Comparing the Songhu Memorials of 1934 and 1989.

The first of a series of articles by Lewis Tatt.
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Before the opening and reform that followed the death of Chairman Mao, the past century of Chinese history was told as a narrative of revolution. Japanese invasion and the Second World War were merely chapters in this narrative, sandwiched somewhere between the overthrow of the Qing dynasty and the civil war between the Communist Party of China (CCP) and the nationalist Kuomintang (KMT).

The Shanghai Longhua Martyrs Memorial Hall (上海龙华烈士纪念馆) exemplifies this traditional narrative, stating that ‘the battle of resistance against Japan […] added a glorious page to the military annals of the Chinese revolution…’

In this historiography, the Chinese nation was not viewed as a weak victim of Japanese aggression. Quite the opposite, China’s war casualties became ‘outstanding sons and daughters of the Chinese nation’ who ‘died heroically’.

Since China’s opening and reform in 1978 this narrative has changed. The 1980s saw an increasing emphasis upon Japanese wartime atrocities, an emphasis that the national consciousness was previously lacking. Consequently, many memorial sites to Japanese atrocities sprang up, such as the Nanjing Massacre Memorial Hall (侵华日军南京大屠杀遇难同胞纪念馆) which was constructed in 1985.

One book on the Nanjing Massacre, written in 1962, by scholars at Nanjing University’s history department was even, according to its English translator, made a classified document in China and ‘could not be published openly’. This pre-reform period emphasis away from atrocity might have been an attempt to consciously overlook the KMT’s role in the war of resistance against Japan.

The Second World War in China was preceded and followed by civil war between the communist CCP and the nationalist KMT. Defeated in 1949, the KMT fled to Taiwan, where a ‘rebel’ government held China’s seat at the UN until 1971.

Since the defenders at Nanjing in 1937 were nationalist forces and the nationalist government on Taiwan remained a potential threat, this event did not sit easily into a heroic revolutionary communist narrative.

However, following the opening and reform, China has moved towards what Wang Hui describes as ‘depoliticised politics’. In other words, China’s population is discouraged from being politically active. The government desires above all social stability and continuing economic growth. Political activity, particularly of the type witnessed during the Cultural Revolution, could only damage China’s recent economic success.

It has been argued that, under market reform and depoliticised politics, the traditional narrative of heroic revolutionary upheaval became obsolete. Such a narrative, glorifying revolution and encouraging political activity, might even be threatening to post-reform China.

Increased emphasis placed upon Japanese wartime atrocities, therefore, might well have been an attempt to provide a new focal point for Chinese nationalism that was not part of the revolutionary ideal that had been left behind in the wake of market reform.

Most of this idea of a changing narrative is pieced together from relatively recent public history sites and museums. One thing that seems to be conspicuously missing in large cities in China is war memorials produced during or soon after the war. I am of course referring to the types of memorials to World War I and World War II that are found all over Europe.

Perhaps this is down to cultural difference. Chinese culture traditionally places great importance upon revering dead ancestors, with a national holiday designated ‘Tomb Sweeping Day’ (清明节), in which families will gather together to clean the ancestral tombs. Since the family unit has both a designated place and time for remembrance of the dead it is possible that public remembrance in the form of memorials is not as necessary as in Western Europe.

However, at least some memorials were made very soon after conflicts took place. The Battle of Songhu took place in 1932 in what is now a suburb of Shanghai. Two years later a monument was built near the West Lake in Hangzhou. This was probably China’s first monument to the anti-Japanese war, and was dedicated to the 88th division that was sent in support of the 19th Army Corps defending Shanghai.

Songhu Memorial (1934)
Songhu Memorial (1934)

The monument was, however, dismantled in the 1960s. The fact the monument was commemorating the heroic deeds of a KMT army division might not have been entirely unrelated to the dismantling, considering that a nearby monument to the Chinese Volunteer Army of the Korean War survived the 1960s unscathed.

Contemporary photographs (above) reveal the original appearance of the monument, which consisted of a tall concrete block topped with a statue of two soldiers. It is tall, proud and militaristic.

