ZEN WAR STORIES

Following the critically acclaimed Zen at War (1997), Brian Daizen

Victoria here explores the intimate relationship between Japanese
institutional Buddhism and militarism during the Second World War.
Victoria reveals for the first time, through examination of the
wartime writings of the Japanese military itself, that the Zen school’s
view of life and death was deliberately incorporated into the military’s
programme of ‘spiritual education’ in order to develop a fanatical
military spirit in both soldiers and civilians. Furthermore, it is shown
that D. T. Suzuki, the most famous exponent of Zen in the West, was
a wartime proponent of this Zen-inspired viewpoint which enabled
Japanese soldiers to leave for the battlefield already resigned to
death. Victoria takes us on to the naval battlefield in the company of
warrior-monk and Rinzai Zen Master Nakajima Genjō. We view the
war in China through the eyes of a Buddhist military chaplain. The
book also examines the relationship to Buddhism of Japan’s seven
class-A war criminals, hung by the Tokyo War Crimes Tribunal in
1948.
A highly controversial study, this book will be of interest not only
to those studying the history of the period, but also to anyone
concerned with the perennial question of the ‘proper’ relationship
between religion and state.

Brian Daizen Victoria is a Senior Lecturer at the Centre for Asian

Studies, the University of Adelaide.
 THE ROUTLEDGECURZON CRITICAL
STUDIES IN BUDDHISM SERIES
General Editors: Charles S. Prebish and Damien
Keown

The RoutledgeCurzon Critical Studies in Buddhism Series is a

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The Series is diverse in its focus, including historical studies,
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THE REFLEXIVE NATURE OF AWARENESS

Paul Williams

BUDDHISM AND HUMAN RIGHTS

Edited by Damien Keown, Charles S. Prebish, Wayne Husted

ALTRUISM AND REALITY

Paul Williams

WOMEN IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE BUDDHA

 Kathryn R. Blackstone

THE RESONANCE OF EMPTINESS

Gay Watson

IMAGING WISDOM
Jacob N. Kinnard

AMERICAN BUDDHISM
Edited by Duncan Ryuken Williams and Christopher Queen

PAIN AND ITS ENDING

Carol S. Anderson

THE SOUND OF LIBERATING TRUTH

Edited by Sallie B. King and Paul O. Ingram

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EMPTINESS APPRAISED
David F. Burton

THE GLORIOUS DEEDS OF PURNA

Joel Tatelman

CONTEMPORARY BUDDHIST ETHICS

Edited by Damien Keown

INNOVATIVE BUDDHIST WOMEN

Edited by Karma Lekshe Tsomo

TEACHING BUDDHISM IN THE WEST

Edited by V.S. Hori, R.P. Hayes and J.M. Shields
 EMPTY VISION
David L. McMahan

SELF, REALITY AND REASON IN TIBETAN

PHILOSOPHY
Thupten Jinpa

BUDDHIST PHENOMENOLOGY
Dan Lusthaus
ZEN WAR STORIES

Brian Daizen Victoria

 by RoutledgeCurzon
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 DEDICATED TO ALL THOSE
WHOSE LIVES WERE STOLEN FROM THEM
IN THE NAME OF “HOLY WAR”
 CONTENTS

List of illustrations
Preface
Acknowledgements

PART I

1 The Zen master wept

2 Monks and soldiers move on their stomachs

3 The Zen of assassination

4 Ōmori Sōgen – the Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of Zen

5 Zen Master Dōgen goes to war – the militarist and anti-Semitic

writings of Yasutani Haku’un

6 Carrying Zen to China

7 Zen “selflessness” in Japanese Militarism

Section one: The General and the Zen master
Section two: Zen – the foundation of military spirit

PART II
 8 Buddhist war bereavement

9 Confessions of a Buddhist chaplain

10 Buddhism — the last refuge of war criminals

Section one: Colonel Tsuji Masanobu goes underground
Section two: Finding religion on death row

11 Buddhism - a top secret religion in wartime Japan

Epilogue
Postscript

Notes
Bibliography
Index
 ILLUSTRATIONS

1 Rinzai Zen Master Nakajima Genjō as a young priest.

2 Rinzai Zen Master Nakajima Genjō wearing the uniform of a
Japanese Imperial Navy sailor attached to the battleship Ise.
3 View of Nakajima Genjō’s ship, the Japanese Imperial Navy
battleship Ise.
4 Shōinji Temple located in the village of Hara in Shizuoka
Prefecture.
5 Rinzai Zen Master Omori Sōgen.
6 Sōtō Zen Master Yasutani Haku’un.
7 Nakajima’s master Rinzai Zen Master Yamamoto Gempo.
8 Female student corps at Meiji University undergoing bayonet
training.
9 The Japanese funerary hall located in the grounds of the Wat
Ratchaburana temple in Bangkok, Thailand.
 PREFACE

In late 1997 I published a book, Zen at War, that sent shock waves
throughout Zen communities in the West, for it demonstrated that
wartime Japanese Zen masters, almost to a man, had been fervent
supporters of Japanese militarism. Moreover, these masters claimed
the Buddha Dharma was itself synonymous with that militarism.
What was especially disconcerting to some readers was the fact that
many of those Japanese Zen masters who first introduced Zen to the
West, especially in the postwar era, turned out to have been some of
the strongest proponents of Japanese militarism, cloaking their
support in the guise of such phrases as “the unity of Zen and the
sword.”
I remember being deeply moved by one reader whose pained
reaction was posted on the Internet. He said simply, “What the hell
went wrong?” He went on to add that if my book had any failing, it
was that while I had done a good job in revealing the wartime deeds
and acts of Japan’s leading Zen figures, I had failed to interpret or
explain what it all meant within the context of Buddhism as a whole;
that is to say, is Zen, if not Buddhism, a totalitarian or ‘fascist’ faith?
This book is meant to address, at least to some degree, the
question of “what went wrong.” However, rather than using the
survey approach that characterized my earlier book, each chapter in
the present volume focuses on discrete events or personalities. Any
disjunction between chapters resulting from this approach will
hopefully be compensated for by the opportunity to take a more in-
depth look at the material. In any event, I have tried to include
sufficient background information in each chapter so that the reader
will find it unnecessary to have read Zen at War in order to make
sense of what is presented here: each book stands by itself,
although, taken together, they give a much broader and deeper
picture than either of them does alone.

Approach
I caution readers that this book, especially its first part, is not
intended as a description of the nature of Zen (or Buddhism as a
whole) in any theoretical or abstract sense. Rather, it describes what
a number of prominent Japanese Zen leaders believed or interpreted
Zen to be, primarily in the 1930s and 1940s. On the other hand,
material in the second part has a broader focus, showing that
Buddhist support for Japanese militarism was by no means limited to
the Zen school alone.
Let me also point out that my conflated use of the words
“Buddhism,” “Mahāyāna Buddhism,” and “Zen” is done if not quite
purposely then at least consciously - I seek to introduce readers to
the way in which these terms were used by the principals
themselves at the time. If contemporary scholars of Buddhism must
of necessity distinguish between these terms, we must also
recognize that for most believers of Buddhism (or any religion for
that matter) their “sectarian viewpoints” represent, at least to them,
the essence if not the totality of their faith. This attitude was
embodied in the 1930s by Sōtō Zen Master Iida Toin (1863-1937)
who wrote: “Zen is the general repository for Buddhism.”1 Thus, in
seeking to understand the (Zen) Buddhist faith of those introduced in
this book, we must, at least initially, seek to understand Buddhism as
they themselves understood it.
No doubt some readers will be disappointed to learn that despite
the title of this book, Zen War Stories, there are only two chapters
(chapters 1 and 9) that relate actual “battlefield tales.” As far as Zen
is concerned, it is only Zen Master Nakajima Genjō who describes
his experience on the naval battlefield. Nevertheless, I dare to call
the entire book by this name because every chapter in Part I does
describe one or another aspect of Zen’s support for Japanese
militarism. The material in Part II, as previously noted, reinforces the
fact that the Zen school was by no means the only Buddhist
organization in Japan to have lent its support.
As this book reveals, the major focus of the Zen school’s wartime
support was on the “home front” in what was designated at the time
as shisō-sen, lit. “thought warfare.” Hence the bulk of this book
seeks to illuminate this critical dimension of modern-day “total war.”
The reader will, therefore, not find any tales here of Zen-inspired
soldiers wielding their samurai swords (or bayonets) in order to
“mindlessly,” “selflessly,” and “compassionately” strike down their
opponents à la D. T. Suzuki and his ilk. Instead, this book is primarily
about the ideology, especially the spiritual ideology, that sustained
and “inspired” Japan’s soldiers on the battlefield and its civilians at
home.

Stance
To my mind, a critical analysis of just how the Buddha Dharma was
used to legitimate Japanese militarism is far, far more important than
revelations about the militarist connections of any one particular Zen
master. Nevertheless, since the appearance of Zen at War, a
number of western Zen teachers have invested considerable time
and effort in defending their particular Zen lineage from the charge of
war collaboration. Yet, with the laudable exception of David Brazier
in his recent book The New Buddhism, few of these teachers have
analyzed, let alone criticized, the doctrinal interpretations of the
Buddha Dharma once used by Japanese Zen masters to justify the
mass killing of their fellow human beings.
While I make no claim to have provided such detailed analyses
myself, each chapter in this book does include my own interpretation
of the material presented. No doubt some readers will take offense
at what they perceive as my “moralistic” if not “judgmental” stance. In
contemporary academe it often seems that “detached (if not
indifferent) objectivity” is the only acceptable stance for the academic
author to adopt.
 As a reaction to what in times past has often been the bigoted, if
not hypocritical, stance taken by western scholars toward Asia in
general, and Asian religion in particular, I am very sympathetic to
those who demand the highest standards of objectivity from
Asianists. I well remember having been first introduced to the study
of Buddhism through the works of Christian missionary scholars who
claimed:

According to Buddha, complete annihilation is man’s

summun bonum; whence it follows, that atheism,
materialism, or the most absolute scepticism, is in reality
the sole doctrine of Buddhism. The followers of Buddhist
doctrine at the present day are delivered up to ignorance
and immorality, and their rulers are tyrannical and cruel.
The doctrine of Śākyamuni, after its expulsion from India, is
followed in connection with all the iniquities and absurdities
of the idolatrous worship with which it is allied.2

As recently as 1963, the distinguished German scholar of Zen,

Heinrich Dumoulin, concluded his A History of Zen Buddhism as
follows: “As a mystical phenomenon, the satori experience is
imperfect. No human effort to attain enlightenment, no matter how
honest and self-sacrificing, can ever lead to the perfect truth, but
only the eternal Logos ‘who coming into the world enlightens every
man’ (John 1:9).”3 In light of prejudiced statements like these, who
would not cry out for unbiased scholarship?
Nevertheless, Buddhism has been, from its inception more than
2,500 years ago, a profoundly moral religion, with no more important
precept than abstention from taking life. Stanza 130 of the
Dhammapada, for example, records Śākyamuni Buddha as saying:

