Recommendation from Professor Takashi Machida of Changwon National University, Advocate for the Japanese Military “Comfort Women” Issue

[Photo 1] Professor Takashi Machida (far left) during a visit to the House of Sharing in 2000

I am a folklore researcher and a native Japanese professor teaching at a university. I was born in 1972 in the Kyushu region of Japan. My first encounter with the Japanese Military “Comfort Women” issue dates back to 1991 when Japanese society was galvanized by the public testimony of Kim Hak-sun. At that time, I was a sophomore at a university in Tokyo. The following year, during my junior year, the Kanbu Trials began. In 1993, while I was a senior, I watched Chief Cabinet Secretary Yohei Kono announce on the news that he would “remember this (Japanese Military ‘Comfort Women’) issue for a long time and make a firm resolve to never repeat the same mistake.” This announcement is famously known as the “Kono Statement.” 

A few days later, on August 15, 1993, Prime Minister Morihiro Hosokawa, who came to power after the collapse of the Liberal Democratic Party government, acknowledged Japan’s responsibility for the sacrifices of Asian nations for the first time at the National Memorial Service for War Dead. At that time, my friends and I were excited that Japan was finally going to fulfill its post-war responsibilities. However, our optimism was shaken just three years later, in 1996, when the Japanese Society for History Textbook Reform was founded. This group, regarded as “an organization that seeks to glorify the country’s history” or “an organization that promotes conservative arguments,” included famous writers, scholars, and politicians among its members.

[Photo 2] Professor Takashi Machida

The War My Father Experienced and the Anti-War Peace Classes I Received

“I guess my father’s thoughts were,
‘What does a kid like you know about war or hunger?’”

My memories of Japan’s past wars actually date back to before elementary school. The first person to share these memories with me was my father, who passed away in 2005. Born in 1920, he was urgently called up as an army infantryman in 1941 and was stationed in several places, including Taiwan, the Philippines, and Java. He faced defeat in Rabaul, now a township in the East New Britain province of Papua New Guinea, on the island of New Britain. My father’s stories primarily consisted of desperate and adventurous tales of survival and struggle, such as waiting for rescue in the pitch-black ocean after the transport ship heading to Rabaul was sunk, or eating a variety of plants and animals when food ran out. His stories usually ended with a mixture of nostalgia and a sense of victimhood: “In the old days, Japan was a powerful country that fought against the world, but today’s Japan is pathetic,” or “We fought believing that the emperor’s country would never lose, but it was all a lie. We were deceived by our nation.”   

It was during my elementary school years that I first began to feel caught between the memories of two wars: the one experienced by my father and the one I learned about in school. My first vivid memory of this conflict is from the peace education I received during summer vacation on August 9th, the anniversary of the Nagasaki atomic bombing. Photos showing the damage caused by the atomic bomb were displayed in the hallway, and we had “anti-war classes” where we watched movies depicting war damage such as air raids. The classes didn’t delve into the issues of victimization and perpetration but emphasized the misery of war and the importance of preventing its recurrence. Because my father’s tales of adventure seemed distant from this reality, one day I asked him about the anti-war lessons I had received in school. Faced with criticism about his memories from his son, my father seemed annoyed. I guess my father’s thoughts were, “What does a kid like you know about war or hunger?” 

Attitudes of Young Teachers of the Dankai Generation Confronting the Facts of Aggression

“I made an effort to listen to the elderly woman with a serious look because my Korean skills were lacking. I also considered it a gesture of courtesy, given that I was born in an assault nation.”

During my middle school years, I was instructed by teachers of the “Dankai generation” who were affiliated with the teachers’ union, particularly in social studies classes where ideological inclinations were reflected. They went beyond the confines of the curriculum to underscore the atrocities of imperial Japan’s invasion and colonial rule. While this approach would later face criticism in Japan during the 1990s as a “masochistic historical viewpoint,” it was not questioned at the time. However, these young teachers frequently clashed with school administrators, including principals and vice-principals, and were often reassigned or disappeared from the school. Their influence on me as an adolescent was profound. On one occasion, I delivered a speech at a school assembly opposing the hairstyle regulations requiring boys to have buzz cuts, “denouncing it as a remnant of militarism and calling for its abolition.” My speech received resounding applause from all the students. Although the principal scolded me harshly, accusing me of abusing freedom of speech, I still believe I wasn’t wrong. 

In the vaguely progressive atmosphere, both the Dankai generation teachers and I, a middle school student faithful to them, knew about Japan’s past invasion wars and colonial rule only through written accounts. The facts of inter-country victimization and perpetration between Japan and neighboring countries, such as China and Korea, were issues confined to the media, separate from daily life.

