OpenDemocracy.org has published a series of articles about Fukushima. In the third piece of the series—by Ryuta Imafuku, a professor of Anthropology and Communication at the Graduate School of Global Studies, Tokyo University of Foreign Studies—he begins by thinking that he will have to go very far indeed to find words and memories strong enough to rival the actual phenomenon of this disaster. But as he mourns the passing of the Martinican philosopher, Édouard Glissant, the island of bliss gradually returns to him. Here are some excerpts from the article. For the complete article follow the link below.
The archipelagic mind is everything which is opposed to the minds of system. It accords with the tremble of our world. Édouard Glissant. La cohée du Lamentin (2005)
Just after that crucial moment. The inertia of our everyday thought was shaken off all at once. Reality and words got entangled, discordant with each other. I was attacked by contradictory feelings and emotions: a need to keep my head and try to deal with the situation; a difficulty in responding properly. The agony of thinking itself. A desire to give up everything and disappear. My words seemed unable to find an appropriate place for landing. Ignoring the media’s clamorous repetition of horrible images and mourning commentaries, I sank into a depth of total aphasia I had never before experienced.
March 11 is a very special time in Japan. Just one month to the beginning of the new academic year. During the month of March, while witnessing the ongoing disaster of suffering among homeless people and spreading radioactive clouds, I had to dig out and prepare something solid for my new students from the dusty debris of words, the vacuum of consciousness. However, what was quite impossible was to take refuge in the latest poems of a leading Korean-Japanese poet Kim Shi-Jong and translate his decentralized strange Japanese into English, yet another strange language to me. At that time, I think I wanted to withdraw from language itself as a familiar private possession.
April, however, came inescapably on time. How can I start my class? It was entitled, “The archipelago of Édouard Glissant”. I had decided in late February to honour the work of the Martinican poet/philosopher who had died just a few weeks before. I wanted to talk passionately about Glissant’s vision of “errantry” (errance) and “tremble”(tremblement) as a mode of creative wandering as well as an ancient intuition of profundity. But my feeling of mourning him was already inevitably imbued with a lament on this new disaster. How then can I start talking, I argued with myself? In what kind of language? The real earth tremor and the spiritual tremble coincided with one another, creating an interference.
An etymological detour: Lafcadio Hearn in Japan
Today I have brought with me a book considered to be the oldest source in which the Japanese word ‘tsunami’ was first introduced to the western world and from whence it spread out into popular use worldwide. The book is: Gleanings in Buddha-Fields by Lafcadio Hearn, published in Boston by Houton Mifflin and in London by Kegan Paul in 1897. The opening chapter is called ‘A Living God’, and the word tsunami appears in this half didactic, half mystical story. Hearn wrote this short piece just after the historical earthquake of ‘Meiji-Sanriku-Jishin’ in June 1896 which caused a devastating tsunami, swallowing whole northern Tohoku-Sanriku coastal villages in an instant.
At that time, Hearn was living in Kobe. As a born journalist and storyteller, he could have depicted minutely the whole aspect of natural disaster and consequent social unrest as it unfolded. But interestingly he didn’t do so. Instead, he went back some 40 years in time and precisely retold a story of another tsunami which had been turned into a popular legend. Let me quote the part where the word tsunami appears for the first time:
From time immemorial the shores of Japan have been swept, at irregular intervals over centuries, by enormous tidal waves- tidal waves caused by earthquakes or by submarine volcanic action. These awful sudden risings of the sea are called by the Japanese tsunami. The last one occurred on the evening of June 17, 1896, when a wave nearly two hundred miles long struck the northeastern provinces of Miyagi, Iwate, and Aomori, wrecking scores of towns and villages, ruining whole districts, and destroying nearly thirty thousand human lives. The story of Hamaguchi Gohei is the story of a similar calamity which happened long before the era of Meiji, on another part of the Japanese coast… (Lafcadio Hearn, ‘A Living God’, in Gleanings in Buddha-Fields. Boston & New York: Houghton, Mifflin and Company, 1897, p.16.)
A very brief, but wonderfully exact and succinct definition indeed, of the natural phenomenon called ‘Tsunami’. Hearn never takes up one single disaster as a sign of social crisis, but always sees a chain of catastrophic events, in this case tsunamis, which had occurred continuously and continually along Japanese coasts since the dawn of history. For me the detour Hearn has taken here to think about the ongoing catastrophe is very suggestive. His actual, sincere concerns lead him to take a proper distance toward the latest calamity as it plays out. In the story, he makes reference to the popular experience of yet another historical earthquake: the‘Ansei-Nankai-Jishin’ struck the southwestern part of Japan in the late Edo era of 1854. In revisiting this legend, he makes the most effective use of so many Japanese words and phrases. “”Taihenda!”, “Kita!”, “Tsunami!”, “Ojiichan!” – people shouted and ran in all directions. But the village headman Hamaguchi Gohei wisely guided his people to the safe hill, saving all the lives in the village, and becoming as a result a living god worshipped by the villagers. Hamaguchi has remembered and respected the old sayings about tsunami handed down from generation to generation so that he could find a way to escape the disaster. This is a person as the incarnation of a chain of wisdoms. Hearn wanted to hint that he is more than an individual, a kind of crystallization of the collective common-sense that can get through such a crisis.