All tremble at punishment,

Life is dear to all
Comparing others with oneself,
One should neither kill nor cause to kill.4
Furthermore, in the Mahāyāna tradition, the Brahmajala Sūtra
teaches that followers who take the vows of a bodhisattva should not
participate in war. This sutra, as Peter Harvey notes,

forbids detention of anyone, or the storing of any kind of

weapons, or taking part in any armed rebellion. [Followers]
should not be spectators of battles, nor should they kill,
make another kill, procure the means of killing, praise
killing, approve of those who help in killing, or help through
magical chants.5

Yet, despite injunctions of this kind, modern-day exponents of

Buddhism to the West like D. T. Suzuki have not hesitated to claim
that Zen, as the essence of Buddhism, “transcends morality.”6
However, not all Zen practitioners agree, for as American Sōtō Zen
Master John Daido Loori notes:

Enlightenment and morality are one. Enlightenment without

morality is not true enlightenment. Morality without
enlightenment is not complete morality.… Somehow,
teachers in the East and West have tended to shy away
from writing about the precepts, perhaps fearing being
categorized as moralists.7

Whatever other faults this book may have, shying away from a
discussion of the precept forbidding the taking of life is not one of
them. And as far as being judgmental is concerned, it was
Śākyamuni Buddha who, responding to a query from a professional
soldier, informed him that were the latter to die on the battlefield he
could expect to be “reborn in a hell or as an animal” for his
transgressions.8 Inasmuch as I make no claim to omniscience for
myself, I do not know in what state, or even if, the protagonists in this
book will be reborn. But, like the Buddha himself, I do not hesitate to
judge them on the basis of their deeds, whether of body or speech.

Precautions
This said, I do recognize the ever-present danger of misinterpreting
the historical record. That is to say, I am dedicated to the proposition
that the material presented in this book be neither twisted nor
distorted to serve the writer’s own prejudices. Toward this end, to the
greatest extent possible my protagonists present their story in their
own words, not mine. Of necessity, this requires the frequent use of
long quotations, a practice some readers may find tiresome if not
repetitive. While I regret this, I do so in the hope that whatever other
faults this book may have, taking quotations out of context is not one
of them. This book may therefore even be regarded as a
“sourcebook” of wartime pronouncements by Zen and other
institutional Buddhist leaders, both lay and clerical.
Closely related to the above has been my attempt to include any
material that might serve to counteract, or even justify, what might
otherwise be regarded as the pro-war stance of those introduced.
Who better to defend themselves against the charge of war
collaboration than those implicated? This said, it must be pointed out
that nearly all of the justifications included in this book were originally
written with a Japanese audience in mind. What may serve to
convince Japanese readers may not be equally convincing to non-
Japanese.
Finally, I have endeavoured to make it clear to readers where my
own commentary both begins and ends. Hopefully, whether or not
readers agree with me, there will at least be no confusion as to what
is historical fact versus my interpretation of the same. While not
expecting unanimity of opinion, I do hope the reader will be
prompted to further explore the critically important issues raised
here. Like its predecessor Zen at War, this book is but a further step
on the road to understanding the reasons behind the slavish
subservience of Zen leaders to Japanese militarism. Thus, this book
is not designed to end debate on Zen-endorsed “holy war” but to
provoke it.
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

In writing this book I have once again enjoyed the support and
understanding of a number of academic colleagues, as well as fellow
Buddhists who, like myself, continue to struggle with the meaning of
the events I describe, not least in terms of its meaning for their own
spiritual life. I would particularly like to express my appreciation to
Stuart Lachs and David Loy who, thanks to the magic of the Internet,
were able to read and critique early drafts of particular chapters in
this book. They have been true “Dharma friends.” I am also indebted
to historians Herbert Bix and Yoshida Yutaka at Hitotsubashi
University in Tokyo for sharing with me their penetrating insights into
the wartime period as well as helping me locate relevant documents.
John Makeham, a colleague at the University of Adelaide,
contributed to my understanding of the influence of indigenous
Chinese thought on the development of East Asian Buddhism.
Nevertheless, any faults and omissions contained in this book are
entirely my own.
As in Zen at War, I have continued the practice of writing
Japanese names in the traditional manner, i.e. family name first and
personal name last. Further, after first mention, Buddhist priests are
referred to by their religious rather than family names - for example,
Nakajima Genjō in chapter 1 is referred to as Genjō after first
mention. The only exceptions to this are references to Zen Masters
Harada Daiun Sōgaku and his disciple Yasutani Haku’un who are
best known in the West by their surnames. As for rendering Chinese
into English, I have employed the pin-yin system of romanization
though, on occasion, I have augmented this with the older Wade-
Giles system in the interest of clarity.
 Notes referring to material found on the same or immediately
adjoining pages of a single source have sometimes been telescoped
together. In such cases, the last numerical citation in a paragraph
refers to all preceding quotations lacking a citation. Complete source
citations are provided in the appendices under “Bibliography.”
Macrons have been used to indicate long vowels, with the exception
of such words as Tokyo and Bushido, which are already familiar to
English readers. Sanskrit terms are rendered complete with
diacritical marks.
I have been most fortunate to have had an understanding and
patient, not to mention knowledgeable, editor in Rachel Saunders at
RoutledgeCurzon. In addition, the patient advice and support
provided by the series editor, Charles Prebish, has proved
invaluable. Finally, I wish to thank you, my reader, for investing both
your time and money in this book. I very much look forward to
hearing your reactions and critiques, for over the years readers have
been among my very best teachers.
Part I
 1

THE ZEN MASTER WEPT

In late January 1999 I travelled to the village of Hara in Japan’s

Shizuoka Prefecture to visit Zen Master Nakajima Genjō (1915–
2000), the 84-year-old abbot of Shōinji temple and head of the
Hakuin branch of the Rinzai Zen sect. Shōinji is famous as the home
temple of Zen Master Hakuin Ekaku (1685–1768), the great
medieval reformer of Rinzai Zen. Although I didn’t know it at the
time, Genjō had little more than another year to live.
Genjō, I learned, had first arrived at Shōinji when he was only
twelve and formally entered the priesthood at the age of fifteen.
Eventually he became a Dharma successor of Yamamoto Gempō
(1866–1961), who was abbot of both Shōinji and nearby Ryūtakuji
temples, and one of the most highly respected and influential Rinzai
masters of the modern era. In the immediate postwar period, Gempō
was selected to head the entire Myōshinji branch of the Rinzai Zen
sect.
In the course of our conversation, Genjō informed me that he had
served in the Imperial Japanese Navy for some ten years, voluntarily
enlisting at the age of twenty-one. Significantly, the year prior to his
enlistment Genjō had his initial enlightenment experience (kenshō).
Having previously written about the role of Zen and Zen masters
in wartime Japan, I was quite moved to meet at last a living Zen
master who had served in the military. That Genjō was in the Rinzai
Zen tradition made the encounter even more meaningful, for as
readers of Zen at War will recall, none of the many branches of that
sect have ever formally expressed the least regret for their fervent
support of Japanese militarism. Given this, I could not help but
wonder what Genjō would have to say about his own role, as both
enlightened priest and seasoned warrior, in a conflict that claimed
the lives of so many millions.
To my surprise, Genjō readily agreed to share his wartime
experiences with me, but, shortly after he began to speak, tears
welled up in his eyes and his voice cracked. Overcome by emotion,
he was unable to continue. By this time his tears had triggered my
own, and we both sat round the temple’s open hearth crying for
some time. When at length Genjō regained his composure, he
informed me that he had just completed writing his autobiography,
including a description of his years in the military.
Genjō promised to send me a copy of his book as soon as it was
published. True to his word, at the beginning of April 1999 I received
a slim volume in the mail entitled Yasoji o koete (Beyond Eighty
Years). The book contained a number of photos including one of him
as a handsome young sailor in the navy and another of the
battleship Ise on which he initially served. Although somewhat
abridged, this is his story.1 It should be borne in mind, however, that
his reminiscences were written for a Japanese audience.

In the Imperial Navy

Enlistment
I enlisted in the Imperial Japanese Navy in 1936. On the morning I
was to leave, Master [Yamamoto] Gempō accompanied me as far as
the entrance to the temple grounds. He pointed to a nearby small
shed housing a water wheel and said

Look at that water wheel, as long as there is water, the wheel

keeps turning. The wheel of the Dharma is the same. As long
as the self-sacrificing mind of a bodhisattva is present, the
Dharma is realized. You must exert yourself to the utmost to
ensure that the water of the bodhisattva mind never runs out.
Master Gempō required that I leave the temple dressed in the garb
of an itinerant monk, complete with conical wicker hat, robes, and
straw sandals. This was a most unreasonable requirement, for I
should have been wearing the simple uniform of a member of the
youth corps.
I placed a number of Buddhist sūtras including the Platform Sūtra
of the Sixth Zen Patriarch in my luggage. In this respect I and the
master were of one mind. While I had no time to read anything
during basic training, once assigned to the battleship Ise I did have
days off. The landlady where I roomed in Hiroshima was very kind,
and my greatest pleasure was reading the recorded sayings of the
Zen patriarchs.
In the summer of 1937 I was granted a short leave and returned
to visit Master Gempō at Shōinji. It was clear that the master was not
the least bit worried that I might die in battle. “Even if a bullet comes
your way,” he said, “it will swerve around you.” I replied, “But bullets
don’t swerve!” “Don’t tell me that,” he remonstrated, “you came back
this time, didn’t you?” “Yes, that’s true …” I said, and we both had a
good laugh.
While I was at Shōinji that summer I successfully answered the
Master’s final queries concerning the kōan known as “Zhaozhou’s
Mu” [in which Zhaozhou answers “Mu” (nothing/naught) when asked
if a dog has the Buddha nature]. I had grappled with this kōan for
some five years, even in the midst of my life in the navy. I recall that
when Master Gempō first gave me this kōan, he said: “Be the
genuine article, the real thing! Zen priests mustn’t rely on the
experience of others. Do today what has to be done today. Tomorrow
is too late!”
Plate 1 Rinzai Zen Master Nakajima Genjō as a young priest. Courtesy Nakajima
Genjō.

Plate 2 Rinzai Zen Master Nakajima Genjō wearing the uniform of a Japanese Imperial
Navy sailor attached to the battleship Ise. Courtesy Nakajima Genjō.
 Plate 3 View of Nakajima Genjō’s ship, the Japanese Imperial Navy battleship Ise.
Courtesy Nakajima Genjō.

