Some years ago, while leading a church group on a tour of Pearl
Harbor, I stood among the clergy and their spouses in the gleaming
white-arched and covered Memorial above the USS Arizona. One
minister in our group, a man from Maine, had been there on
December 7th, 1941 - the day the Japanese flew in to sink our Pacific
Naval Fleet. He had not been aboard the Arizona, but his ship had
also been hit. He described vividly the horror of being aboard the
flaming and sinking vessel as bullets flew and bombs roared. As I
listened, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a Japanese tourist
entering the Memorial.
It was the man's fine clothes - long tie, buttoned sports jacket, and
shiny brown lace-up shoes - that initially attracted my attention. In
Hawaii, professionals like lawyers, corporate executives, soldiers and
ministers seldom, if ever, wear ties or jackets. Even network
television news anchors wear open-collared aloha shirts. This man,
dressed as he was, stood out.
Two women walked with him. The older one I took to be his wife,
the other perhaps an older daughter. Both wore conservative
dresses and fancy shoes. The man appeared to be in his sixties, and
while he may have spoken English, I only heard him speak Japanese.
In his left hand, he carried, almost shyly, an ornate and obviously
costly multi-flowered wreath about eighteen inches across.
Our group's veteran continued to speak as we clustered around
him. He described being caught below deck: feeling disoriented as
the ship took on water where he stood, fire coming from above and
the smoke stealing his breath. His buddy lay dead at his feet as the
young sailor struggled in the darkness to escape, fear and adrenaline
propelling him to the surface. Everyone in our group was so
engrossed in his story, that no one, except for me, noticed the
Japanese tourist and his family who walked quite near to us.
As I watched, the tourist stopped, turned to his wife and daughter
and spoke to them. They stood quietly, almost solemnly. Then the man
straightened his tie, first at the neck and then near the belt, and
tugged at the hem of his jacket. As if in preparation, he squared his
shoulders, took a deep breath, and then exhaled. Alone, he somberly
stepped forward toward the railing at the water's edge above the
The other tourists swirled around him. From what I could see and
hear, they were apparently all Americans. They were talking, laughing,
looking, asking questions; some were listening to our minister's
story, but none seemed aware of the tourist who had captured my
I don't believe the Japanese man understood the minister's words.
As I listened to one man and watched the other, the Japanese tourist
came to the rail, bowed at the waist, and then stood erect. He began
to speak; I heard his words but could not comprehend then. However
from his tone and the look on his face, I felt their meaning. His
manner conveyed so many things at once - confession, sorrow, hurt,
honor, dignity, remorse and benediction.
When he had finished his quiet prayer, he gravely dropped the
flowered wreath into the seawater - the same water the minister kept
mentioning in his reminiscence - and watched as the wreath floated
away on the tide. The man struggled to remain formal, to keep face,
but his tears betrayed him. I guessed he must have been a soldier, a
warrior of the air, whose own plane had showered the bombs and
bullets that had torn through our soldiers, sinking their ships. It
struck me that he had come on a pilgrimage of repentance, not to our
government, but to the gravesite of those young men whose lives he
had taken in the name of war.
Stepping backward one pace, the Japanese veteran then closed
his eyes and bowed again, very deeply, and very slowly from the
waist. Then he stood tall, turned around and rejoined his family. His
deed done, they began to leave. All the while, our minister veteran
continued his narrative. He and the group were oblivious to the
poignant counterpoint occurring behind them.
But I was not the only American to witness the Japanese man's
actions. As I watched his family leave, I noticed another American
step away from the wall on which he had been leaning. He was
dressed casually, and wore a red windbreaker with the VFW emblem
on it. He had a potbelly, thinning hair and held his hat in his hand. I
assumed the man was a WW II veteran. 'Perhaps he had served in the
Pacific,' I thought, 'and was himself on a pilgrimage.'
As the Japanese family walked by him, the American stepped
directly into their path, blocking their way. I immediately tensed,
fearing a confrontation. The startled Japanese tourist, who had been
deep in thought, stopped short, surprise and sorrow mixed on his
face. His family, eyes on the ground, stopped abruptly, then crowded
closer around him.
But the American simply stood at attention, once again a strong,
straight-backed soldier. Then he raised his right hand slowly and
stiffly to his forehead, saluting his former enemy.
The American remained in salute until the Japanese, with dawning
understanding, returned the gesture.
As the tourists milled by, the two men stood as if alone, joined by
their shared pain, glories, honors and memories, until the American,
while remaining at attention, slowly lowered his arm and formally
stepped backward one pace. The Japanese tourist, when his arms
were both once again at his side, bowed formally to the man in front
of him. To my surprise, the American returned the honor.
Neither said a word. Neither had to. Their solemn faces wet with
tears, expressed to each other in a universal language what could
never have been said in words.
I watched as the two men, their reconciliation complete, went their
separate ways, united in a way I had never imagined possible.
Reverend Peter Baldwin Panagore