Behind the seemingly didactic aspect of the story, Hearn’s writing also declares its mystical affiliations. He says that the ‘isolated country yashiro or miya’ which western people loosely render with words such as ‘temple’ or ‘shrine’ are actually untranslatable. Instead, to the western mind, the word ‘ghost-house’ will convey much more, because in those spirit chambers many of the lesser divinities are worshipped, ghosts of heroes, warriors, rulers and teachers who lived, loved, and died hundreds and thousands of years ago. Their spiritual afterlife is preserved in the rustic empty chamber, sometimes embodied in elemental things like a stone, flower, or the wind.
A feeling of spiritual connection with the dead and with nature’s animism prevails. They cannot be seen or heard, but this magnetic substance has an amazing and awful power in people’s folk belief. Finally Hearn himself felt the sensation of being haunted by that power. In the story, he becomes a living god, bequeathing to us this mysterious description as a spiritual dweller in a small ghost-house. Hearn writes:
Elfishly small my habitation might be, but never too small, because I should have neither size nor form. I should be only a vibration – a motion as invisible as ether or magnetism; though able sometimes to shape me a shadow-body in the likeness of my former visible self, when I should wish to make an apparition. As is air to the bird, water to the fish, so would all substance be penetrable by the essence of me. (Lafcadio Hearn, ibid. p.5)
The reason that Hearn combines the folktale of tsunami and his own visionary transformation in the spirit world is clear to me. Hearn believed that the earthquake and tsunami, the very vibrations of land and ocean, reflect and resonate the tremble of the spiritual world, the vibration people feel through their everyday life amongst natural and supernatural forces. Hearn persisted in using the word tsunami in Japanese instead of using some explanatory word like‘tidal wave’. Obviously the word tsunami itself has its own spiritual content: it is a word charged with the invisible motion of vibration, ether, and magnetism. Before being a physical and social disaster, it was proof of the tremble in which humans and all things in the universe come together in awe and in rejoicing.
. . .
A delay: ten seconds or eternity in Haiti
Let us make a very short interlude of 10 seconds, which felt like cosmic eternity to a Haitian writer living in exile, Dany Laferrière. On January 12, 2010, a devastating 7.0 earthquake struck the capital city of Port-au-Prince, Haiti. Laferrière, by then a Quebecois resident, was coincidentally there at the time, and happened to see the beginning of what became a record-breaking calamity. He bears witness to the longest 10 seconds in his whole life:
During these ten seconds, I was a tree, a stone, a cloud or the quake itself. What is certain was that I was not the product of a culture any more. I had a deep sensation of being a part of the cosmos.
(Dany Laferrière. Tout bouge autour de moi. Paris: Grasset, 2011)
Tremble (tremblement): Edouard Glissant’s utopia
Let’s go back to the tremble, le tremblement, our tremor, seismic and spiritual.
In his later years, Édouard Glissant passionately discussed and tried to elaborate his important notions of “errantry”, “opacity” and “tremble” (in Une nouvelle région du monde, 2006). Contrary to the modern straightforward logic which seeks transparency, the tremble requires errantry and opacity. This opacity is never ambiguous, it is a relationship in which one person or place calls on another person or place in its own right and freedom. Identification in relation to the other also includes identifying with the change which is therefore derived from that exchange. There, many people, many places touch each other, develop a rapport, and tremble together, just like Banyan leaves trembling in the stormy wind. Filao needles whispering by the coral shore echo a groaning voice from the sugar cane fields behind.
Glissan’s island, Martinique, has experienced violent hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis, and volcanic eruptions for many many years.
Through the collective memory of the catastrophic forces of nature, Glissant first of all captures his strategic notion of the‘tremble’ as a sheer natural tremor, and consequently the wisdom humans have to learn from the seismic tremble of the earth. This involves a total acceptance of the primordial energy of all things in the universe, and a sincere confrontation with the ‘Tout-Monde’(the ‘Whole-World’) which has been and will always be trembling and shaking from the past to the future.
Moreover, at an ethical level, it means the tremble found in our inner crust. It’s a process of creative vibration which occurs in the course of recognizing and understanding innumerable differences between the self and the other. To respond deeply to the other’s call and urge, is to experience this intersubjective trembling. In other words, the tremble is the vibrant relationship to the other. Herein lies a clue to why we should put behind us the centralizing power of subjectivity, an inevitable source of our intentional, or involuntary violence.