Plate 4 Shōinji Temple located in the village of Hara in Shizuoka Prefecture. Both Zen
Master Nakajima Genjō and Inoue Nisshō trained here. In prewar Japan this
temple was headed by Rinzai Zen Master Yamamoto Gempō. Courtesy
Nakajima Genjō.

Master Gempō next assigned me the most difficult kōan of all, i.e.
the sound of one hand. [Note: this kōan is often wrongly translated
as “the sound of one hand clapping”] “The sound of one hand is
none other than Zen Master Hakuin himself. Don’t treat it lightly. Give
it your best!” the master admonished.
Inasmuch as I would soon be returning to my ship, Master
Gempō granted me a most unusual request. He agreed to allow me
to present my understanding of this and subsequent kōans to him by
letter rather than in the traditional personal encounter between Zen
master and disciple. This did not represent, however, any lessening
of the master’s severity but was a reflection of his deep affection for
the Buddha Dharma. In any event, I was able to return to my ship
with total peace of mind, and nothing brought me greater joy in the
navy than receiving a letter from my master.

War in China
In 1937 my ship was made part of the Third Fleet and headed for
Shanghai in order to participate in military operations on the Yangzi
river. Despite the China Incident [of July 1937] the war was still fairly
quiet. On our way up the river I visited a number of famous temples
as military operations allowed. We eventually reached the city of
Zhenjiang where the temple of Jinshansi is located. This is the
temple where Kūkai, [ninth-century founder of the esoteric Shingon
sect in Japan], had studied on his way to Changan. It was a very
famous temple, and I encountered something there that took me by
complete surprise.
On entering the temple grounds I came across some five
hundred novice monks practicing meditation in the meditation hall.
As I was still young and immature, I blurted out to the abbot,

What do you think you’re doing! In Japan everyone is

consumed by the war with China, and this is all you can do?
[The abbot replied,] And just who are you to talk! I hear that
you are a priest. War is for soldiers. A priest’s work is to read
the sūtras and meditate!

The abbot didn’t say any more than this, but I felt as if I had been hit
on the head with a sledgehammer. As a result I immediately became
a pacifist.
Not long after this came the capture of Nanjing (Nanking).
Actually we were able to capture it without much of a fight at all. I
have heard people claim that a great massacre took place at
Nanjing, but I am firmly convinced there was no such thing. It was
wartime, however, so there may have been a little trouble with the
women. In any event, after things start to settle down, it is pretty
difficult to kill anyone.
After Nanjing we fought battle after battle and usually
experienced little difficulty in taking our objectives. In July 1940 we
returned to Kure in Japan. From then on there were unmistakable
signs that the Japanese Navy was about to plunge into a major war
in East Asia. One could see this from the movements of the ships
though if we had let a word slip out about this, it would have been
fatal. All of us realized this so we said nothing. In any event, we all
expected that a big war was coming.
In the early fall of 1941 the Combined Fleet assembled in full
force for a naval review in Tokyo Bay. And then, on 8 December, the
Greater East Asia War began. I participated in the attack on
Singapore as part of the Third Dispatched Fleet. From there we went
on to invade New Guinea, Rabaul, Bougainville, and Guadalcanal.

A losing war
The Combined Fleet had launched a surprise attack on Hawaii. No
doubt they imagined they were the winners, but that only shows the
extent to which the stupidity of the navy’s upper echelon had already
begun to reveal itself. US retaliation came at the Battle of Midway [in
June 1942] where we lost four of our prized aircraft carriers.
On the southern front a torpedo squadron of the Japanese Navy
had, two days prior to the declaration of war, succeeded in sinking
the British battleship Prince of Wales and the battle cruiser Repulse
on the northern side of Singapore. Once again the navy thought they
had won, but this, too, was in reality a defeat.
These two battles had the long term effect of ruining the navy.
That is to say, the navy forgot to use this time to take stock of itself.
This resulted in a failure to appreciate the importance of improving
its weaponry and staying abreast of the times. I recall having read
somewhere that Admiral Yamamoto Isoroku [1884–1943],
commander of the Combined Fleet, once told the emperor: “The
Japanese Navy will take the Pacific by storm.” What an utterly stupid
thing to say! With commanders like him no wonder we didn’t stand a
chance.
In 1941 our advance went well, but the situation changed from
around the end of 1942. This was clear even to us lower-ranking
petty officers. I mean by this that we had started to lose.
One of our problems was that the field of battle was too spread
out. The other was the sinking of the American and British ships
referred to above. I said that we had really lost when we thought we
had won because the US, learning from both of these experiences,
thoroughly upgraded its air corps and made air power the centre of
its advance. This allowed the US to gain air superiority while Japan
remained glued to the Zero as the nucleus of its air wing. The
improvements made to American aircraft were nothing short of
spectacular.
For much of 1942 the Allied Forces were relatively inactive while
they prepared their air strategy. Completely unaware of this, the
Japanese Navy went about its business acting as if there were
nothing to worry about. Nevertheless, we were already losing ships
in naval battles with one or two hundred men on each of them.
Furthermore, when a battleship sank we are talking about the tragic
loss of a few thousand men in an instant.
As for the naval battles themselves, there are numerous military
histories around, so I won’t recount them here. Instead, I would like
to relate some events that remain indelibly etched in my mind.

Tragedy in the South Seas

The first thing I want to describe is the situation that existed on the
islands in the south. Beginning in 1943 we gradually lost control of
the air as the US made aerial warfare the core of its strategy. This
also marked the beginning of a clear differentiation in the productive
capacity of the two nations.
It was also in the spring of that year that my ship was hit by a
torpedo off the coast of Hainan island. As I drifted in the South China
Sea, I groaned caught in the realm of desire, hovering between life
and death. Kōans and reciting the name of Amitābha Buddha were
meaningless. There was nothing else to do but totally devote myself
to Zen practice within the context of the ocean itself. It would be a
shame to die here I thought, for I wanted to return to being a Zen
priest. Therefore I single-mindedly devoted myself to making every
possible effort to survive, abandoning all thought of life and death. It
was just at that moment that I freed myself from life and death.
This freedom from life and death was in reality the realization of
great enlightenment (daigo). I placed my hands together in my mind
and bowed down to venerate the Buddha, the Zen Patriarchs, their
Dharma descendants, and especially Master Gempō. I wanted to
meet my master so badly, but there was no way to contact him. In
any event, all of the unpleasantness I had endured in the navy for
the past seven years disappeared in an instant.
Returning to the war itself, without control of the air, and in the
face of overwhelming enemy numbers, our soldiers lay scattered
about everywhere. From then on they faced a wretched fate. To be
struck by bullets and die is something that for soldiers is
unavoidable, but for comrades to die from sickness and starvation is
truly sad and tragic. That is exactly what happened to our soldiers on
the southern front, especially those on Guadalcanal, Rabaul,
Bougainville, and New Guinea. In the beginning none of us ever
imagined that disease and starvation would bring death to our
soldiers.
As I was a priest, I recited such sūtras as Zen Master Hakuin’s
Hymn in Praise of Meditation (Zazen Wasan) on behalf of the spirits
of my dying comrades. Even now as I recall their pitiful mental state
at the moment of death I am overcome with sorrow, tears rolling
uncontrollably down my cheeks.
Given the pitiful state of our marooned and isolated comrades,
we in the navy frantically tried to carry them back to the safety of our
ships. I recall one who, clutching a handful of military currency,
begged us to give him a cigarette. Our ship’s doctor had ordered us
not to provide cigarettes to such men, but we didn’t care. In this
case, the soldier hadn’t even finished half of his cigarette when he
expired. Just before he died, and believing that he was safe at last,
he smiled and said, “Now I can go home.”
Another soldier secretly told me just how miserable and wretched
it was to fight a war without air supremacy. On top of that, the
firepower commanded by each soldier hadn’t changed since the
1920s. It was both heavy and ineffective, just the opposite of what
the Americans had. Thus the inferiority in weapons only further
contributed to our defeat.
It was Guadacanal that spelled the end for so many of my
comrades. One of the very few survivors cried and cried as he told
me: “One morning I woke up to discover that my comrade had cut
the flesh off his thigh before he died. It was as if he were telling me
to eat it.”
There were so many more tragic things that happened, but I can’t
bear to write about them. Forgive me, my tears just won’t let me.

Characteristics of the Japanese military

In the past, Japan was a country that had always won its wars. In the
Meiji era [1868–1912] military men had character and a sense of
history. Gradually, however, the military was taken over by men who
did well in school and whose lives were centred on their families. It
became a collection of men lacking in intestinal fortitude and vision.
Furthermore, they suffered from a lack of Japanese spirit and
ultimately allowed personal ambition to take control of their lives.
In speaking of the Japanese spirit I am referring to the august
mind of the great Sun Goddess Amaterasu. Forgetting this, men in
the military were praised as having spirit when they demonstrated
they were physically stronger than others. This turned the Japanese
Spirit into a joke!
Nevertheless, officers graduated from the naval academy
thinking like this and lorded it over their pitiful subordinates. The
officers failed to read those books so important to being human, with
the result that by the end of the war the Japanese Navy had turned
into a group of fools.
As for enlisted men, volunteers were recruited at such a young
age they still hadn’t grown pubic hair on their balls. Gutless men
trained these recruits who eventually became senior enlisted men
themselves and the cycle repeated. And what was the result? A
bunch of thoughtless, senior enlisted personnel! I was dumbfounded,
for it meant the end of the Japanese Navy.
If only the officers at least had thoroughly read Sunzi’s Art of War
and books on western and Chinese history. If they had firmly kept in
mind what they learned from such books it would have influenced
their military spirit whether they wanted it to or not. How different
things would have been had this kind of study been driven home at
the naval academy.
If, prior to our invasion, a senior officer had taken six or so junior
officers with him to thoroughly survey such places as New Guinea,
Rabaul, Guadalcanal etc., I don’t think they ever would have sent
troops there. The same can be said for our naval attachés stationed
abroad. Things would have been different had they thoroughly
investigated the latent industrial and military potential of the
countries they were assigned to.
The national polity of Japan is characterized by the fact that ours
is a land of the gods. The gods are bright and like water, both
aspects immeasurable by nature. Furthermore, they undergo
constant change, something we refer to in the Buddha Dharma as a
“mysterious realm.” Eternal and unbroken, these gods have existed
down to the present-day. Stupid military men, however, thought: “A
country that can fight well is a land of the gods. The gods will surely
protect such a country.” I only wish that the top echelons of the
military had absorbed even a little of the spirit of the real national
polity.
The Japanese military of recent times was an organization that
swaggered around in the name of the emperor. To see what it was
like earlier, look at [army hero of the Russo-Japanese war of 1904–5]
Field Marshal Ōyama Iwao [1842–1916] from the Satsuma clan, the
very model of a military man. Likewise, [naval hero of the Russo-
Japanese war] Admiral Tōgō Heihachirō [1847–1934] was a true
man of war.
I will stop my discussion at this point by tearfully acknowledging
just how hellish the world was that these more recent stupid officers
produced. Thus it is only with my tears that I am able to write these
sentences, sentences I send to my beloved war comrades who now
reside in the spirit world.