An inscription describes the 88th Army as inflicting serious damage on the Japanese forces (重创日军), but otherwise information is minimal. In many ways, this monument is in sharp contrast with another monument – dedicated to the 19th Army Corps, which the 88th Army had been sent to support in the Battle of Songhu.

memorial (1989)
Songhu Memorial (1989)

Firstly, the 19th Army monument is located near the site of the battle, in a district of Shanghai. Unlike the monument to the 88th Army, it was not constructed soon after the battle and during the continuing conflict with Japan, but over fifty years later, in 1989. The appearance is smaller and much simpler in scale and, perhaps most significantly, it is surrounded by an abundance of large information boards (no less than 18).

Gone is the heroic aura of the monument to the 88th Army, instead, an inscription on the monument itself describes almost tragically the 19th Army Corps being completely wiped out by the Japanese (被日军炮火所毁). A nearby information board echoes this tone, explaining that, because of the huge disparity of strength between the Japanese and Chinese forces, the 19th Army Corps was completely wiped out. (在敌我实力悬殊下终告失败。 十九路军番号亦被取消。)

Rather than just reflecting on the military campaign, as the monument to the 88th army does, the information boards go much further, describing and events that cannot help but anger the reader. One such information board shows a photograph of a Japanese soldier bayoneting what appears to be a bound body with the caption describing the soldier as ‘torturing to death an innocent Chinese civilian’. (虐杀着无辜的中国百姓。)

Evidence of alledged torture at the hands of the Japanese displayed at the 1989 memorial.
Evidence of alleged torture at the hands of the Japanese displayed at the 1989 memorial.

The large number of information boards suggests that visitors to the site need to go away with certain knowledge. This is not a memorial in the sense of being a place where people come to mourn and remember the dead, but a site of patriotic education where everyone from local party members to school children take part in activities. With this in mind the date for the construction of the monument becomes significant; September 1989, three months after a certain incident involving students and tanks in a Beijing public square.

Just as the Chinese population was increasingly beginning to question the government, monuments were appearing that focused not on revolutionary spirit or military heroics, as they previously had, but on an external enemy. The 1934 monument to the Songhu battle fills the viewer with pride, both with its physical presence and its description of martyrs (阵亡将士) who died inflicting heavy losses on the Japanese.

By contrast, the 1989 monument lectures on a victim narrative that angers the reader, once again unifies the Chinese nation against an external aggressor many decades after the event and potentially distracts attention away from other current domestic problems.

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Tokyo 2020: Learning from Defeat and Redefining Tokyo’s Olympic Dream, 1952-1959.

By Austin Smith

Scenes following the award of the 1964 Olympic Games to Tokyo, Munich, May 1959.
Joyous scenes following the award of the 1964 Olympic Games to Tokyo, May 1959.

In October 2009, during the 121st Session of the International Olympic Committee, a vote was held to determine the Olympic host city for 2016. Tokyo was knocked out in the second round of voting, behind Madrid and, the eventual winners, Rio de Janeiro. The current Tokyo 2020 bid must effectively respond to, and learn from, this defeat if the capital is to overcome a renewed Madrid campaign and efforts by Istanbul to be awarded the right to host the 2020 Olympic Games. For lessons in how to bounce back from an unsuccessful bid campaign, Tokyo need look no further than the capital’s bids to host the 1960 and 1964 Olympic Games.

In 1952, just one month after the post-war U.S. occupation of Japan had officially ended, a renewed bid to bring the Olympics to Tokyo was launched. From the outset, the campaign was framed nationally while focusing on the country’s wartime past. It was argued that hosting the Olympics would allow ‘the true Japan, now restored to peace, to return to the international stage and have the real Japanese, who sincerely aspire to world peace, be recognised by the people of the world.’[1]

In 1955, official bid material, including a bid book, was submitted to the IOC to support Tokyo’s campaign to host the 1960 Olympic Games. The opening statement read – ‘Distinct victories and defeats engrave deeply in the bosoms of the people of every nation… Tokyo once had the honour to be selected as the host city for the games of the XIIth Olympiad, but to our great regret we met a misfortune of losing this chance on account of the fateful war.’[2]

This bid material, presented to the IOC in 1955, included Tokyo, a collection of photographs assembled by the Tokyo Metropolitan Government. Unfortunately, the collection included mainly non-Tokyo locations such as Nikko, Himeji and Mount Fuji. This suggested to the IOC members that post-war Tokyo lacked an urban identity.

The sporting images used further undermined the bid, rather than promoting Tokyo’s thirst for international competition the compilation was dominated by sports unique to Japan. In the wake of war defeat, Japanese athletes had been suspended from participating in the Olympics, which limited the amount of relevant sporting material available to the campaign team.

