by Charles DeBenedetto
(The main torii gate of the Meiji
Shrine. Photo Credit: planetyze.com)
The
train is crowded, but comfortable. Wearing our backpacks on the front, I stare
intently at the map, and keep glancing up at the LED screen to make sure I know
where we are and where to get off. As the doors open, the hot summer air
challenges the air-conditioning inside, and I’m already using my handkerchief
to wipe sweat away before we have even left the subway station.
We
walk for a few blocks, and notice that the streets are rather quiet, despite
the large number of pedestrians. We pass lots of tall buildings selling
familiar brands like Nike and Sony, but we are not interested in shopping. We
turn away from the buildings and toward the natural scenery of a forest path.
Quickly,
the already quiet street turns to silence as we leave the city behind. The road
is wide, and made of small stones. On the left-hand side is untended, lush
green undergrowth, and it looks as though it would be easy to get lost in it.
We hug the forest side and walk silently, thoughtfully, appreciating being
among nature after having spent the past few days engulfed by the
sensory-overload of the Tokyo metropolis. After walking for about fifteen
minutes, we reach a small wooden structure with flowing water inside. Designed
for purification, it is used for washing your hands and mouth so that you will
be more presentable to the gods.
We
are approaching the Meiji Shrine, one of the most famous Shinto shrines in
Japan, and dedicated to the late Meiji Emperor. Despite the Allies forcing
Emperor Hirohito to declare on national radio that the Japanese emperors are
not gods, the Meiji Shrine still exists to house the divine spirit of the
emperor. Turning a corner, we see in the foreground an extremely-large torii
gate.
The
torii gate is the divider between the mundane and the spiritual, and to step
through it is to enter the sacred space of the gods. Notably different than
Western religious traditions where “we are down here and God is up there,” in
Japanese religious tradition the gods are all around us, and shrines are simply
special places to house them. Ancient trees are gods, as are old rocks, oceans,
and anything that gives you a sense of awe. A Western person might see in the
Japanese gods signs of His work.
Getting
closer, I crane my neck to see the top of the wooden torii gate. It is twelve
meters tall (more than six times the height of an average adult), and each
pillar is much too large to wrap your arms around. Many people gape at it, or take
pictures of and with it, but few stop for long. I notice the
gold chrysanthemum crest of the royal family perched at the top, and I wonder
what kind of mighty tree could possibly have been used to make this.
A small
sign, partially covered by the overgrowing tree leaves, and largely ignored by
passerbys, reveals the answer. It reads:
Ō torii (the Grand Shrine
Gate)
This is the biggest wooden torii of
the myōjin
style in Japan…the material wood used is “hinoki” (Japanese cypress), 1,500
years-old from Mt. Tandai-san, Taiwan.
Simultaneously,
I think about many things.
First,
as the Japanese Shinto faith is about worshiping nature and living
harmoniously with nature, why then would they cut down a 1,500 year-old tree to
make a torii gate? Shouldn’t that be considered blasphemous, as certainly a
very ancient spirit would have resided within that tree?
Second,
what is the purpose of using the Japanese colonial name, “Mt. Tandai-san”? I
had never heard of “Mt. Tandai-san,” but after consulting Google, I realize
that the current name for that mountain is Mt. A-Li, the most famous
mountain in Taiwan. Using the Japanese name only serves to confuse the English
reader. I sense some nostalgia in the old name, remembering when “Mt.
Tandai-san” used to belong to the Japanese.
Finally,
why is this little sign so tucked away? Perhaps Taiwanese activist groups pressured
Japan to acknowledge that this torii gate, so important to the Japanese, was
actually made from an ancient Taiwanese tree. Although the sign does
acknowledge this fact, it acknowledges it in the most unnoticeable way possible.
Much like how Japanese schools teach the history
of the Japanese Empire, atrocities are downplayed and much is left out.
But
I have been to Mt. A-Li. I have seen the massive tree stumps, and the Japanese
trains that moved resources, not people, from the mountains to the coast, so
that wealth could leave Taiwan and benefit Japan. This was not just at Mt.
A-Li, but across the Japanese Empire, from Korea to Singapore. But this massive
torii gate, with a 1,500 year-old dead tree god inside, is a symbol of all
that.
We
pass through the torii, to the realm of the gods. Again, it is quiet, despite
the many people. Again, we walk silently, thoughtfully.
I
think about awe. That’s an interesting definition of what a god is: anything
that inspires awe. Looking at the ancient tree, I do feel awe-struck, and I
think about how much of human history that tree was witness to. But I am awed not just by nature, but also by the arrogance that
humans have to decide in one day to fell a tree that remembers the fall of the Roman Empire.
I
think about Taiwan, how it is just like that tree that became the torii gate. It is beautiful, but for most of recorded history it has belonged to everyone except the
Taiwanese. Like the tree, colonial Taiwan's beauty was thought of in terms of its value to the colonizer. My thoughts interrupt the tranquility, and I try to re-focus on the
sounds of the pebbles underfoot, and the green forest around us.
We
walk silently, thoughtfully.
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