Final comments
This was a stupid war. Engulfed in a stupid war, there was nothing I
could do. I wish to apologize, from the bottom of my heart, to those
of my fellow soldiers who fell in battle. As I look back on it now, I
realize that I was in the navy for a total of ten years. For me, those
ten years felt like an eternity. And it distresses me to think of all the
comrades I lost.

Author’s remarks
Upon reading Genjō’s words, I could not help but feel deeply
disappointed. This disappointment stemmed from the realization that
while I and Genjō had shed tears together, we were crying about
profoundly different things. Genjō’s tears were devoted to one thing
and one thing only - his fallen comrades. As the reader has
observed, Genjō referred over and over again to the overwhelming
sadness and regret he felt at seeing his comrades die not so much
from enemy action as from disease and starvation.
One gets a strong impression that as far as Genjō is concerned
what was “wrong” about the “Greater East Asia War” was not the war
itself, but that, unlike its earlier wars, Japan had been defeated.
Whereas previously, Japanese military leaders had been “men of
character,” the officers of his era were a bunch of gutless bookworms
seeking only to advance their own careers. The problem was not that
Japan had invaded China and occupied numerous Asian countries,
let alone attacked the USA, but that his superiors had recklessly
stationed troops in areas, especially in the South Seas, that were
indefensible once Japan lost air superiority.
While at a purely human level I can empathize with Genjō’s
sense of loss, my own tears were not occasioned by the deaths of
those Japanese soldiers, sailors, and airmen who left their homeland
to wreak havoc throughout Asia and the Pacific. Rather, I had cried
for all those, Japanese and non-Japanese alike, who so needlessly
lost their lives due to Japan’s aggressive policies.

Nanjing massacre
To my mind, the most frightening and unacceptable aspect of
Genjō’s comments is his complete and utter indifference to the pain
and suffering of the victims of Japanese aggression. It is as if they
never existed. The one and only time Genjō refers to the victims, i.e.
at the fall of Nanjing, it is to tell us that no massacre occurred. Had
Genjō limited himself to what he, as a shipboard sailor at Nanjing,
had personally witnessed, one could at least accept his words as an
honest expression of his own experience. Instead, he claims, without
presenting a shred of evidence, that the whole thing never occurred.
Yoshida Yutaka, one of Japan’s leading scholars on events at
Nanjing, described the Japanese Navy’s role as follows:

Immediately after Nanjing’s fall, large numbers of defeated

Chinese soldiers and civilian residents of the city attempted to
escape by using small boats or even the doors of houses to
cross the Yangzi river. However, ships of the Imperial Navy
attacked them, either strafing them with machine-gun fire or
taking pot shots at them with small arms. Rather than a battle
this was more like a game of butchery.2

In addition, Japanese military correspondent Omata Yukio provides a

graphic eyewitness account of what he saw happen to Chinese
prisoners at Nanjing lined up along the Yangzi riverbanks:
 Those in the first row were beheaded, those in the second row
were forced to dump the severed bodies into the river before
they themselves were beheaded. The killing went on non-stop,
from morning until night, but they were only able to kill 2,000
persons in this way. The next day, tired of killing in this fashion,
they set up machine guns. Two of them raked a cross-fire at
the lined-up prisoners. Rat-a-tat-tat. Triggers were pulled. The
prisoners fled into the water, but no one was able to make it to
the other shore.3

Needless to say, Genjō was not the only Japanese military man to
deny that anything like a massacre ever took place at Nanjing. One
of the commanders leading the attack on the city, Lt. General
Yanagawa Heisuke (1879–1945), later dismissed all such allegations
as based on nothing more than “groundless rumours.” His soldiers,
he claimed, were under such strict military discipline that they even
took care to wear slippers when quartered in Chinese homes.4
These denials notwithstanding, the numerous eye-witness
accounts, including those by western residents of the city, not to
mention such recent books as Iris Chang’s 1997 The Rape of
Nanking, graphically document the widespread brutal and rapacious
conduct of the Japanese military at Nanjing if not throughout the rest
of China and Asia. It therefore borders on the obscene to have a
self-proclaimed “fully enlightened” Zen master like Genjō deny a
massacre took place at Nanjing while admitting “there may have
been a little trouble with the women.”
Compare Genjō’s admission with an interview for the 1995
documentary film In the Name of the Emperor given by Azuma Shirō,
the first Japanese veteran to publicly admit what he and his fellows
soldiers had done in Nanjing:

At first we used some kinky words like Bikankan. Bi means

“hip,” kankan means “look.” Bikankan means, “Let’s see a
woman open up her legs.” Chinese women didn’t wear
underpants. Instead, they wore trousers tied with a string.
There was no belt. As we pulled the string, the buttocks were
exposed. We “Bikankan” We looked. After a while we would
 say something like, “It’s my day to take a bath,” and we took
turns raping them. It would be all right if we only raped them. I
shouldn’t say all right. But we always stabbed and killed them.
Because dead bodies don’t talk.5

In attempting to explain the rationale behind the conduct of

Japanese soldiers at Nanjing, Iris Chang, among others, points to
their religious faith as one of the key factors in making such conduct
possible. She writes: “Imbuing violence with holy meaning, the
Japanese Imperial Army made violence a cultural imperative every
bit as powerful as that which propelled Europeans during the
Crusades and the Spanish Inquisition.”6 (Chapter 9 contains yet
another eye-witness account of Japanese military brutality in China.)
From a doctrinal point of view, Japan’s Shinto faith cannot
escape culpability for having turned Japan’s military enterprise into a
“holy war.” That is to say, it is Shinto that has long asserted that
Japan is a divine land ruled over by an emperor deemed to be a
divine descendant of the Sun Goddess Amaterasu. Thus, any act
sanctioned by this divine ruler must necessarily be a divine
undertaking. Yet, as this book and my earlier Zen At War amply
demonstrate, this world view was adopted in toto into the belief
system of Japan’s Buddhist leaders, most especially those affiliated
with the Zen school. Genjō’s contemporary reference to Japan as a
“land of the gods” is but further evidence that, at least as far as he
was concerned, it still is.

Pacifism
Genjō’s encounter with the Chinese abbot of Jinshansi is, at least in
terms of his Buddhist faith, one of the most memorable parts of his
memoirs, for it clearly reveals a head-on clash of values. On the one
side stands Buddhism’s universal commitment to non-killing. On the
other side is the Japanese military’s willingness to engage in mass
killing as an instrument of national policy. Genjō was a Buddhist
priest, yet he was also a member of the Japanese military. What was
he to do?
 “I felt as if I had been hit on the head with a sledgehammer,”
Genjō states before adding “as a result I immediately became a
pacifist.” As promising as his dramatic change of heart first appears,
nowhere does Genjō demonstrate that it had the slightest effect on
his subsequent conduct, i.e. on his willingness to fight and kill in the
name of the emperor. This suggests that in practice Genjō’s newly
found pacifism amounted to little more than “feel good, accomplish
nothing” mental masturbation.
In fact, during a second visit to Shōinji in January 2000, I
personally queried Genjō on this very point: I asked him why he
hadn’t attempted, in one way or another, to distance himself from
Japan’s war effort following his change of heart. His reply was short
and to the point: “I would have been court-martialled and shot had I
done so.”
No doubt, Genjō was speaking the truth, and I for one am not
going to claim that I would have acted any differently (though I hope I
would have). This said, Genjō does not hesitate to present himself to
his readers as the very embodiment of the Buddha’s enlightenment.
The question must therefore be asked, is the killing of countless
human beings in order to save one’s own life an authentic
expression of the Buddha Dharma, of the Buddha’s enlightenment?
An equally important question is what Genjō had been taught
about the (Zen) Buddhist attitude toward warfare before he entered
the military. After all, he had trained under one of Japan’s most
distinguished Zen masters for nine years before voluntarily entering
the navy, apparently with his master’s approval. Although Genjō
himself does not mention it, my own research reveals that his
master’s attitude toward war and violence is all too clear. As early as
1934 Yamamoto Gempō proclaimed: “The Buddha, being absolute,
has stated that when there are those who destroy social harmony
and injure the polity of the state, then killing them is not a crime.”7
Gempō’s wartime actions will be introduced in further detail in
chapters 6 and 11.
If there is some truth in the old adage, “Like father, like son,” then
one can also say, “Like master, like disciple.” Thus if Genjō may be
faulted for having totally ignored the moral teachings of Buddhism,
especially those forbidding the taking of life, then he clearly inherited
this outlook from his own master. But were these two Zen priests
exceptions or isolated cases in prewar and wartime Japan?
Like Zen At War before it, this book will show that they were not.
In reality, Genjō and Gempō were no more than two representatives
of the fervently pro-war attitudes held not only by Zen priests but
nearly all Japanese Buddhist priests and scholars regardless of
sectarian affiliation.
Neither must it be forgotten that Genjō’s preceding comments
were not written in the midst of the hysteria of a nation at war, but as
recently as 1999, more than fifty years later. Like Genjō, today’s
Japanese political leaders still find it extremely difficult, if not
impossible, to acknowledge or sincerely apologize for, let alone
compensate the victims of, Japan’s past aggression. This fact was
revealed once again in April 1999 when a new government-
sponsored war museum opened in Tokyo. Known as the Shōwa-kan,
this museum features exhibits devoted exclusively to the wartime
suffering of the Japanese people themselves. As in Genjō’s case,
the immense suffering of the victims of Japanese aggression is
totally ignored.
If there is anything that distinguishes Genjō from his
contemporaries, either then or now, it was his self-described
conversion to pacifism in China. Genjō was at least conscious of a
conflict between his priestly vows and his military duties. This was a
distinction that very, very few of his fellow priests ever made. On the
contrary, during the war leading Zen masters and scholars claimed,
among other things, that killing Chinese was an expression of
Buddhist compassion designed to rid the latter of their
“defilements.”8

Moral blindness
For those, like myself, who are themselves Zen adherents, it is
tempting to assign the moral blindness exhibited by the likes of
Genjō and his master to the xenophobia and ultranationalism that so
thoroughly characterized Japan up until 1945. On the other hand,
there are those who describe it as reflecting the deep-seated, insular
makeup of the Japanese people themselves.
While there is no doubt some degree of truth in both these
claims, it is also true that Zen has a very long history of “moral
blindness,” reaching back even prior to Zen’s introduction to Japan.
Japanese Zen inherited the antinomian assertions prevalent in
Chinese Chan (Zen) circles as early as the eighth century that those
who are enlightened transcend all duality including life and death as
well as good and evil. Enlightened beings are therefore no longer
subject to the moral constraints enjoined by the Buddhist precepts
on the unenlightened.
Significantly, Chan’s break with traditional Buddhist morality did
not go unchallenged. Liangsu (753–93), a famous Chinese writer
and lifelong student of Tiantai (J. Tendai) Buddhism criticized this
development as follows:

Nowadays, few men have true faith. Those who travel the path
of Chan go so far as to teach the people that there is neither
Buddha nor Dharma, and that neither good nor evil has any
significance. When they preach these doctrines to the average
man, or men below average, they are believed by all those who
live their lives of worldly desires. Such ideas are accepted as
great truths which sound so pleasing to the ear. And the people
are attracted to them just as moths in the night are drawn to
their burning death by the candle light9 [Italics mine].