The voters were left unimpressed by the Olympic narrative presented by the City of Tokyo for the 1960 Olympics. Tokyo was eliminated in the first round of voting at the IOC Session in June 1955, generating the least number of votes of the seven competing cities. Rome was ultimately chosen to host the 1960 Games, the first step in rehabilitating axis powers that would see Tokyo host the Games in 1964 and Munich in 1972.

In 1958, Tokyo’s Olympic fortunes would improve dramatically – the 54th IOC Session was set to be held in the Japanese capital to coincide with the 3rd Asian Games. This was seen as ‘an excellent time to acquaint the members of the IOC with Tokyo’s ability to manage an Olympic Games’ and the event was used as a platform to project a vision of Olympic Tokyo.[3]

The 1958 Asian Games emblem.
The 1958 Asian Games emblem.

The Asian Games were held in Tokyo between the 24th May and 1st June 1958. The event allowed the reconstructed capital of Japan to be internationally showcased. Athletes from twenty countries participated under the patronage of the International Olympic Committee. Emperor Hirohito, absolved of wartime responsibility, officially opened the Asian Games and Crown Prince Akihito was patron. This, despite the fact the Asian Games hosted nations that had suffered at the hands of imperial aggression until 1945.

The event was held at the newly completed National Stadium on the site of the former Meiji Shrine Outer Gardens, the favoured site for the 1940 Olympic Stadium. The stadium would later be enlarged in preparation for the 1964 Olympics. Symbolically, a torch relay was held for the first time in Asian Games history, to promote Olympism in Asia. The relay began at the site of the previous Asian Games, Manila, stopping in Okinawa, before arriving at Kagoshima for a relay to Tokyo. This route evoked wartime memories while seemingly attempting to define the boundaries of post-war Japan.

Mikio Oda, the first Asian to win an individual Olympic Gold medal, ignited the ‘Sacred Flame’ in Tokyo.[4] Oda represented Japan’s pre-war Olympic legacy and his presence united pre-war and post-war ambitions to achieve internationalism through athleticism. These Games would be remembered for the demonstration of Japanese athletic prowess as the team won sixty-seven gold medals.

The Asian Games were proof that post-war Japan was capable of staging an international sporting event and it gave the visiting IOC members a clear vision of what Olympic Tokyo would be like. The vote to determine the Olympic host for 1964 was to be held the following year, at the IOC Session in Munich.

Tokyo’s bid to host the 1964 Olympics was presented to the International Olympic Committee following the Asian Games. The bid material attempted to address the flaws of the previous campaign, mementos of the Asian Games and the IOC Session in Tokyo were also included. The planned location of Tokyo’s Olympic venues, and their surroundings, would have been acutely familiar to those who attended the 54th IOC Session and Asian Games.

In contrast to the 1955 bid book, there were a series of images of international athletes – sprinters, gymnasts and basketball players. An image of the ‘Sacred Flame’ being lit by Oda at the National Stadium was also included, provoking thoughts of the Olympic flame burning brightly in the capital. One of the final images was a double page colour photograph of Tokyo at night, it featured the neon lights which would go on to become characteristic of modern Tokyo.

The strength of public support for the bid was also emphasised, it is stated that ‘this current desire of Tokyo is whole-heartedly backed and supported by all segments of the entire Japanese nation.’[5] With regards to the current Tokyo 2020 bid, this is an aspect that needs to be constantly taken into account, low levels of public support contributed to the failure of the 2016 bid.

In a concluding section, the bid book outlined reasons for the 1964 Olympics to be awarded to Tokyo. The first reason reiterated 1930s claim of universality – this would be the first ‘Asian’ Olympic Games. The second reason was a reminder of Japan’s history of Olympism, stating that ‘Japan has been and is enthusiastically devoted to the Olympism since her first participation in the V Olympiad at Stockholm, 1912.’[6]

The final reason given by the Governor of Tokyo read – ‘Tokyo was once elected as the host city of the 1940 Games which, however, was later cancelled due to the unfortunate circumstances… consequently, Tokyo was already recognised by the IOC as being fully qualified and entitled for holding the Games. Personally, I am hoping that a great majority of the members of the IOC will be so sympathetic as to give another chance to Tokyo.’[7]

By describing Tokyo as a victim of ‘unfortunate circumstances’ the issue of war responsibility is sidestepped. The 1940 Games were said to have been ‘cancelled’ rather than relinquished, which leaves the responsibility for this ‘cancellation’ open to interpretation. The fact that the city which was awarded the Olympics for 1940 was mostly destroyed in 1945 is also ignored.

