Good Guys, Bad Guys, and the Problem with War

So the other day my oldest asked me about World War II. He asked me if Japan was the bad guy in the war.

Oh man.

Now if you know me, you know I am anti-war. I detest even the very idea of war. Furthermore, I dislike nationalism and am deeply suspicious of patriotism, because it so easily plants the seeds of nationalism. I am not a fan of the Pledge of Allegiance in America for this very reason. It is, quite literally, a pledge of fealty to the state. That has always made me uneasy.

Did you know that originally children in America recited the pledge while performing what looks very much like a Seig Heil?

Well this is awkward
Well this is awkward

This was called the Bellamy salute. It predates Nazism, but the resemblance is uncomfortable. Once the Nazis became the obvious villains, the United States quietly changed the gesture to a hand over the heart. But the underlying idea — swearing loyalty to the State — never really changed, even if the gesture did.

So yes, I am often critical of America. But I am critical of every country, including Japan. Bad actions are bad actions no matter who commits them, and they should be acknowledged honestly, not excused or buried just because “our side” did them.

And this is part of why I’m uneasy about patriotic ritual.


I told him simply, “Everyone loses in war, and all sides do bad things.” I don’t know why I expected that to satisfy him. Of course it didn’t.

He followed up by asking if it was true that Japan bombed Hawaii. I said it was. He asked if that made Japan the bad guys.

He is Japanese. And he is American. I don’t want him to internalize the idea that one part of himself is somehow shameful or evil. But more importantly, I don’t think history actually works that way. The world is not black and white, and war especially is almost always very grey.

So I said, “What Japan did was terrible. But it didn’t happen in isolation. America had cut Japan off from oil.”

That led to the obvious next question: “So does that make America the bad guys?”

Kids want simple answers. At his age, a truly complex answer would either bore him or fly right past him. But I can at least try to point him toward the idea that history is a chain of causes and reactions, not a morality play with heroes and villains.

I explained that the oil embargo was a response to Japan’s invasion of China. You can guess what came next.

“If Japan invaded China, were they the bad guys?”

That led further back, to how Japan’s militarism didn’t appear out of nowhere, that it was shaped by Western imperialism, by being forcibly opened by American warships a century earlier, and by a desperate attempt to avoid being colonized itself. Everything has roots. Everything has context. Nothing happens in isolation. (I’ve written more about this elsewhere, see my post Perry’s Black Ships and the Opening of Japan.)[1]

We stopped there. He seemed satisfied with the idea that both sides did terrible things, that neither side was innocent, and that calling one “the bad guys” misses something important. Before we ended the conversation, I emphasized one thing above all else: war is always terrible, and no one truly wins.

The cynical part of me wanted to add, “except politicians and corporations,” but I held back. He doesn’t need that layer yet.


Maybe it was a good conversation. I don’t want to tell him what to think. But I do hope I can help guide him toward understanding that the world isn’t simple, history isn’t clean, and war — no matter the flag — is always a tragedy.


  1. I guess I never got around to posting that one here. This is at my Hive blog, where I post more rough drafts and explore ideas that eventually make their way here in a more complete form.  ↩

Still Awake

The other night, I found myself up too late once again.

This seems to happen endlessly. There is always just one more reason to stay awake a little longer, one more small justification that somehow feels important in the moment. On this occasion, I finally gave up on productivity and wrote down my frustration instead.

また起きている遅すぎるいつになったら学ぶのか 天上火
mata okiteiru ososugiru itsu ni nattara manabu no ka[1]

Up again
Way too late
Will I ever learn?
—Tenjōka[2]

Photo Generated by ChatGPT
Photo Generated by ChatGPT

I know it’s not just me; it’s a human habit.

We know we should go to bed. We know that a proper night’s sleep will make tomorrow easier. We know that staying up rarely produces anything useful — just yawns, nodding off, and the quiet avoidance of what our body is asking for.

And yet we do it anyway.

Humans are nothing if not hopeful, sometimes delusionally so. We tell ourselves that maybe this time will be different. Maybe this extra hour will matter. Maybe something will finally click.

But maybe never is the honest answer, and the pattern stays the same.

Ah well. At least in my case, I got a haiku out of it. That counts for something.


  1. See: Pronunciation of Japanese  ↩

  2. That’s me! I’m playing with using it as a penname. See here  ↩

Cold Night, No Sake

Issa is often remembered for his warmth and humor, but he did have his dark days. This haiku comes from one of these dark periods.

酒呑まぬ吾身一つの夜寒哉
sake nomanu waga mi hitotsu no yozamu kana[1]

no sake to drink — 
I’m completely alone
the night is cold…
—Issa[2]

Generated by ChatGPT
Generated by ChatGPT

Issa was 31 when he wrote this, and his life at the time was not a happy place. He wasn’t married, was locked in a bitter struggle with his stepmother (who hated him) over his inheritance, had no home of his own, and often had to rely on the kindness of friends or temples for a place to sleep. Many of his haiku from this period are dark or self-mocking.