In reading Liang’s words, one is tempted to believe that he was a

prophet able to foresee the deaths over a thousand years later of
millions of young Japanese men who were drawn to their own
burning deaths by the Zen-inspired “light” of Bushido. And, of course,
the many more millions of innocent men, women and children who
burned with (or because of) them must never be forgotten.
It is only when we become aware of Zen’s deep-seated
antinomianism as expressed in the preceding quote that Genjō’s
attitude as expressed in his recollections becomes comprehensible.
It is in fact the key to understanding why both Genjō and his master
were equally convinced that it was possible to continue on the road
toward enlightenment even while contributing to the mass carnage
that is modern warfare.
In Genjō’s case it is even possible to argue that his experience of
“great enlightenment” was actually hastened by his military service,
specifically the fortuitous American torpedo that sank his second
ship, the military fuel tanker Ryōhei, and set him adrift while killing
some thirteen of his shipmates.10 Where else was he likely to have
found both kōans and reciting the name of Amitābha Buddha
“meaningless” and been forced, as a consequence, to “totally devote
[him] self to Zen practice within the context of the ocean itself …
making every possible effort to survive, abandoning all thought of life
and death.”
As Zen continues to develop and mature in the West, Zen
masters like Genjō remind us of a key question remaining to be
answered – what kind of Zen will take root? The scandals, often of a
sexual nature, that have rocked a number of American Zen (and
other Buddhist) centers in recent years may seem a world apart from
Zen-supported Japanese militarism. The difference, however, may
not be as great as it first appears, for I suggest the common factor is
Zen’s long-standing and self-serving lack of interest in, or
commitment to, Buddhism’s ethical precepts. If this seems too broad
or sweeping a conclusion to reach on the basis of just one Zen
master’s war recollections, I invite the reader to read further.
 2

MONKS AND SOLDIERS MOVE ON

THEIR STOMACHS

The relationship between Zen and the Imperial military was as broad
as it was deep. This chapter reveals just how thoroughly the Imperial
military was influenced by Zen monastic life – even down to such
practical matters as soldiers’ mess kits. Readers of Zen At War will
recall that it was Sōtō Zen Master Sawaki Kōdō (1880–1965) who
pointed out in June 1944 that Zen monasteries and the military “truly
resemble each other closely.”1
At the time I recorded Kōdō’s words, I thought he might have
been guilty of some “wishful thinking” in identifying Zen monastic life
with the military. However, on discovering the following episode in
the 1985 book Time of the Wintry Wind (Kogarashi no Toki). I
realized that the “close resemblance” was, historically speaking,
neither fabrication nor mere coincidence. Whereas in other instances
it can be argued that it was the personal choice of military men to
practice Zen, what follows is one example of a situation in which all
Japanese soldiers were destined, albeit indirectly, to become “Zen
practitioners.”
The following episode forms part of chapter 3 of Kogarashi no
Toki and is presented here in slightly condensed form. I wish to
express my gratitude to the book’s author, Ōe Shinobu, for having
given his permission for this material to be translated and included
here. Before recounting the episode, however, let us take a brief look
at the situation facing the Japanese military at the time.
 Toward “total war”
In 1907, Japan was once again at peace, having emerged victorious
from the Russo-Japanese War of 1904–5. Unlike its earlier war with
China in 1894–5, however, victory had not come easily nor
decisively. In fact, having lost 100,000 men and spent some two
billion yen on the war, Japan’s ostensible victory was so fragile that
during peace negotiations it had no choice but to forego all war
reparations from Russia. This was so deeply resented at home that
anti-peace riots broke out in Tokyo resulting in the imposition of
martial law.
Though dismayed at the cost of the war, there was nevertheless
an upsurge in national pride among the general populace. After all,
for the first time in modern history, Japan, an Asian nation, had
forced a western imperialist country to give up some of its economic
interests in Asia, especially those in Korea and Manchuria. The
Japanese military basked in the glory of this accomplishment even
as its leaders reflected soberly on just how close to defeat they had
come. The more visionary among them realized that future victories
would depend on Japan’s ability to quickly and effectively mobilize
the resources of the entire country, military and civilian alike, in the
war effort. It was the dawn of the age of “total war.”
One of those visionary military leaders was an up-and-coming
Lieutenant Colonel by the name of Tanaka Gi’ichi (1864–1929).
Tanaka had first distinguished himself as a military strategist during
the Russo-Japanese War. One reason for his success was his
thorough knowledge of Russian military organization, strategy, and
tactics. Tanaka had acquired this knowledge, including fluency in
Russian, during an earlier four-year sojourn in Czarist Russia (1898–
1902) where he had been the first Japanese officer to study Russian
military affairs. Tanaka would later rise to the rank of full general,
serve as Minister of the Army in two cabinets, and as prime minister
from 1927–9.2
In May 1907, however, Tanaka was the commander of the Third
Infantry Regiment located in Tokyo. With the support of the highest
echelons of the military, Tanaka was determined to initiate a program
of military renewal, beginning with his own unit. Thus he took the
unprecedented step of ordering two platoons of his men to provide
logistical support for the first annual meeting of the “Patriotic
Women’s Society” (Aikoku-fujin-kai) to be held outdoors.
Recognizing that his use of the military to aid a voluntary civilian
organization would be controversial, Tanaka justified his action as
follows:

The age when wars are fought by the military alone has come
to an end. During the Russo-Japanese War we mobilized one
million men of whom only 200,000 were active duty soldiers.
The rest were reservists … family men with wives and children
to support.…
The reason that a major power like Russia lost to us was
because Russian civilians were involved in revolutionary
disturbances at home. We have reached a stage where the
military that has built a close relationship with the civilian
populace during peacetime will emerge victorious in war. No
doubt, however, we will hear complaints about our actions from
those useless muddleheads who still believe wars are won by
military power alone.3

As Tanaka predicted, complaints were forthcoming, some from the

country’s major newspapers. With the backing of his superiors,
however, he weathered the storm and steadfastly stuck to his
agenda for military reform, the next target of which was the military’s
internal regulations. The regulations then in effect had been taken
verbatim from those in use by the Prussian army in 1894.

Internal Regulations
A committee was established for the revision of the internal
regulations on 25 July 1907. Tanaka explained the committee’s
purpose as follows:

The emperor’s army is like a boat that floats on the sea of the
people. It is our duty as officers to ensure that it doesn’t lose its
way.… Without the people’s support the ship will sink, but there
 cannot be the slightest doubt that it is we officers who are
responsible for determining the ship’s destination.4

Given the overwhelming power of the Japanese military in setting the

political agenda during the Asia-Pacific War, Tanaka’s words seem
almost prophetic, though he no doubt would not have regarded them
as such. They remind us once again of just how deeply imbedded
militarism’s roots were in modern Japan, predating the attack on
Pearl Harbour by more than thirty years.
Returning to Tanaka, he determined that the revision of the
internal regulations should be based on four fundamental principles:

1
Everything in the military was to be standardized.
2
“Spiritual education” (seishin kyōiku) was to be heavily stressed.
3
Military discipline was to be promoted.
4
Ethical training based on a sense of family was to be made of
primary importance.5

Of particular interest is the increased emphasis Tanaka placed on

“spiritual education.” This is no doubt a reflection of the fact that one
of the chief lessons Japanese military leaders drew from the carnage
of the Russo-Japanese War was the critical role played by morale or
spirit on the battlefield.6 Tanaka not only sought to incorporate
spiritual education into the military’s revised internal regulations,
promulgated in 1908, but upon becoming a section chief in the
Military Affairs Department of the Army Ministry in 1909, he
successfully urged the adoption of a new set of general service
regulations that also exalted the military spirit, using the medieval
warrior code of Bushido as a model.
In the eyes of military leaders like Tanaka, victory hinged not so
much on modern weaponry as it did on the individual soldier’s
willingness to sacrifice himself in the attack. Something as readily
and freely available as “spirit” was especially attractive to a military
leadership who found themselves engaged in a never-ending
struggle for funding in a peacetime economy. At the same time, it
gave new life to Japan’s traditional samurai culture, as embodied in
the Bushido code, which stressed the twin virtues of absolute loyalty
to one’s superiors and duty unto death. This renewed emphasis on
Japan’s traditional warrior spirit dovetailed nicely with the heightened
nationalism of the general populace.
Japan’s military leaders sought not only to indoctrinate the
Bushido code into their troops but hoped to discover indigenous
models for as many things related to the military as possible. Having
previously slavishly modeled themselves on the Prussian military, the
Japanese military found itself with anomalies like western-style
eating utensils that were clearly inappropriate for a culture where
cooked rice remained the main staple of a soldier’s diet. Lightweight,
durable bowls for rice, not plates for meat and potatoes, were what
was needed. But where were such items to be found? As we join the
story, Imperial Infantry Major Kishi Yajirō (1874–1938), Lt. Col.
Tanaka’s assistant, was about to find out.

