Bob van Laerhoven: Return to Hiroshima

In the diffident light of a fading moon, I descend the path to the wooden pier, exhausted somehow by the incessant boom of the surf. On my right, massive waves crash against the concrete wall that surrounds this part of Hashima Island. Every few meters of my descent, I look over my shoulder. A lifetime of shadows and fears has sensitised me to presences. I can’t help wondering if Rokurobei knows that his minions call him the Serpent’s Neck, behind his back. Me, they call majo , the giant witch. They fear me, but I know that majo is no match for the serpent’s neck. I have the feeling that Rokurobei will materialize at any moment from behind the weathered concrete blocks next to the pier. I have apologies and lies at the ready, but will they suffice to slake his wrath?

The ship is waiting as I had commanded. Rokurobei tends to use burakumin as his servants, those of unclean descent. This is to my advantage. The captain wouldn’t dare question my orders. Recently, during daytime, I walked to the shore with a book in my hand. I’d told Rokurobei that I liked to read with the roar of the water in the background. I closed my eyes intermittently as I descended, to imitate the darkness that would confound my escape.

The night sky hangs low, ashen, the moon prowling behind restless clouds, pale red as a berry in spring. I carry a rucksack with a few belongings, some cash, my diaries, and the talisman. My breathing is fast, as if the blustering coastal wind has sucked away the oxygen. The instant my feet touch the rough wood of the pier, a lantern ahead of me sways to and fro then disappears, a sign that the captain is waiting for me, ready for departure. I can’t resist one final glance over my shoulder, up towards the eagle’s nest on the top of the tallest apartment building on the island. At that moment, the moon breaks through the clouds and magnifies Rokurobei’s silhouette, standing at the hand rail of the fortified wall. I freeze…Time skips a beat. Then I realise that the serpent’s neck is looking in the opposite direction; I sense he’s deep in thought, reflecting on who he once was and what he has become.

He never understood that to me Hashima Island was sakoku , a land enchained.

In the train to Hiroshima, I leaf through the old diaries I have taken with me from Hashima Island. On May 8th 1988, I’d written: “ Rokurobei hunts at night. Do not underestimate the demon’s power. When his victims hear his footsteps and see his long neck, it’s too late. He seduces if he can, kills if he must. Although his gentle nickname for me as a child was Aonyobo , a singing female spirit that haunts abandoned imperial palaces, it would be a mistake to overlook the Serpent Neck’s true nature, his capacity for violence.” I was a high-spirited teenager, hoping to fly with words.

Now I can only hope Rokurobei doesn’t find me. After fleeing Hashima Island, I only stayed in Nagasaki for five hours. I explained my conspicuous appearance by pretending to be the daughter of hibakusha , survivors of the atom bomb from the Second World War. My story sounded plausible: my parents were little more than infants when the bomb exploded and the radiation threw their endocrine system out of kilter, leaving me with an inherited genetic defect that made me grow up differently . People tended to be politely sympathetic, and some cautiously observed that I was a striking hibakusha of the second generation.

Fortunately, I have brought enough money with me from the island. I wasted time and money in those first hours, the result of having spent almost twenty years imprisoned on “ghost island” Hashima and thus a stranger to normal society. Although I have stayed abreast of developments on the mainland via newspapers and magazines, adjusting turns out to be more difficult than I expected. Hashima is only 15 kilometres off the coast of Nagasaki, and Rokurobei will have presumed that I fled to the city when I left the island. The only other city where I could hope to blend in was Hiroshima. Rokurobei was sure to figure that out sooner or later, but it still gave me something of a head start.

Fate came to my assistance on the train to Hiroshima. A woman in a veil was sitting opposite me and we got into a conversation. Her name was Akkira and she had converted to Islam. She took her religion seriously and wore a veil that covered her face as well as her hair. While we were talking, it gradually dawned on me that a chuddar like hers might come in handy. I feigned interest in Islam, and Akkira, a zealous recent convert, was clearly anxious to win me over. When we left the train at central station in Hiroshima, she took me with her to the Dambara Islamic Centre, an old building in a working class district of the city with a small brightly painted mosque. Akkira believed my story about being a second generation hibakusha without batting an eyelid. My height and loose fitting clothes concealed what was really going on with me. In any event, she made no allusion to it. I told her that my parents had died within weeks of each other. Her husband, a Muslim of Turkish origin, gave me permission to stay at the Centre while I prepared for my initiation as a believer. That was eight days ago and I’ve hardly been outside since, only at night. I know how merciless the one who is pursuing me can be. I’ve known him all my life. Rokurobei has connections with the police, the business world, politics, and the yakuza , the bigwigs of the underworld. I know how powerful he is, and I know about his origins.

He is a formidable enemy and I am a broken twenty-one year old woman.

The last few days I’ve had the feeling that the birth is about to happen. I’m afraid Akkira now has her suspicions. She’s discrete, says nothing, but I’ve seen her looking at me.

My water is about to break. Tonight I see Dr Kanehari.

Ifeel reasonably safe behind the chuddar that covers my face. Fortunately, Japan’s small Muslim population tends not to attract much attention. People pretend disinterest. We are a discrete people. I pass through the streets unimpeded. I deliberately asked for a late appointment with Dr Kanehari. The teachers at the Dambara Islamic Centre have kept me busy all day, studying Islam’s hundreds of rules and practices. Many of them are contradictory. The only moments I had to myself were at night in my room. I soon discovered that I could easily slip in and out of the place via a side door. I’m the only one living in the Centre on a permanent basis. After searching the telephone book for Dr Kanehari’s number, I rang him up and came straight to the point. He was confused at first when I told him I didn’t want to deliver in a hospital and that I wasn’t looking for an abortion. I had access to television on Hashima Island and in the last year to the internet. I was aware that many Japanese women resorted to abortion because the contraceptive pill isn’t legal. Just about every gynaecologist performs illegal abortions. It’s an excellent source of undeclared income, and something of a blessing after the collapse of the Japanese economy.