There is also a bit of nuance in that first line. It’s hard to translate the feeling he’s going for without accidentally suggesting the common refrain of the alcoholic: alcohol is my only friend. 酒呑まぬ literally means “not drinking sake,” but idiomatically it conveys a lack of warmth, company, or comfort. In the Edo period, sake was a small luxury for the poor, and metaphorically it carried associations of warmth in the cold season, conviviality, and a healthy social life. By contrast, its absence could deepen the sense of loneliness. It’s that last that I think he’s going for here.

I don’t have the diary entries around this poem to check his immediate circumstances, but rather than literally talking about rice wine, I lean toward reading the phrase figuratively — as a shorthand for the small comforts that are missing from his life and even more strongly, how much his life sucks. Like I said, he was depressed.

I don’t want to change his words, so “no sake to drink” is the best I can come up with in English, but just be aware that he probably isn’t really talking about sake.

Under the Infinite Sky

The weather has settled down here towards autumn and it has become pleasant, especially at night for walks. The temperature is almost perfect. The other day I took a night walk, then wrote this when I got back:

walking at night
the sky opens
above me[1]

夜道ゆく天のひらけて上にかな
yomichi yuku ten no hirakete ue ni kana[2]

Picture generated by ChatGPT
Picture generated by ChatGPT

Japan is a small country and the liveable land is even smaller, making cities tight and cramped. As a result, everything is smaller. Houses are smaller, roads and cares and parking spaces — all smaller. Pretty much everything is just smaller. Think New York City. Without the overwhelming number of people there (well, outside major cities like Tokyo anyway) but with the lack of space.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. You get used to it, and the smaller scale of everything makes it more comfortable than not. But it is an undeniable fact, at least in most of the country. Hokkaido being a big exception.

But sometimes, when walking, when the night sky opens up and the stars come out, everything feels larger under that infinite sky. The cramped streets fall away. The stars push everything outward. For a moment the country that usually feels compressed becomes impossibly wide. That was something of how I felt as I was walking the other night. The above haiku hints at my awe a little more in the Japanese version than in the English one, with the kireji kana, which is something like a sigh of wonder or an exhale of awe.

Mistaken for a Scarecrow

Even in his moments of forgetfulness, Issa finds poetry, turning a lapse of memory into a moment of laughter and quiet insight.

うかと来て我をかがしの替哉 一茶
uka to kite ore wo kagashi no kawari kana[1]

absent-minded
I’m the scarecrow’s
replacement
—Issa[2]

Scarecrow by Unknown
“Scarecrow” by Unknown

This is a fun haiku from Issa showing his characteristic blend of humor and humility. Written in 1814, it imagines the poet standing absent-mindedly, presumably upon moving somewhere and forgetting why he wanted to be there, so still and unfocused that someone might mistake him for a scarecrow. It is comic and strangely touching, a flash of human self-awareness that turns a moment of distraction into poetry.

Issa returned to this idea a few years later, writing in 1818:

ふいと立おれをかがしの替哉
fui to tatsu ore o kagashi no kawari kana

suddenly I’m
standing, mind gone —  their new scarecrow

In the later version, his humor sharpens. The mood shifts from “I was mistaken for a scarecrow” to “I’ve become one,” as if his absentmindedness has completed the transformation. It’s this gentle self-deprecation humor that makes Issa so relatable even two centuries later.

We’ve all had moments like this: you stand up to do something, only to forget why. You wander into another room, your purpose dissolving somewhere between steps. There’s a moment of blankness, of suspension. ….why did I come in this room, we think to ourselves. In Issa’s world, that tiny lapse becomes a glimpse of life’s absurdity.

It’s tempting to read these haiku through the lens of aging—memory lapses, distraction, but they also speak to a universal, timeless kind of inattention. The mind drifts; the body remains. Issa, ever the observer of small, ordinary moments, turns even forgetfulness into art.

What makes his humor endure is its warmth. He never mocks others, only himself — and even then, gently. It perfectly captures the essence of Issa’s personality: tender toward all living things, yet aware of his own ridiculousness. It’s self-mockery as compassion.

There’s also a quiet philosophical thread here. A scarecrow is an imitation of life: a man-shaped thing that fools birds. In mistaking himself for one, Issa acknowledges how thin the line can be between life and its semblance, between purpose and pause. His moment of blankness becomes a kind of Buddhist stillness: the ego fading, awareness merging with the field, until all that’s left is form and silence.

That could be a stretch. But Issa was quite serious in his Buddhism, so I don’t think it is.

At any rate, we might laugh, but we also recognize the feeling. That moment of standing there, thoughtless, caught between doing and being. The thing is, it’s not just forgetfulness. It’s a tiny enlightenment, however unintentional. So there you go: next time you forget why you entered a room and your kids or spouse laugh at you, just smile and tell them you are searching for enlightenment.

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