Nevertheless, at Munich, the vote was held to determine the host city for 1964. Once the candidate presentations had been given it was stated that ‘several delegates are definitively in favour of Tokyo.’[8] Out of 56 votes, Tokyo polled 34, leading Detroit (10), Vienna (9), and Brussels (5). The victory was made all the more satisfying as Tokyo had finished behind Brussels and Detroit just four years earlier, a turnaround that the Tokyo 2020 team hopes to replicate against Madrid this coming September.

By emphatically awarding the Games to Tokyo, the IOC implied that they approved of Tokyo’s re-defined Olympic narrative, which had been showcased during the Asian Games and IOC Session. Yet, by rewarding a demonstration of Olympism, selecting Tokyo as the first Olympic host in Asia and accepting the emperor as a figurehead, the decision of 1958 displays considerable similarities to that of 1936.

The outcome of the 2020 campaign could mirror the turn of fortunes seen in the 1950s, it may even coincide with an economic revival similar to the one that followed the 1964 Olympics – but only if Tokyo can demonstrate that lessons from the 2016 campaign have been learnt. Work must also be done to improve international relations in the East Asian region.

The issue of war responsibility is as prominent as ever, international media have been closely following controversy surrounding ‘comfort women’, official visits to Yasukuni Shrine and lingering territorial disputes which have the potential to damage the Tokyo 2020 bid. There even could be regional opposition to the Tokyo bid if the capital’s pre-war Olympic connections, which are retained in the fabric of the 2020 bid, gain international attention. Despite this, Tokyo has a strong chance of defeating bids from Madrid and Istanbul due to the troubled financial situation in Spain and ongoing security concerns in the Middle East.


[1] S. Collins, ‘‘Samurai’ Politics: Japanese Cultural Identity in Global Sport – The Olympic Games as a Representational Strategy’, The International Journal of the History of Sport, 24, 3, (2007), 362.

[2] Bid to host the 1960 Summer Olympic Games, 1955, BOA/IOC/BID/S4, BOA Collection, University of East London, London, non-paginated.

[3] The Official Report of The Games of the XVIII Olympiad Tokyo 1964, v. 1, 35.

[4]‘Third Asian Games, Tokyo 1958’, Bulletin du Comité International Olympique ( Olympic Review ), 1957 May No. 58, 65.

[5] Bid to host the 1964 Summer Olympic Games, 1958, BOA/IOC/BID/S5, BOA Collection, University of East London, London, non-paginated. (here-after referred to as Bid Book 1958)

[6] Bid Book 1958.

[7] Bid Book 1958.

[8]‘Extract of the minutes of the 55th session of the International Olympic Committee in Munich (Haus des Sportes) May 25th to May 28th 1959’, Bulletin du Comité International Olympique (Olympic Review), (August 1959) 67, 51-52.

Impressions of Colonial Taipei.

By Austin Smith.
Background:

In 1895, Taiwan was ceded to Japan following China’s defeat in The First Sino-Japanese War. Taiwan became Japan’s first overseas colony and there were plans to rapidly develop the island’s economy, infrastructure and industry to demonstrate that Japan was capable of becoming a colonial power. Taiwan was intended to be a model colony and, by all accounts, in the post-war years the Taiwanese looked back on the period (1895-1945) more fondly than other countries that endured Japanese occupation. On a recent visit to Taipei, I set out to find remnants of the colonial period in an ever-changing city. This post will touch on some of the highlights of this pursuit in an attempt to assess the cultural legacy of Japanese rule.

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The Office of the Governor-General of Taipei

The former Office of the Governor-General of Taiwan:

The most imposing feature of modern Taipei dating from the colonial period is the former Office of the Governor-General of Taiwan, designed by Uheiji Nagano. Nagano had a reputation for combining Western and Eastern architectural styles, which were prevalent in Japanese buildings of the period. The building, which is reminiscent of Tokyo Station, has an East facing facade and blends Renaissance, Baroque and neo-Classical architectural styles. The offices were heavily bombed during World War II and not repaired until 1948. The building became The Office of the President in 1950 following the retreat of the ROC government to Taiwan from mainland China and it remains the seat of power. Whether the continued use of this building was borne out of nostalgia or necessity, it has come to symbolise the legacy of Japanese rule in Taipei.