As I advanced to high school and university, my understanding of modern and contemporary history deepened, and I also befriended Korean students studying in Japan. Naturally, my concerns grew more complex. In the 1980s, under the influence of the New Academism boom, it was common to read books by intellectuals like Kojin Karatani and Akira Asada. Since these intellectuals tended to be liberal, a “sincere attitude toward the facts of past offenses” was a political stance commonly embraced by students who were into reading books in 1990s Japan.    

Later, during graduate school, I accompanied my academic advisor on annual research trips to rural Korea. During these visits, I often heard rebuking remarks about the colonial period and the war from the village elders. Due to my limited proficiency in Korean at the time, I endeavored to listen attentively to the elders, partly out of dedication to continuing my research and partly as the respectful thing to do as someone from the offending country.

Standing as an Honest Person Before the Victim

“I couldn’t reconcile myself with the role of ‘Japanese as perpetrators’, nor could I adopt the stance of the ‘conscientious Japanese’ who sides with the victims.”

In September 2000, I visited the House of Sharing in Gwangju, Gyeonggi-do Province. When I introduced myself as being from Japan, Park Du-ri (1924-2006), a victim of the Japanese Military “Comfort Women,” turned her head away and said, “Japanese people are not welcome. Many Japanese come here, but nothing has changed for the better.” Though my Korean was still at a rudimentary level, I could understand what she meant. The staff at the House of Sharing reassured me not to take offense, but I didn’t feel hurt at all. I just pondered over what stance I should adopt with the confectionery gift holding in my hands and how to appear apologetic as a Japanese person. I couldn’t reconcile myself with the role of “Japanese as perpetrators,” nor could I adopt the stance of the “conscientious Japanese” who sides with the victims. Neither of these roles felt true to my honest self. 

A few hours later, I had lunch at the House of Sharing. As I sat down at the table, Park Du-ri came from the kitchen with a bowl of rice and placed it down abruptly, saying, “Have it.” I responded, “Grandma, I’ve already been served rice,” but she insisted, “Eat more.” To her, I was an unwelcome Japanese person, yet simultaneously, a young man with a seemingly hearty appetite. I intuitively realized that superficial gestures of atonement would hold no weight with her. Her demeanor seemed to convey a firm message: “I have no expectation that your visit will benefit me, nor do I have any intention of forgiving the Japanese. But since you have this far, have a meal and go.” This brief moment remains etched in my memory. For me, the Japanese Military “Comfort Women” issue posed a fundamental question: How could I, a Japanese male who hadn’t experienced war, stand as an honest human being before her? At that moment, I could only remain still, holding a bowl of rice, uncertain of what expression, words, or actions were appropriate. To be honest, that uncertainty persists even now.  

[Photo 3] Professor Takashi Machida (far left) during a visit to the House of Sharing in 2000

The Comfort Station Story I Asked My Dad about Only Once

“‘There were many women from Joseon. (...)’ To what extent was what my father said true? There is no way to verify it now. I couldn’t ask the frail old man any more questions.”

Afterward, I took on the role of emcee at a university festival event titled “Listening to testimonies,” where Lee Yong-soo, a survivor of the Japanese Military “Comfort Women,” was invited to speak. Despite being a ticketed event, it was a tremendous success, with the venue packed to capacity. This event led me to connect with the Violence Against Women in War Network JAPAN (VAWW-NET JAPAN), and through that connection, I volunteered at the Women’s International War Crimes Tribunal on Japan’s Military Sexual Slavery  held at the Kudan Kaikan in Tokyo. 

Upon returning home after engaging in such activities, I asked my father about the comfort station only once. This took quite a bit of bravery.
“There were many women from Joseon, pitifully. It was a filthy place. Soldiers lined up in droves. The next one would take off his underwear before the one inside even came out. It was that kind of place. I never went to such places. Many men from Joseon did manual labor in the army, and when the war was lost, they were taken prisoner and became puppets for the U.S. military. I endured a lot of beatings. It couldn’t be helped because, during the war, I also beat them up.” 
To what extent was what my father said true? There is no way to verify it now. However, this was how he remembered it, and I couldn’t ask the frail old man any more questions.

Reasons Why I Am Gradually Losing Confidence in Being a “Conscientious Japanese”

“I wanted to meet the victims, but I found it difficult to accept all the political assertions, including the ‘anti-Japanese’ performances, and I felt more pressure than I did in Japan.”

In the summer of 2001, I came to Korea to study and have now lived here for more than 20 years. Even in Korea, I frequently encountered reports about the Japanese Military “Comfort Women.” The difference is that I feel more pressure to approach this issue than I did in Japan. When I was active in Japan, the movement was not “anti-Japanese,” but rather a matter of reflecting on my country’s history, driven solely by a desire to help due to the relationships with victims/survivors. However, during my years in Korea in the 2000s, I perceived the issue as becoming politicized. Although I yearned to meet the “victims,” I struggled to accept all the political arguments, including the “anti-Japanese” performances surrounding them. 

