I’ve been living in Japan for many years.
One day, I boarded a train from Tokyo to Kyoto — not a bullet train, just a regular one. The speed wasn’t bad. Bullet trains are quite expensive, and since I had time, I thought it best not to spend extra money.
Regular trains in Japan can get quite crowded, but somehow, I managed to find a window seat. As the train moved away from the bustle of Tokyo, the scenery gradually turned greener.
I’ve always loved war movies. I was watching one of them on my phone — I often do. Ever since I left my country, my feelings for it have only grown stronger. Besides, the thought of soldiers leaving behind their families to fight and die for their nation has always fascinated me.
Next to me sat an elderly man, wearing a faint smile. Every now and then, he seemed to glance at my phone screen. When our eyes met, he leaned slightly toward me and said, “Hello.”
I politely introduced myself. The old man replied in a soft voice, “I’m Nishizaki. Do you like war films?”
I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “Watching soldiers fall in battle while singing songs of glory for their country — I can’t imagine a greater sacrifice than that.”
The old man looked at me seriously and asked, “Have you ever seen a war?”
I shook my head. “No.”
He lowered his head slightly, looking down at the floor, and said, “In 1942, I was only eighteen. During World War II, we were sent to die at the will of our rulers — to expand our empire and subjugate the world. I was forced to join the Japanese Navy. But before I left home, I made a promise to my mother.”
“Promise? What kind of promise?” I asked, surprised.
Through the golden rims of his glasses, he looked at me and said, “My mother made me promise that I would survive — and come back home alive.”
“We fought across the entire Pacific region,” he continued. “Once, while stationed on the island of Okayama, I was ordered to take part in a suicide mission. The mission failed, and we were captured.”
I stared at the old man — dressed in a white shirt and blue sweater — unable to look away.
He went on, “They lined us up before a firing squad. One by one, my comrades were executed. I don’t know why they didn’t kill me that day. Maybe because of that promise to my mother — that I would live and return home.”
As the train slowed for the next station, the old man stood up to leave. Before stepping away, he placed a hand on my shoulder, leaned close to my ear, and said, “I don’t know what kind of dialogues they write for dying soldiers in war movies — I never watch them. But, my friend, I have seen soldiers — both ours and the enemy’s — dying right in front of me. You haven’t seen war, but I have. I know how terrible it is.”
He paused for a moment to catch his breath, then continued, “Before dying, or right before taking a bullet, the young ones — boys like you — would cry out their mothers’ names. The older ones, they screamed their children’s names. I’m sorry, my friend, but in all my years as a soldier, I never saw anyone die shouting the name of their country or their emperor. Believe me.”
I turned off my phone.
