When I lived in Japan, the most fascinating stories I heard were from none other than the grannies and grandpas. They held no reservations and talked openly and freely about their memories, their thoughts, and their opinions. And since I was an American, they often told me stories about World War II. They weren’t negative or hateful stories, but merely tales told from the depths of their memories. Memories from a time long past. A Japan that no longer existed.
“I remember listening to the radio with my family, about possible air raids from America and instructions for going to the shelters,” one of my adopted grandmothers said as she set up dinner for us, a feast of Japanese oden, tempura, miso soup and fish. “I was so scared!”