I had never felt confident in becoming the “conscientious Japanese” Korean society expected of me. In 2022, a colleague from Changwon National University suggested I participate in an exhibition curation project on the Kanbu Trials. He explained he needed assistance organizing numerous Japanese-language materials. I told him I would consider it. My hesitation stemmed from the difficulty of maintaining political neutrality in this matter and my anxiety about how truthful I could be within that framework. Ultimately, I chose to join the project as it seemed that if I didn’t even do that, I would have to live on as someone who turned a blind eye to the issue in the future. This decision was similar to why I accepted the task of accurately documenting and conveying the support activities carried out in Japan in the 1990s. Even now, as I write this article, I still feel anxious and challenged about how honest I am, how my words will be perceived, and whether there are hidden obstacles ahead, akin to a wheelchair unseen in front of a truck.   

Feeling Fear amidst “Anti-Korea Right-Wingers” and “Conscientious Japanese”

“The labeling of a ‘conscientious Japanese’ means contextualizing and placing an individual’s multifaceted and distinct personality within the narrative of formulated memory in Korean society.”

Japanese teachers in Korea often adhere to an unwritten rule: “Don’t talk about history.” This is due to concerns about unnecessary conflicts arising between teachers and students. Indeed, during my stay in Korea, scenes where people would say, “Let’s stop talking about history because there is a Japanese person here,” were replayed countless times. This likely stemmed from a concern that I might feel offended. Regardless of my generation or personal history, as a Japanese person, I find myself in the position of the “perpetrator” when confronted with this issue. The label “conscientious Japanese” acts as a mirror to this structure.

During a press interview in 2022 for the exhibition project “The Kanbu Trials and the Unfinished Herstory,” a reporter told me, “Thank you for having the courage to speak out,” to which I waved my hands dismissively. The reporter interpreted my gesture as humility. However, upon hearing this seemingly “favorable” comment, I realized that I was not perceived as an individual with a distinct personality, but rather as a figure positioned within the narrative of “good/evil” and “ethnicity” set by the reporter. I don’t doubt the goodwill of Koreans who describe me as “conscientious.” Nor do I deny the “conscience” of individual Japanese people.

However, what I sometimes feel, even to the point of fear, is that there seems to be a misunderstanding as if there are only two types of people in Japan: “Anti-Korea right-wingers” who deny history and “conscientious Japanese” who confront and reflect on history. I feel threatened by the prospect that if I critique the formulated memory of Korean society, I will be immediately labeled as a “right-winger.” However, neither of these categories accurately represents me.  

It’s a given, but just like Koreans living in reality, Japanese individuals also lead lives with varying shades of gray, not simply black and white. They may be perpetrators in some contexts and victims in others. Neither political conservatism/progressiveness nor historical victimhood/perpetration can fully define an individual’s entire life. I am the son of a former Japanese soldier, a minority residing in Korean society, a student who cares about my academic advisor, and a teacher who is cared about by my students. The labeling of a “conscientious Japanese” means contextualizing and placing the multifaceted and individual personality of such a person within the narrative of formulated memory in Korean society.

[Photo 4] Professor Takashi Machida (center) speaking at the meeting

Reflection on Post-War Responsibility and Expectations of Japanese Individuals Facing Their Family History

“For most Japanese individuals, reflecting on ‘post-war responsibility’ entails a reflection on my flesh and blood, and ‘my’ physical historicity is inseparable from it. That’s why I hope that Japanese people’s interests will be understood on multiple levels.”

When someone, whether Korean or Japanese, takes an interest in the Japanese Military “Comfort Women” issue, they each have their own unique critical mind and background. Whether consciously or unconsciously, for most Japanese individuals, reflecting on “post-war responsibility” entails a reflection on my flesh and blood, and “my” physical historicity is inseparable from it. In the 1990s, as the issue of post-war compensation gained public attention, they were confronted first and foremost with the memories of “my father (grandfather).” In this way, Japanese people became involved in the issue of post-war responsibility in the 1990s with the desire to approach the reality of their fathers’ or grandfathers’ war through the memories of family history, seeking to find what they could do as family members to atone for those sins.

To ensure that the Japanese Military “Comfort Women” issue exists as a new forum and opportunity for communication, especially for the next generation, it may be time to view each other’s history from a more mature perspective, moving away from the dichotomous perception of being conscientious/right-wing, and from the attitude of simplifying it into good/evil.