In his last book entitled Earth, Fire, Water and Winds: Anthology of the Whole-World poetry (2010), Glissant included an impressive fragment of the story about the New Orleans hurricane disaster in 1856 retold by Lafcadio Hearn. While living in New Orleans in the 1870s and 80s and having travelled widely in the vast Mississippi creole/cajun delta, Hearn almost became possessed by the mysterious folklores and legends told by local fishermen. Their stories were full of drowned bodies and missing peoples violently swept off by the mighty force of the ocean. As Hearn listened to one fisherman-storyteller, and also to the clamouring of the coast in the background, there flashed back to him a recollection of some Breton legend: that the Voice of the Sea is never one voice, but a tumult of many voices -voices of drowned men, the muttering of multitudinous dead, the moaning of innumerable ghosts, all rising, to rage against the living, summoned by the great Witch call of storms…. (Lafcadio Hearn. Chita: A Memory of Last Island. Harper’s Brothers, 1889)
Another trembling, outer and inner, physical and spiritual, subtly felt by both Lafcadio Hearn and Édouard Glissant. Glissant wrote in the preface of his anthology:
The ‘Tout-Monde’ is at once the mud and the ash, the libation and the elevation, the earth and the fire, the water and the secret wind. The depression and the exhaustion, the purification and the inspiration: once again the earth and the fires, the water and the wind, are brutal. In these elements dwell the human mind, people’s suffering, the fight and the abandon, what you cry over and what you mediate.
(Édouard Glissant. La terre le fou l’eau et les vents: Une anthologie de la poesie du Tout-Monde. Paris: GALAADE, 2010)
This is the principle of the tremble, the precondition for our shaky ‘Whole-World’. A site where the ‘Chaos-Monde’,‘Echo-Monde’, or ‘Diversite-Monde’ vibrate and spiral. It is an assumed geography in which our errantry and tremble take place, brutally and gracefully. The vision of the tremble urges us to dive deep into our intuition. It can light up the old wisdom, all the relations that have occurred between the human being and all elemental things in the universe.
The vision of the tremble resists the bias of systematic thinking toward transparency and consistency. According to Glissant, it seeks the magnetic ties between the lands, the land and the people, and among the people- just like the relationship Lafcadio Hearn sensed in the ghostly, etheric atmosphere in his anthropomorphic imagination. The tremble happens sometimes devastatingly, but usually very subtly. It is the faintest sign hard to recognize with our ordinary senses. However, the fragility is what makes it resistant, and the fugacity guarantees its durability. Glissant, like a future Noah, tries to save our globally unitary world, by presenting his vision of “le tremblement” which will again fragment our world so that each part can have their own music and poetry, responding and echoing with each other, like the archipelago in our oceanic solidarity.
The agony of rhyming: a brief epilogue
When the nuclear meltdown was found in the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant, and the radioactive contamination was spread out in its surrounding areas, it did not take us long to start talking about the continuum which was Hiroshima and Fukushima, the oldest and most recent experience of nuclear disaster Japan has faced during these 65 years. In this juxtaposition of the two place names, there were many different contexts and connotations to be found. The similarities seemed very profound, but the facile connection of two different catastrophes also seemed dangerous. Before making these names of the so-called ‘cursed places’ into a secret code to designate the worst human tragedy, we must consider their peculiarities, the singular importance of their people, their individual dignity, specific sorrow and joy.
The rhyming of Hiroshima and Fukushima is painfully sad. It’s a dreary coincidence that both names end with the same suffix ‘-shima’. ‘Shima’ in Japanese usually means‘island’, but its semantic origin primarily lies in the more general meaning of‘isolated area’ or ‘enclosed area’, not exclusively that of an island surrounded by the sea.
In the Amami and Ryukyu archipelago,‘shima’ primarily means one’s native village, one’s place of origin, most likely surrounded by mountains, rocks, rivers, and oceans.
Place names are essentially the reflection of people’s sense of land as it is made up of elemental forces. Hokkaido’s old indigenous name, Ainu-mosir, meant the quiet land of humans. The Ryukyu archipelago in their dialect is ‘Uruma’ – which means the timespace between coral reefs. Haiti, in Taino language, meant the island of many mountains. And our Fukushima, it is the island of bliss, or alternatively the island of blowing winds. These are the reflections and incarnations of the people’s love and awe which they pay as a tribute to the elements which tremble and vibrate eternally.
So, Fukushima doesn’t have to bear the ordeals of this coincidental rhyming with Hiroshima. It is not even coincidental. If I paraphrase Günter Anders’ aphorism, ‘shima’ is everywhere: the founding sensation with which to name one’s place in the vibrating echo of things. The tremble.
Noah will be our future child who has already survived the tsunami of our Genesis and Apocalypse.
For the original report go to http://www.opendemocracy.net/ryuta-imafuku/noahs-stories-in-shaky-archipelagos-martinique-haiti-fukushima