sumida, the wind and the waves swell our chorus …

‘Hail Amida Buddha! Hail Amida Buddha! Hail Amida Buddha! Hail Amida Buddha! Hail Amida Buddha! Hail Amida Buddha!’

‘Oh, if you are true to your name,’ I call out, ‘then Miyako birds, if you are true to your name, add your voices …’

‘Hail Amida Buddha!’ they cry. ‘Hail Amida Buddha! Hail Amida Buddha! Hail Amida Buddha! Hail Amida Buddha! Hail Amida Buddha!’

‘Stop!’ I shout. ‘Stop now! Listen! Listen now! That voice, just now calling out the Name; it was my own child’s voice! It seemed to come from within the mound, from within his tomb …’

‘I heard it too,’ you say. ‘Let everyone stop calling. Let everyone be silent. Let the mother alone now chant the Name!’

‘Oh, please,’ I beg, ‘let me hear that voice again, just one other time! Hail Amida Buddha …’

And now the people whisper, ‘See here now, atop the mound, a figure stands, stands before her — ’

‘My dear child, is it you?’

‘Dear Mother, is it you?’

And the people whisper, ‘See now how the woman goes towards the figure, how the woman reaches out towards the figure, how the woman touches its shoulder, and how the figure slips away, slips back into the mound — ’

‘My child!’

And the people whisper, ‘See again how the figure appears upon the mound, and see again how she reaches towards the figure, taking hold of its hand — ’

‘Mother!’

And the people whisper, ‘But again the figure’s shape fades and is gone, her fond longing waxing as in a mirror, as again the figure slips, slips back into the mound — ’

‘My child!’

And the people whisper, ‘Remembered form and present illusion fuse, now seen, now hidden once more, as light streaks the sky and dawn breaks the day, his shape, his shape vanished for evermore, as waking breaks into dream — ’

‘My child!’

And the people whisper, ‘What once seemed a lost child now found is but wild grasses on a lonely tomb, their dull blades nodding in sign over the wastes of this river, the wastes of this city, in sorrow, nothing else remains. Only sorrow, nothing else remains — ’

‘In this city, the Occupied City,’ I hear you say. ‘Beside this river, the Sumida River, in this dawn, before this mound, I hear feet-step and tears-drop, so many feet, so many tears –

‘Shuffling, still shuffling.’

And now the people whisper, ‘This burial mound, though covered in wild grasses, is not made of earth. This burial mound is made of masks, a pile of clay masks. See now how the woman picks up the masks. See now how she tries on mask after mask — ’

‘I am a mother,’ I say, ‘and I am a sister. And I am a lover. And I am a wife. And I am a daughter …

‘I am a sister and I am searching for my brother. My brother who was taken from me in this city …

‘I am a lover and I am searching for my man. My man who was taken from me in this city …

‘I am a wife and I am searching for my husband. My husband who was taken from me in this city …

‘I am a daughter and I am searching for my father. My father who was taken from me in this city …

‘Through earthquake and through war, we have walked these streets, the banks of this river, and we have survived. Survived …

‘Now you say — he says, they say, all men say — the city has changed, the world has changed. But my city, my world has not changed. The shade of your skin, maybe, the style of your uniform, perhaps. But your collars are still dirty, your fingers still stained.

‘Post-war, après-guerre you say — he says, they say, all men say — but it’s always been post-war, already après-guerre.

‘Conquered from birth, colonized for life, I have always, already been defeated. Always, already been occupied –

‘Occupied by you –

‘Born of me, the death of me. Blood of you, the death of me. Come in me, the death of me. Rob my name, the death of me. Born of you, the death of me –

‘In the snow. In the mud. Beneath the branches. Before the shrine. In the genkan. In the bank. On a street in China. In a wardrobe in Tokyo. With your poison. With your pen.

‘It is you. And only you.’

The Black Gate is gone, its upper chamber is gone, the occult circle and all of its candles now, now you are in darkness –

The candles out and the medium gone,

the story-telling game is over.

Come and they came, stand and they stood, sit and they sat, strip and they stripped, take this medicine and they did,

though it’s poison, still they did,

die and they died, for you,

and only you, in agony,

in fear, in silence –

In white paper, their bodies prone, their faces contorted. In black ink, their heads shaved, their mouths stitched, they are yours,

and only yours, in their costumes and in their masks, all your actors and all your characters, for you are the writer,

you are their wound, you are their plague,

wrapped in paper, wrapped in ink, they are raised, frozen and petrified by the sorrow you brought them,

the suffering you left them –

IN THE OCCUPIED CITY, this city is a coffin. This city is a notebook. This city is a purgatory. This city is a plague. This city is a curse. This city is a story. This city is a market. This city is a wilderness. This city is a wound. This city is a prison. This city is a mirror. This city is a river. And this city is a woman –

‘In sorrow,’ she whispers. ‘Nothing else remains. Only sorrow. Nothing else remains. Only sorrow …’

In tears and in truth, pouring down upon you now, this heavy rain, this water-fall, flooding down upon you now,

drowning you in water and in salt,

in her tears and in her truth,

her tears, her truth –

‘Remains …’

And she has tied you to a chair, tied you to a desk, a pen nailed to your palms, bound to your fingers,

life leaking, death dripping,

but not in ink, in tears,

in tears and in truth,

at last, at last,

no more costumes and no more masks, no more actors and no more characters, no more stories and no more lies,

the book always, already written,

written and abandoned,

in-caesura.