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| (The unassuming entrance to Yuli Shrine. Photo Credit: K.H.) |
It's quiet, almost eerily so, despite being high noon. We walk past dogs lying limply in the shade
of their houses, then through a tunnel and under the tracks of a slow-moving
train. Coming out again, we turn a corner and an unfamiliar yet familiar sight
meets us.
There are two thick concrete pillars jutting out of the ground, with two horizontal crosspieces laying across their tops. It is a Japanese torii
gate, the symbolic entrance to the Japanese spirit world of Shinto, but its
concrete is ugly in comparison to the normal red-lacquered wood of Japanese
torii.
An English sign next to it reads:
Yuli Shinto Shrine is a culturally significant landmark. Damage or destruction of historical relics will result in at least five years in prison and a fine of up to 1,000,000 Taiwanese dollars.
I want to laugh at that, because even at the entrance, I
can tell that this place is falling apart.
Beyond the ugly torii, we ascend an enormous stone staircase, seemingly made for giants, and we look awkward as we lunge up each step. As we go higher and higher, I imagine that the view of the countryside would be beautiful from up here, but we are surrounded by low-growing trees and can see little beyond them. Japanese stone lanterns flank the staircase, as well as some broken stone slabs. We see another concrete torii at the top of the staircase, and just beyond it some teenagers are dancing to rap music, practicing their pops and drops.
Clearly, this place is not sacred anymore.
The music stops the moment we pass through the torii, and
they giggle their apologies, no longer feeling cool, but deeply embarrassed in
the presence of two adults who probably do not understand them anyway. Do they see us as adults? I wonder. How
quickly time passes, or maybe it’s just my somber expression that makes me look
older than I am.
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| (The second torii, and the dancers in the background. Photo Credit: K.H.) |
From the second torii, we have reached the top of our climb,
and we follow a wooden path for a little while before it ends abruptly and becomes nothing but loose stones. There are flowers and tall betelnut trees, and
to our left is a view of the town of Yuli. We can see many small, tin-roofed
houses, the railroad tracks that cross through rice paddies, and the Coastal
Mountain Range that separates this little valley from the thin sliver of
Pacific coast on the other side. It’s a breath-taking view, and was deliberately chosen as the view for the Japanese Shinto spirit to enjoy for
eternity. But as we walk to the end of the path, what we see is
barely recognizable as a Shinto shrine.
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| (The remains of the main worship halls. Photo Credit: K.H.) |
What would have been the outer worship hall is now a pile of
stone rubble, sectioned off with a wire fence. Some stones have a
distinguishable pattern on them, but most do not. Behind the outer worship hall, there is a well-preserved stone staircase, and at the top would have
been the most sacred inner worship hall, which would have literally enshrined
the essence of a god. Instead, there is nothing but some short grass.
What happened exactly? Did the people of Yuli burn down the
inner shrine and knock down the outer shrine after the Japanese left? Did the
Americans bomb it during the Pacific War? Did Chiang Kai-shek and the
Nationalist Party destroy it after taking control of Taiwan? All are possible, but I’m inclined to believe that the last
theory is most plausible, as the Nationalist Party’s hate for the Japanese was immeasurably deep. The fact that there are even concrete torii gates and some stone lanterns
left feels like a miracle.
* * *
As we walk past the dancers again, and down the giant steps, I
think about what this shrine probably meant to the Japanese who lived here.
Although the Japanese regime was abhorrent, the Japanese who lived
here were probably decent people, who did their jobs and lived their little
lives far-removed from the imperial government in Tokyo.
Those people came to this shrine to get married once. They
came here to pray. They came here for courage, before being enlisted in the
Japanese Imperial Army to fight the Allies. They came here to share their joys
and find solace for their sorrows. They came here to feel hope when they had
none, and to feel connected to a spirit much greater than their own. But to the
Taiwanese people, it is likely that they saw the Shinto shrine as a symbol of
oppression, of a colonial regime that they did not ask for and that did not
care about them.
Passing through the torii is often thought of as a spiritual homecoming, but here, it is not a gateway to a spirit world, but to a convoluted past.
* * *
With the ugly torii and the century-old rubble behind us, we walk back
into the quiet country town, where life is so simple and slow that the complicated history feels almost forgotten. Looking up beyond the town, we see the same green mountains that the Shinto god once looked at from its worship hall on the best real estate in town.
We can hear the click-clack of the lazy trains far ahead of
us, and in the air behind us, the faint echo of rap music.
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| (Walking back down again. Photo Credit: K.H.) |