Taipei Botanical Gardens:

The Taipei Botanical Garden was founded as Taipei Nursery in 1896, at the beginning of the Japanese colonial period. It was gradually expanded and renamed the Taipei Botanical Garden, becoming the country’s first botanical garden in 1921. It now covers 8.2 hectares and it includes more than 2,000 species of plants. Taiwan, which intersects tropical and subtropical regions, was ideal for the cultivation of a variety of plant species for natural sciences and academic research. The period of Japanese occupation was the most important in the history of botanical research in Taiwan and most of the country’s native plant species were identified during this time. The Taiwan Botanical Garden is part of a complex of education facilities known as The Nanhai Academy and it remains the country’s premier botanical institute for research and education. References to the positive legacy of the Japanese colonial period appear throughout the garden which is an oasis for those who want to get away from city life.

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The Green House, Taipei Botanical Garden.

The National Museum of History:

In 1955, The National Museum of History was established in a pre-existing Japanese-style building on the outskirts of Taipei Botanical Garden. The museum displays historic artefacts transported from the Henan Museum in China during the Sino-Japanese War. The need to find suitable venues to house the vast collection of artefacts transported from mainland China, as well as the picturesque location, made this colonial era building an obvious museum candidate. In 1956, the building was converted to a more appropriate Ming and Qing dynasty palace style, an example of the sinicization that took place in Taiwan from 1950 onwards.

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The National Museum of History, viewed from the lily pond.

Bu-Cheng-Shih-Sz:

The Guest House of Imperial Envoys was built in 1889, during the late Qing Dynasty. The building was used as a temporary office for government officials and was the highest public administration building on the island. The first ceremony to mark Japanese rule was held in this building and it was used as the Taiwan Governor-General’s Office and military headquarters until the construction of the Presidential Building in 1919. In 1933, the decision was made to dramatically relocate the building to allow for the construction of The Taipei Convention Centre to mark the ascension of Emperor Showa (Hirohito). The main section of the building was moved to the Taipei Botanical Garden. The relocation of the building appears to have ensured its preservation, it is now the only remaining official building constructed in the Min-nan style. The Min-nan style is characterised by high ceilings, symmetry and the 田- shape layout formed by the wings and corridors. The walls are decorated with traditional lion sculptures symbolising virtue and tradition. The building was painstakingly restored and designated as a historic monument before being renamed the Bu-Cheng-Shih-Sz Museum in 1998.

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Bu-Cheng-Shih-Sz
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The interior of Bu-Cheng-Shih-Sz

Bopilao:

Another remnant of Qing Dynasty Taipei can be found just north of Longshan Temple, a popular tourist destination. The Bopilao district is a block of narrow shopping streets with architectural styles hailing from the Qing Dynasty onwards.

A fine example of the colonial era businesses which have been preserved at Bopilao is Taiyoo Bookbinders. The shop was founded in the early 1940s as one of the first bookbinders in Taipei. The Wanhua District was the centre of book production but Taiyoo was the first in Taipei to mechanise the bookbinding process. Taiyoo earned a reputation for high quality and was chosen to bind the official “Chinese-Japanese Dictionary” during the Japanese Colonial Period. After the retrocession of Taiwan, they went on to publish various documents for the National Palace Museum.

Much of the surrounding area was demolished as part of a modernising campaign during the colonial period and Bopilao gradually fell into decline as urban planning shifted Taipei’s commercial centre. However, the area has been preserved and it was reopened in 2010 as a cultural centre containing original shop signs and facades. The once abandoned buildings now house exhibitions an education centre.

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The Bopilao District

Taiwan Grand Shrine:

One of the most striking buildings on the route from Taoyuan Airport to the city centre is the imposing Grand Hotel. It was not until researching this project that I discovered the hotel’s connections to colonial Taipei. The Grand Hotel stands on the site of the former Taiwan Grand Shrine, once the most important Shinto shrine in Taiwan and one of sixty-six that were built across the country during the colonial period. On October 23rd 1944, a pilot crashed into the grounds of Taiwan Grand Shrine, the torii gate was destroyed along with other important structures. In the post-war years, Chiang Kai Shek proposed that a hotel, fit for ambassadors, be built on the site and it became the Grand Hotel in 1952. Two copper bulls that stood at Taiwan Grand Shrine were relocated to The National Taiwan Museum.