A Visit to Kenchōji
Major Kishi was at a loss as to how to go about improving the
provision of soldiers’ rations. At that point Regimental Commander
Tanaka suggested that he visit a Zen temple to see how they fed
their novice monks (unsui). Using his connections, Kishi arranged to
inspect the dining area at the Rinzai Zen monastery of Kenchōji in
Kamakura in the late fall of 1907.
That evening, on his way back to Tokyo by train, Kishi recalled
what he had seen during his visit to Kenchōji. He was told that the
foundation of Buddhist practice was to cut oneself off from the
secular world, eat pure and simple food, and devote oneself totally to
Buddhist practice. In Buddhism the purpose of eating was the
maintenance of one’s health in order to realize enlightenment. In
doing this, one should bear in mind that eating was itself an
expression of enlightenment. It was for this reason that in the
Buddhist precepts there were various regulations related to the
taking of meals. Of all sects, he was told, it was the Zen sect that
had most faithfully observed these regulations.
 In the Tang era (618–Cc.907) the Zen monk Baizhang (720–814)
established a set of monastic regulations known as the Baizhang
Qinggui. Most of these regulations were eventually lost, but those left
were gathered together by the Zen priest Changlu Zongze during the
Northern Song Dynasty (960–1126) and republished as the ten-
volume Chanyuan Qinggui In Japanese Zen it was these regulations
that were adopted as the basis of monastic life. In the Zen sect,
eating was regarded as being synonymous with the Buddha Dharma
and for that reason was considered to be extremely important.
As Kishi previously had but little knowledge of Zen, he was
surprised to hear all this and asked, “I’ve heard that one principle of
the Zen sect is to eat plain food.”
The priest assigned to look after Kishi was the monastery’s
kitchen supervisor (tenzō). The kitchen supervisor replied:

Needless to say, we abstain from meat and fish. In the morning

we eat rice gruel together with sesame seed mixed with salt
and pickled radishes. Lunch consists of barley boiled together
with partially milled white rice, miso soup, and pickles. In
addition, there is something we call yakuseki (lit. medicine
stone) consisting of leftovers that, in principle, require no
further cooking. In the secular world this would be called the
evening meal.7 When the monks have been engaged in
physical labour we may add one or two dishes of cooked
vegetables to their lunch and evening meals.

Having said this, the kitchen supervisor went on to stress the

following:

Although plain food is unpretentious, it doesn’t mean that it is

simply coarse food prepared in any old way. It seems that
people in the secular world often mistakenly regard plain food
as being nothing more than coarse food. From our point of
view, however, even seemingly luxurious food is merely coarse
food if carelessly and thoughtlessly prepared. It seems the
secular world has a lot more such food than we do.
With this the kitchen supervisor broke into a smile and continued:

Please forgive me for having gone on so about the Chanyuan

Qinggui, but I would like you to understand that from the time
of Baizhang, Zen monasteries have had a system in which
there are six monastic offices designed to assist the head
priest. Taken together, they are responsible for all of the
monastery’s affairs.
One of the six positions is that of kitchen supervisor. I serve
as the kitchen supervisor for Kenchōji. According to the
Chanyuan Qinggui, the kitchen supervisor is responsible for
feeding all of the monks residing in the monastery in order to
enhance their practice of the Way as much as possible. At
times this may call for certain innovations, the aim of which is
to promote the joy they experience on realizing the unity of all
things.
Pardon the personal reference, but the office of the kitchen
supervisor is, by virtue of his responsibility for meal
preparation, a very important one. From ancient times this
position has been filled by a dedicated senior monk who is held
in high regard by all the monks in the monastery. The
Chanyuan Qinggui states that the kitchen supervisor should
decide questions relating to the acquisition of foodstuffs and
the content of the menu in consultation with the monastery’s
head administrator. This indicates just how important the
provision of meals is.

Kishi felt that he had been taught an important lesson. In the

military’s current regulations governing internal matters there was
absolutely nothing related to culinary affairs. In the military, the
physical condition of soldiers is synonymous with their readiness for
war. Therefore the provision of meals was even more important than
in the Zen school. In light of this, how was it possible, he asked
himself, that the military’s internal regulations lacked so much as a
single provision on culinary affairs?
In the current internal regulations there was, it is true, provision
made at the battalion level for a mess commissioner. However, the
duties of the mess commissioner were defined as follows: “To
supervise the battalion’s cooks, control all rations-related financial
transactions, and take care of rations-related administrative matters.”
That is to say, the title was that of a mess commissioner but the
duties were those of a Zen monastery’s head administrator. There
was no provision made for a position equivalent to that of kitchen
supervisor.
Kishi asked: “What should the mental attitude of a kitchen
supervisor be as it relates to providing food?” The kitchen supervisor
responded:

The Chanyuan Qinggui states that if the “six flavours” are not
pure, and the “three virtues” are not present, then the rationale
for the kitchen supervisor’s service to his fellow monastics
disappears. The six flavours refer to the six characteristics of
monastic food, i.e. its degree of 1) chewiness, 2) acidity, 3)
sweetness, 4) bitterness, 5) saltiness, and 6) seasoning.
Further, the three virtues of monastic food refer to its: 1) taste,
2) cleanliness, and 3) compliance with the Buddhist precepts.
That is to say, it should be pleasant to the palate, prepared in a
sanitary manner, and use only those foodstuffs that are in
accord with the Buddhist precepts.

Sitting in the train, Kishi took out his notebook and wrote the
following down in pencil:

Matters concerning the mess commissioner.

1
2
Matters concerning the establishment of culinary regulations.

The scene that had left the deepest impression on Kishi was of the
monks going to the midday meal carrying their own bowls. This was
known as takuhatsu (lit. “requesting bowls”) while the use of bowls in
the meal itself was called gyōhatsu (bowls for religious practice). Up
until then, Kishi had associated the word takuhatsu with monks in
training who recited sūtras in front of the homes of laity while
accepting alms of either rice or money in their iron bowls. While this
understanding was correct as far as it went, he learned for the first
time that the term takuhatsu was also used in connection with the
taking of meals. The iron bowl, as an eating utensil, was regarded as
a symbol of the enlightenment-seeking mind.
Kishi remembered having asked: “I seem to recall that the
phrase, ‘assuming the mantle of one’s master’ is derived from the
Zen school.”
“Yes,” the kitchen supervisor replied, “this practice began with
Bodhidharma (fifth-century CE?), the first Zen patriarch in China,
who gave his robes and bowls to his disciple Huike (487?–593?) as
proof that he had transmitted the Dharma to him.”
Hearing this, Kishi thought to himself that inasmuch as Zen
monastic life was designed so that a large group of trainees might
live a hygienic and orderly lifestyle on an ongoing basis, there was
plenty of scope to put it into practice within a military context.
On the train returning to Tokyo, Kishi continued thinking about
just how to incorporate the monks’ eating bowls into barrack’s life.
“Use aluminum!” he thought as he slapped his knee.
Aluminum was already being used to make pots for cooking rice
in the field. Its ease of handling had been demonstrated during the
Russo-Japanese war.
This said, it was also true that all of the raw materials used for
making aluminum had to be imported. Furthermore, in wartime
aluminum was so rapidly consumed that there was never enough
even for just cooking pots and canteens. Nevertheless, as far as
daily use in a barrack’s environment was concerned, it was far more
hygienic and durable than the pasteboard eating utensils then in use
even if it was not as long lasting as bowls made out of iron.
At that time the eating utensils used by common soldiers were
called “menko” (pasteboard). As far as army regulations were
concerned, they were regarded as kitchen fixtures and formally
designated by two Chinese characters that could be pronounced as
either “mentsū” or “mentu.” This designation referred to something
that was round and able to hold a full serving of rice. This utensil was
actually made out of thin pieces of such woods as Japanese cedar
and cypress that had been bent into a circular shape with a bottom
attached. In some districts it was known as “wappa”
 At the time of this story, mentsū were more commonly known for
being used by beggars. It was because ceramic rice bowls and
wooden lacquer bowls were so easily broken that mentsū had been
adopted as eating utensils by the military at the beginning of the
Meiji period. However, just why the pronunciation of the word
“mentsū” had been changed to menko is unknown.
The only thing that can be said with certainty is that the
designation of eating utensils as menko was something that
occurred following the adoption of mentsū by the military. In any
event, this custom continued even after the eating utensils changed
to aluminum and in fact survived until the dissolution of the Imperial
military in 1945.

Revision
Returning to Major Kishi, he gave an oral report on the outcome of
his visit to Kenchōji to Regimental Commander Tanaka. He then
prepared a written report by way of reference for the revision of the
military’s internal regulations. His report contained the following
recommendations for improving the provision of rations and cooking
in a barrack’s environment:

1 basic principle should be to make it clear that all activities, whether

A
sitting, lying down, sleeping or eating are opportunities for the
soldier to cultivate his spirit.
2 should be clearly stated that the provision of rations is one of the
It
duties of the battalion commander.
3
The primary responsibility of the battalion mess commissioner
should be changed from supervising the disbursement of funds to
taking responsibility for the quality, storage, and acquisition of
rations.
4
Regulations should be established for a noncommissioned officer to
be in charge of culinary affairs.
5 chapter dealing with culinary affairs should be created. This
A
chapter should contain the following main points:
 It must be made clear that food should be nutritious, easily
(a) prepared, and plain.
(b) It must be realized that the purpose of culinary affairs in the
military is to achieve the goals listed above as well as to quickly
prepare tasty food on the battlefield.
(c) The brigade’s accountant and mess commissioner should
investigate such things as the market price of food, exerting
themselves to the utmost to provide good quality food.
(d) The major reason for leftover rice or side dishes is the presence
of unhealthy soldiers or poor tasting food. The brigade
commander and mess commissioner must watch this carefully,
conducting frequent inspections and continuously endeavouring
to improve the quality of the food.
(e) The mess commissioner should place primary importance on
nutrition, selecting good tasting items while bearing in mind the
amount budgeted for rations. The commissioner is also
responsible for preparing the following week’s menu and
submitting it to the brigade commander.
(f) The mess commissioner should frequently visit the kitchen area
to taste the food prior to its being served, checking on such
things as the quality of the cooking, the quantity of the food,
and the cleanliness of the eating utensils.

6 is permissible to discard the present pasteboard utensils and

It
replace them with bowls made of aluminum. From the point of
view of both durability and hygiene, such bowls are far superior to
pasteboard. Furthermore, in order to realize the basic principle
concerning eating in a barrack’s environment, eating utensils must
not be seen to lack dignity. From this aim as well, it is clear that
pasteboard is regarded as inappropriate by the general populace.

Regimental Commander Tanaka immediately began experimenting

with the use of eating utensils made of aluminum. As expected, they
were both convenient and hygienic, superior in every respect. Based
on this, the entire military gradually switched over to aluminum
utensils.
 However, as far as ordinary soldiers were concerned, even
though such things as their washbasins were now made out of
aluminum, they were still considered “pasteboard.” Soldiers were
sensitive to the fact that when one touched utensils made of
aluminum one got the feeling of cold, military efficiency combined
with religious asceticism. Out of this came a song by an unknown
author that gradually spread throughout the military. Its lyrics
accurately captured the change that had taken place:

Oh how we dislike the military

With its metal teacups and metal chopsticks!
We are not Buddhas
What a pity they feed us as if we were!

