Welcome to Unwelcome

by Matt Moore (United States of America)

A leap into the unknown Japan

The hat was like none I’d ever seen before; the top a large half of a coconut shell and the brim a large wavy cap weaved with intricate straw patterns. The young Japanese man with a mop of long dreadlocks who occupied the space underneath was taken aback when, half-screaming in the dark Tokyo basement club, I leaned in to compliment his getup and in the process sent his statement piece flying across the floor. I felt terrible. The hat was immediately swept up in the sea of sweaty, swaying bodies. Impossibly lost, I apologized profusely. The man who would become my best friend, Kouhei, smiled and in his broken English said “It’s ok!” I waited for hours until the mob cleared, searching relentlessly until I spotted the hat atop a manakin (one of the few still standing in the early hours of the morning). I found Kouhei dancing tirelessly on another floor and returned to him his rare cap. We became fast friends. Though we couldn’t communicate effortlessly we found we had a lot in common. Kouhei, a hairdresser by trade, would come to my apartment and cut my hair. I’d cook him American food and we’d take turns sharing music. He would correct my horrible Japanese grammar and I would teach him English slang. We were roughly the same size, and I’d lend him vintage t-shirts. He would lend me pre-war kimono pants, old fire-fighting jackets and surprisingly, hats. When Kouhei invited me to his hometown in Okinawa I jumped at the chance. He explained life back home to me in small, intriguing bits “swimming, no-people beach, eating sea grapes.” And so I assumed we were going on a laid-back beach vacation. But that notion disappeared quickly when we knocked on his front door. His mom answered, looked down at both of us and then quickly pulled Kouhei inside for a lengthy and not subdued argument. When the door reopened it was just Kouhei smiling, “It’s okay!” I walked into a family with eyes that didn’t trust me. Even as I held out the cookies from Tokyo I’d brought as a gift, the four small children were unmoved. I sat at the dining table awkwardly by myself and Kouhei brewed me some tea while he nonchalantly explained that I was the first American to enter his family home. His mom eventually greeted me as did the small cookie-seeking kids, and I learned about the troublesome history his family had with Americans. Some of his relatives had been part of the Okinawan army during the war - they’d been used as human shields by the mainland Japanese - some were forced to commit suicide upon retreating. I learned how his great aunt was taken as a POW by American soldiers, how others had been forced into caves where the bodies are still thought to remain. For Kouhei’s family, Okinawa - a country that’s been under more flags than any other - has always been under threat from people who look like me. After all, the island still houses a large US military base with almost monthly reports of soldiers who rape Okinawan women, often with little or no repercussions. I didn’t know how to begin apologizing for what my country had done to theirs, for the horrible acts committed in and since the war, and for the general disregard Okinawans had faced for centuries. I wasn’t long into my broken Japanese apology before his mother stopped me and poured me a glass of their local sake, Awamori. She asked if I would be their special dinner guest that night, a few families were gathering for a roast pig feast. I was surprised but relieved and agreed. When I arrived to dinner later that evening, there was a space reserved next to Kouhei’s mom. She motioned me over, poured me another glass and introduced me to her entire extended family “This is Kouhei’s best friend.” And I guess that was good enough for them. Several Awamoris later, I tried once more to say sorry. She quickly stopped me and put her arm around me. She smiled just like Kouhei the day I had met him “It’s okay!”