Who tells their child stories of how, after a World War II Japanese bombing raid of Chinese civilians hidden in caves or bomb shelters, you would see bits of arms or legs or other body parts strung up on telephone wires the next day as a result of the bombing? Or that in the streets, Japanese soldiers would spear Chinese babies on their bayonets, and laugh?
A haunted person—my mother—that’s who.
My mother told me those awful ghost stories and more, worse because of their inescapable truth, and I was all of 8, or 10, or 13 when I heard them. She was born 5 years after the Japanese imperial army occupied Manchuria, and her entire childhood was colored not only by the death of her father but by the Sino-Japanese war.
I did what children growing up in the reflected cathode-ray glow of American tv would do: I buried those stories deep underground like the people hidden in caves, trying to shelter my heart and my imagination from unspeakable, unimaginable things. But like those poor bombing victims, stray limbs would appear in the unlikeliest of places. Like my mother’s conversation.
One stray limb, or rather, an entire corpse, that refused to disappear was Iris Chang’s book, The Rape of Nanking. Memories like my mother’s, spread out across an entire generation of Chinese and further flung into the outer reaches of the diaspora, have haunted millions of Chinese whose cultural instincts are to stuff and swallow. There is only so much you can pretend to forget before it comes clawing up into your dreams and spilling out into conversation.
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