Author’s remarks
Those wishing to defend Zen from the charge of collaboration with
the modern Japanese military from an early date might well say of
the preceding episode that the responsibility for the influence of Zen
monastic life on the military cannot fairly be apportioned to Zen
leaders themselves. After all, it was Japanese military leaders who
came seeking “inspiration” from Zen, not the other way around.
This said, I cannot but recall the evident pride of one of my own
Zen masters, Asada Daisen, abbot of Jōkuin temple in Saitama
Prefecture, when he first told me some twenty-five years ago of the
way in which Zen monasteries had served as a model not just for the
Japanese military’s mess kits but its organizational structure as well.
Writer, and former Rinzai Zen priest, Mizukami Tsutomu (b. 1919)
described this organizational influence as follows:

Zen monasteries attach greater importance to the length of

one’s Zen training than they do to one’s calendar age. Even
older monks must follow the lead of younger ones if the latter
have been in training for longer. This is a fundamental rule, one
that applied to the life of novice monks (unsui) as well. In light
of this it is understandable that when, in the past, the military
 was drafting regulations to govern its internal affairs, it looked
to Zen monastic regulations for guidance.8

Historically speaking, the close relationship between Zen and the

military is hardly surprising, for its origins can be traced as far back
as the Kamakura period (1185–1333) when Zen was first introduced
into Japan as an independent school. Zen rapidly found favour with
the warrior class, many of whom schooled themselves in this
tradition up to and including the emergence of Japan’s modern
imperial soldiers, especially its officer corps. D. T. Suzuki explained
the attraction of Zen to warrior/soldiers as follows:

Zen discipline is simple, direct, self-reliant, self-denying; its

ascetic tendency goes well with the fighting spirit. The fighter is
to be always single-minded with one object in view: to fight,
looking neither backward or sidewise. To go straight forward in
order to crush the enemy is all that is necessary for him.… A
good fighter is generally an ascetic or stoic, which means he
has an iron will. This, when needed, Zen can supply.9

Should the Zen-trained warrior be worried that he might be breaking

the fundamental Buddhist precept against the taking of life, the great
Rinzai Zen Master Takuan (1573–1645) dismissed such concern in
the following letter written to his warrior patron, Yagyū Tajima no
kami Munenori (1571–1646):

The uplifted sword has no will of it own, it is all of emptiness. It

is like a flash of lightning. The man who is about to be struck
down is also of emptiness, and so is the one who wields the
sword. None of them are possessed of a mind which has any
substantiality. As each of them is of emptiness and has no
‘mind’ (kokoro), the striking man is not a man, the sword in his
hands is not a sword, and the ‘I’ who is about to be struck
down is like the splitting of the spring breeze in a flash of
lightning.10
As these quotes and the above episode attest, Japanese Zen and
martial figures enjoyed a close and intimate relationship long before
the outbreak of the Asia-Pacific War in December 1941.
 3

THE ZEN OF ASSASSINATION

Just as in the case of the rise to power of the Nazi party in Germany,
the growth of Japanese militarism took place in concert with the
repression of domestic dissent, including dissent within the military
itself. While this book, like Zen At War before it, is primarily
concerned with the close relationship that existed between Japanese
Zen leaders and the Japanese military during the Asia-Pacific War
(and before), it is noteworthy that Zen leaders also played an active
role in curbing domestic dissent to Japan’s expansion on to the
Asian continent. Of particular interest, if only because of the major
impact it had on Japanese society, is the role played by a small
number of Zen masters and their lay disciples in the domestic
assassinations that were such a prominent feature of public life
during the early to mid-1980s.1
The following is an introduction to this question. It examines the
role played by one prominent Sōtō Zen master, Fukusada Mugai, in
the assassination of a major military leader. While Mugai neither
pulled the trigger of an assassin’s pistol nor wielded an assassin’s
sword, he was nevertheless convinced, like his lay disciple Lt.
Colonel Aizawa Saburō, that Zen Buddhism justified killing his fellow
Japanese in the name of the Buddhist-inspired phrase “destroying
the false and establishing the True” (haja kenshō).2

The assassination of Major General Nagata

Tetsuzan
 Brief historical introduction
The Manchurian Incident of September 1931 set off a chain of
events that led in the first instance to the establishment of the
Japanese puppet state of Manzhouguo (Manchukuo) in February
1932 and eventually to the outbreak of full-scale war with China in
July 1937. Japanese aggression abroad, however, did not imply
unanimity of opinion at home, for widely diverse groups of civilian
politicians, ultranationalists, leftists, and military officers of various
ranks, continued their attempts to bend domestic and foreign policy
to their particular viewpoints and ideologies. In short, in the early to
mid-1930s, Japan was still some distance away from the monolithic
emperor-centred, military-dominated society it would become by the
end of the decade.
In seeking to understand how the military, together with
sympathetic bureaucrats and corporate allies, ultimately emerged
triumphant in Japanese society, it is crucial to understand the role
played by the domestic assassinations of both civilian and military
figures. Although assassination is the ultimate form of political
intimidation, in Japan of the 1930s (and before), right-wing inspired
violence rarely resulted in anything more than a short prison
sentence for the “patriotic” perpetrator(s) involved, at least that is, up
through the major military uprising staged by a group of young
military officers and their troops on 26 February 1936. This uprising
succeeded in killing three leading cabinet ministers, wounding a
fourth, and injuring a number of others, some critically, before it was
finally suppressed.3 It is also noteworthy that no matter how
disparate the views of the assassins were, the one thing they and
their supporters always agreed on was their deep concern for the
“welfare of the nation.”
One of the military assassins active during this period was Lt.
Colonel Aizawa Saburō (1889–1936) of the 41st Infantry Regiment in
Fukuyama, a member of a group of relatively young army officers
who, at least in their own eyes, were characterized by their complete
and total devotion to a uniquely divine emperor. Appropriately, they
designated themselves as the “Young Officers’ Movement” (Seinen
Shōkō Undō) and willingly identified themselves with the larger
“Imperial Way Faction” (Kōdō-ha) that included some of Japan’s top-
ranking military officers.
Imperial Way Faction members further attached the pejorative
label “Control Faction” (Tōsei-ha) to those officers of any rank who,
by refusing to join with them, stood in the way of the realization of
their goals. It should be noted, however, that the military’s leadership
was also split on the basis of such things as age, education and
family background, and even former clan affiliation. In addition, there
was a sometimes fierce rivalry, especially for funding but also
including strategy, between the Army and the Navy.
Inasmuch as this is not a discussion of military factionalism, let it
suffice here to note that members of the Imperial Way Faction
sought to bring about a “Shōwa Restoration,” i.e. the direct rule of
the emperor, something they believed would result in land reform,
the overthrow of the corrupt, “privileged classes” and a more
equitable distribution of the nation’s wealth through the
nationalization of big business. In theory at least, their goals shared
much in common with Nazi “national socialism,” and like the Nazis
they were fully prepared to employ violence, especially political
assassination, to bring about a government to their liking. As for
foreign policy, they were strongly anti-communist and therefore
regarded the Soviet Union, rather than the USA, Great Britain and
other western powers, as the chief threat to the Japanese Empire,
especially to growing Japanese interests in Manchuria.
By comparison, members of the Control Faction were generally
more accepting of the status quo, at least at home. They accepted a
basically capitalist society but wanted the government to intervene
more actively in the private sector to ensure their military-related,
economic goals were achieved. Believing that it was possible to
advance the military’s interests through close cooperation with
Japan’s leading financial combines (zaibatsu) and government
bureaucrats, they were generally opposed to political assassination,
at least domestically. In the foreign policy arena, however, they
advocated ever greater advancement onto the Asian continent,
including further encroachments on a fractionalized and militarily
weak China. They also came to favour proposals for the forcible
acquisition of such strategic raw materials as oil and rubber from the
colonized countries of Southeast Asia, even at the risk of war with
the western masters of these countries.
Both military factions, it must be stressed, were equally
committed to the maintenance and, if possible, the expansion of
Japan’s own colonial possessions. In this sense the struggle within
the military was not one of “good guys” versus “bad guys,” or even
“moderates” versus “radicals.” In the end, however, what may be
termed the more realistic, if not opportunistic, stance of the Control
Faction meant that its leaders eventually gained the upper hand in
the military (and then the government), gradually purging members
of the Imperial Way Faction from positions of leadership beginning
as early as January 1934.
Predictably, this purge of leaders produced a strong backlash,
especially among those younger and more radical officers
associated with the Young Officers’ Movement within the Imperial
Way Faction. Having been one of the few high-ranking officers to
oppose the ongoing purge, General Mazaki Jinzaburō (1876–1956),
then Inspector General of Military Training, was a hero (or “saviour”)
to the Young Officers, among them Lt. Colonel Aizawa Saburō. Thus,
when in July 1935 Aizawa learned that General Mazaki had himself
been purged, the former took it upon himself to seek revenge. As a
mid-ranking officer, Aizawa later claimed that he had acted in order
to save younger officers from ruining their careers by taking matters
into their own hands (as some of them nevertheless did on 26
February 1936).
The man Aizawa chose for assassination was Major General
Nagata Tetsuzan (1884–1935), Director of the Military Affairs Bureau
at the War Office. Nagata was known not only for his brilliant mind,
but equally for his attention to detail and the calm and thoughtful
manner in which he reached decisions. None of these, however,
were qualities that appealed to the deeply-felt yearnings of Aizawa
and his comrades for a swift and thoroughgoing restructuring of
Japanese society, the particulars of which even they were unsure of.
That is to say, to have had a detailed plan for social reform would
have impinged on the prerogatives of the emperor, something that
was unthinkable for loyal subjects (although not necessarily for the
highest-ranking officers of the Imperial Way Faction). Inasmuch as
Nagata actively opposed their call for a “Shōwa Restoration,” he had
to be eliminated.
On 19 July 1935 Aizawa, then forty-six, called on Nagata for the
first time, verbally demanding that the general step down because of
his role in ousting Mazaki. Nagata not only refused to do so but in
retaliation arranged for Aizawa to be transferred to Taiwan. This in
turn prompted Aizawa to consider more drastic action, for he realized
that once in Taiwan he would be in no position to influence the
course of events.
At approximately 9.20 a.m. on 12 August 1935, Aizawa entered
the War Ministry from the rear and went to the first floor office of an
old friend, Lt. General Yamaoka Shigeatsu (1882–1954), head of
army maintenance. Ostensively he had come to inform the general
of his imminent departure for Taiwan. After sharing some tea, Aizawa
asked Yamaoka if Nagata were in his office on the second floor.
Upon being informed that he was, Aizawa excused himself and, at
9:45 a.m., burst in on Nagata, sword in hand.
Nagata did not immediately realize what was about to happen, for
he was deep in conversation with Colonel Niimi Hideo, chief of the
Tokyo Military Police. Ironically, the topic of their conversation was
what to do about the growing discontent in the army.4 Quickly
coming to his senses, Nagata jumped up and headed for the door,
successfully dodging Aizawa’s first blow. He was, however, unable to
escape the next, a thrusting blow from the back that momentarily
pinned the general to the door. Not yet dead, Aizawa then delivered
a final blow to his victim’s head as the latter lay outstretched on the
floor.
Although unarmed, Col. Niimi had initially attempted to aid
Nagata but suffered a disabling cut to his left arm. For his part,
Aizawa, a former swordsmanship instructor at the military academy,
later confessed to having been embarrassed by the manner in which
he had despatched the general. “I had failed to kill Nagata with one
blow and as a fencing master I felt deeply ashamed,” he said.5
Ashamed or not, Aizawa calmly left the general’s office and returned
to General Yamaoka’s office where he informed his startled friend
what had taken place. Noticing that Aizawa was bleeding, Yamaoka
arranged for the colonel to be taken to the Ministry’s medical
dispensary. There, while being treated for a minor cut to his left wrist,
Aizawa was arrested by the military police.

