Tora! Tora! Tora!

Those words, spoken into his radio by Captain Mitsuo Fuchida, the leader of the Japanese air fleet attacking Pearl Harbor December 7, 1941; code words telling his boss Admiral Yamamoto the attack was beginning. At our neighborhood movie theatre I watched the grainy, jerky newsreels of the battle a few days after it occurred, 70 years ago this week.

Local boys joined the Navy and came home in body bags. Tarawa, Midway, Iwo Jima, Subic Bay, Bataan Death March; the deadly details were my daily information diet.

A few years later I got a haircut at the Pearl Harbor base barber shop, where a yellowed hand-written sign on the still shattered and taped mirror bore the legend; “Courtesy of the Japanese Imperial Air Force 12/7/41”.

Captain Fuchida became a symbol of the loathsome “Japs”. Any American military man who could do him in was a shoo-in for a medal. Given the opportunity, I would have, without hesitation, done the job myself.

Ten years later I was having lunch with Mitsuo Fuchida in my hometown.

Slightly built, he was quiet, almost reserved, with the mien of a scholar rather than a fierce warrior who dealt in death. He spoke of his changed attitudes about the Pearl Harbor event and Japan’s reasons for starting World War II, and of his newfound life-changing faith.

He believed that Japan’s initiation of World War II had been a mistake. Disillusioned with his inherited religion that worshipped the emperor as God, he had converted to Christianity and was in the U.S. on the post-war evangelical speaking circuit, as I was. I met him as a colleague, a fellow believer; this man who I had hoped would be killed.

My friends were full of questions. “What did you talk about, what made the greatest impression on you? What were your feelings as you listened to what he said?”

Actually, I don’t recall that I had any particular reaction to the meeting, any emotions stirred, any profound reflections. I had met some important and impressive people; he was just another one. I was very young.

Over the years I seldom think about that meeting, except once a year. On December 7.

I think about the sad impossibility of eliminating war from the world, despite the seductive solipsism of hopeful dreamers. Everybody thinks the eradication of violence is a great idea until they are themselves violently attacked physically, economically, politically, then they become convinced they have no other recourse, that in protecting themselves they are protecting the world.

Sometimes they are correct. Fuchida’s conversion and genuine regret over the carnage carried out by his country didn’t turn him into a fuzzy-minded peacenik, nor did he adopt a no-war-no-more position. A patriotic and respected Japanese hero until his death in 1976, he believed the defeat of his country saved the world incalculable grief.

Especially in these tortured times I reflect on the shallow silliness of imputing inherent, immutable evil to be the essential nature of any race or nation, or of attributing inherent righteousness to any race or nation, including ourselves. I recall that religion is the first Horseman of The Apocalypse.

I think about the innate ability of humanity to heal. The sick madness of hate, vengeance, blood lust, the “kill-the-bastards-they-deserve-it” mentality rarely persists indefinitely, although the ongoing Israeli/ Palestinian mess seems to be an exception.

Some people call this inherent, invincible inclination to healing and peace the Spirit of God. I think they’re right.