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A postcard of Taiwan Grand Shrine

Overall impressions:

Personally, I found the most significant colonial impression to be a cultural one. In my experience, without meaning to generalise, the behaviour and attitudes of the Taiwanese people was culturally closer to the Japanese than elsewhere in Asia. This was twinned with an obvious appreciation for Japanese fashion and food. The linguistic hangover is also worth a mention, occasional Japanese words are in daily use and the older generations remain fluent Japanese speakers. In truth, physical traces of colonial Taipei were harder to find than I had expected. The city has developed rapidly in recent years and the infrastructure put in place in the pre-war years has been superseded. Nevertheless, the foundations and desire to modernise was introduced by Japan. Significantly, the legacy of the colonial period is often acknowledged positively – this is not something which I have encountered elsewhere in East Asia.

Review – Kimono by John Paris.

By Austin Smith.
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Title – Kimono

Author – John Paris (Frank Ashton-Gwatkin)

First published – 1921

Frank Ashton-Gwatkin drafted Kimono between 1913 and 1919, during his time working for the Japan Consular Service. In 1921, the year Kimono was published, he accompanied Hirohito during his visit to Britain.

The story told in this book is used as a medium to bring his observations and impressions of early 20th century Japan to a wider audience.

The book follows a year in the life of newly-weds Captain Geoffrey Barrington and Asako Fujinami – a Japanese woman raised in Europe.

The reaction to this inter-racial marriage among London’s higher social circles is played out in the opening chapters, the couple’s first impressions of each other and the courtship is also outlined in some detail.

An extended honeymoon allows Geoffrey and Asako to return to the country of her birth. On arrival, their marriage is tested by their reaction to Japan, its people and its customs. Differing views of gender roles and strong racial stereotypes further threaten the relationship.

Geoffrey’s initial perception of his wife – exotic, yet Europeanised by her upbringing in London and Paris – is shattered as he observes her in a native setting – particularly as she is re-introduced to her extended family and subsequently re-assimilated.

Asako’s ties to Europe and her bond with her husband are challenged by the life her late father left behind. Her family, the nouveau riche Fujinamis, see her as having a vital role in extending the family lineage and maintaining its wealth and social influence.

The story allows the author to show how the British and Japanese perceived each other at a time when Oriental stereotypes had been overturned, to an extent, by Japan’s victory in the Russo-Japanese War. The notion that Japan could soon be on a par with Britain, or even surpass it, is a constant concern.

Meanwhile, Asako is viewed as an important symbol of Anglo-Japanese relations, torn between tradition and progress.

The language used to describe the Japanese people is unabashedly racist throughout and this can be difficult reading for the modern audience.

However, this aspect is countered by the introduction of Japanese terms used to describe foreigners (and those who interact with foreigners) which have fallen out of general use in modern Japan.

These included rashyamen – ‘goat-face’ a term used to describe a foreigner’s Japanese mistress and ketoujin – ‘hairy-rascal’ a derogatory term for a foreigner.

While this derogatory language is no longer deemed socially acceptable it can provide an insight into attitudes of the period.

A number of observations made in this novel will resonate with those familiar with modern Japan. However, a darker side of old Japan, which has disappeared over the past century, recurs throughout the novel – The Yoshiwara pleasure districts. The Chonkina, a dance performed by the geisha of Nagasaki is described in graphic detail as is the workings of the Yoshiwara district of Tokyo.  Barrington’s moral dilemma over the sex industry in Japan adds a darker dimension to the tale.

At the time it was first published, Kimono provided a refreshing take on Anglo-Japanese relations to an audience whose impression of Japan had been formed by Mikado and Madame Butterfly.

The post-World War II Penguin publication (1947), which I possess, is no less significant. Kimono would have reinforced negative racial stereotypes and a sense of un-breachable cultural difference while noting a prior desire, on behalf of the Japanese, to demonstrate strength to Western powers.

For the modern reader the book provides an insight into the challenges faced by the pioneers who seeked to open Japan to the outside world and the bigotry encountered by those who chose to marry outside their own race.

Other works by John Paris include – Sayonara, Banzai, The Island Beyond Japan, Matsu and A Japanese Don Juan.