Aizawa Saburō and Zen

Aizawa first encountered Zen at the Rinzai temple of Zuiganji located
near Matsushima in Miyagi Prefecture. At the time, Aizawa was a 26-
year-old second lieutenant attached to the 29th Infantry Regiment
headquartered in the northern Honshū city of Sendai. On a Monday
morning in the spring of 1915, Aizawa’s company commander,
Prince Higashikuni Naruhiko (1887–1990), paternal uncle to
Emperor Hirohito, addressed the assembled company officers as
follows: “Yesterday I visited Zuiganji in Matsushima and spoke with
the abbot, Matsubara Banryū [1848–1935]. He informed me that
Buddhism was a religion that taught exerting oneself to the utmost in
service to the country.”6 As simple as this statement was, it
nevertheless proved to be the catalyst for Aizawa’s Zen practice, for
as he later related: “I was troubled by the fact that I knew so little of
what it meant to serve the country.”7
Aizawa therefore decided personally to visit Banryū to seek
further clarification of this matter. On doing so, Banryū related to him
the well-known example of Kusunoki Masashige (1294–1336), a
loyalist military leader during the period of the Northern and
Southern Courts (1332–90). Defeated in battle and facing death,
Masashige is said to have made a vow to be reborn seven times
over in order to annihilate the enemies of the emperor. Banryū went
on to inform Aizawa that if he truly wished to acquire a spirit like that
of Kusunoki he “must study the Buddha Dharma and especially
practice Zen meditation.”8 Inspired by these words, Aizawa
determined to do exactly that, though he first encountered the
practical problem that Zuiganji was located some distance from
Sendai making it impossible for him to meditate there on a daily
basis.
The result was that Aizawa sought out an equally well-known
Sōtō Zen master resident in the city of Sendai itself, Fukusada Mugai
(1871–1943), abbot of the large temple complex of Rinnōji. Mugai,
however, following a time-honoured Zen tradition, initially refused to
accept Aizawa as his lay disciple. “If you’re just coming here for
character-building, I don’t think you’ll be able to endure [the
training],” Mugai told him.9 Refusing to be dissuaded, Aizawa
eventually gained Mugai’s acceptance. In fact, shortly after Aizawa
began his training, Mugai granted him, in a highly unusual gesture,
permission to board in the priests’ quarters just as if he were a
neophyte monk (unsui).
Some months later Aizawa encountered yet another barrier to his
Zen practice when his regimental superiors decided it was improper
for him to actually live at the temple. Hearing of this, Mugai set about
finding alternative living quarters for his military disciple. It was in this
way that Aizawa came to board with Hōjō Tokiyoshi (1859–1929),
then president of Tōhoku Imperial University and yet another of
Mugai’s lay disciples. With this arrangement in place, Aizawa
continued to train under Mugai through the spring of 1917.
As to what he gained from his Zen training, Aizawa later testified
at his pretrial hearing: “The result of [my training] was that I was able
to deeply cultivate the conviction that I must leave my ego behind
and serve the nation.”10 When, during the court-martial itself, the
judge specifically asked which one of Mugai’s teachings had
influenced him the most, Aizawa immediately replied: “Reverence for
the emperor [is] absolute.”11 As for Mugai’s attitude toward his
military disciple, one of Aizawa’s close officer friends described it as
“just like the feelings of a parent for his child.”12
Not surprisingly, Aizawa felt the same about Mugai. This is
revealed, among other things, by the fact that even after his
imprisonment, Aizawa arranged for medicine to be sent to Mugai
upon hearing of his master’s illness. In fact, it was this illness that
prevented Aizawa from realizing his final wish - that Mugai be
present to witness his execution. Having failed in this, Aizawa’s last
message to Mugai read: “I pray that you will fully recover from your
illness just as quickly as possible.”13
Given the closeness of the master-disciple relationship between
Aizawa and Mugai, it is not surprising to learn that Mugai was the
second person to visit Aizawa in prison after the latter’s arrest, i.e. on
4 September 1935. Mugai subsequently visited him once again on
the 10th. The entries in the prison’s visitor log describe Mugai as
Aizawa’s “teacher to whom is owed a debt of gratitude” (onshi). The
purpose of the visits was recorded as a “sympathy call” (imon).

Court martial
Aizawa’s public court martial began on 28 January 1936 at the
headquarters of the 1st Division in Tokyo, and received wide press
coverage. Testifying on the general background to his act, Aizawa
stated:

I realized that the senior statesmen, those close to the throne,

and powerful financiers and bureaucrats were attempting to
corrupt the army for the attainment of their own interests; the
Imperial Army was thus being changed into a private concern
and the supreme command was being violated. If nothing was
done I was afraid the army would collapse from within. The
senior statesmen and those close to the throne are indulging in
self-interest and seem to be working as the tools of foreign
countries who watch for their chance to attack Japan.14

It should be noted that the “[right of] supreme command” referred to

in this passage meant that the military was, constitutionally-
speaking, not subject to the control of the civilian government.
Rather, in theory at least, it was directly under the emperor’s
command (and that of his designated representatives). In practice,
this meant that anyone (other than the emperor) who sought to
interfere with, or restrict the military in any way could be charged
with “violating” not simply the military’s prerogatives but the right of
command of the emperor himself – a charge akin to treason.
In light of this, why did Aizawa choose to assassinate another
military man, indeed his lawfully-appointed superior officer? Was he
not thereby violating the very right of supreme command he claimed
to be defending? To this charge Aizawa replied:
 I marked out Nagata because he, together with senior
statesmen, financial magnates and members of the old army
clique like Generals Minami and Ugaki, were responsible for
the corruption of the army. The responsibility for the army
rested on Nagata, the Director of the Military Affairs Bureau. He
was the headquarters of all the evil. If he would not resign
there was only one thing to do. I determined to make myself a
demon and finish his life with one stroke of my sword.15

With this in mind, let us turn to the “spiritual” dimension, or

motivation, which lay behind Aizawa’s act. Here Aizawa testified as
follows:

The emperor is the incarnation of the god who reigns over the
universe. The aim of life is to develop according to His
Majesty’s wishes, which, however, have not yet been fully
understood by all the world. The world is deadlocked because
of communism, capitalism, anarchism, and the like. As
Japanese we should make it our object to bring happiness to
the world in accordance with His Majesty’s wishes. As long as
the fiery zeal of the Japanese for the Imperial cause is felt in
Manchuria and other places, all will be well, but let it die and it
will be gone forever. Democracy is all wrong. Our whole
concern is to clarify Imperial rule as established by Emperor
Meiji [Italics mine].16

Although the above words appear to leave little room for a “Zen
connection” to the incident, the phrase “The world is deadlocked …”
will shortly be seen to be pregnant with the “flavour” of Zen. More to
the point, however, is the following short, yet key comment Aizawa
made in describing his state of mind at the moment of the
assassination itself: “I was in an absolute sphere, so there was
neither affirmation nor negation, neither good nor evil.”17
Is this a manifestation of the Zen spirit? The well-known western
exponent of Japanese culture and Zen, Reginald Blyth (1898–1964)
would certainly have recognized it as such. In postwar years he
wrote: “From the orthodox Zen point of view, … any action whatever
must be considered right if it is performed from the absolute.”18

Mugai’s defense
Mugai appeared as a witness for the defense at the ninth hearing
held on 22 February 1936. Following his court testimony, Mugai
returned to the witness waiting room where he told a reporter for the
Yomiuri Shimbun:

Although I don’t intend to discuss the incident itself, I would like

to say that I have known Aizawa’s parents for the past thirty
years. For this reason there is no one better acquainted with
Aizawa’s childhood and character than I am. While it is true
that Aizawa’s Zen practice is still immature in some respects, I
think that the decisive action he took in accomplishing his great
undertaking transcended both life and death. Even should he
receive the death penalty, Aizawa will be satisfied, for as long
as his ideas live on, life and death are of no concern to him.19

If the preceding comments leave some doubt as to what Mugai really

thought of his disciple and his “great undertaking,” Mugai later
clarified his position in a pamphlet entitled A Glimpse of Lt. Colonel
Aizawa (Aizawa Chūsa no Hen’ei). In a section labelled “Comments
by Fukusada Mugairōshi,” Mugai wrote:

Aizawa trained at Rinnōji for a period of three years starting

when he was still a lieutenant. In applying himself to his
practice with untiring zeal, he acted just as if he were a Zen
priest, something quite impossible for the ordinary person to
do. His character was honest and pure, and from his youth he
had, through his Zen training, continually strengthened his
resolve to “destroy the false and establish the True” as he
sought the Buddha Way. I believe the recent incident was truly
a reflection of the purity of mind he had acquired over a period
of more than twenty years since having been a young officer.
 That is to say, he was burning with his ideal of destroying the
false.20

If the preceding comments still strike the reader as relatively vague,

especially as regards Mugai’s assessment of Aizawa’s motive in
killing General Nagata, Mugai was prepared to be more specific,
including his own estimation of the problems then facing Japan. He
wrote:

Aizawa frequently lamented the existing state of corruption in

our country. Military morale, he noted, had deteriorated to the
point that he was concerned about the nation’s safety.
Whenever Aizawa came to Sendai he visited me without fail,
and, in addition, frequently wrote me letters overflowing with
his intense concern for the welfare of the nation. Especially in
the last two or three years he spoke of his inconsolable sorrow.
And in this regard I felt the same as he did.21

And finally, Mugai was ready to tell his readers just how truly
wonderful his disciple was. That is to say, he was ready to praise
Aizawa’s “superb spirit” coupled with his “resolute and steadfast
faith”:

It is clear that Aizawa thought day and night of how to break

the deadlock facing the nation in the present emergency. I
believe Aizawa felt compelled to express his spirit as he did.
He intended to sacrifice himself from the outset in hope of
single-handedly purifying the military through eradicating the
source [of the problem]. I recognize, however, that many of
those who today think only of their own personal advancement
find his action difficult to understand. For my part, I fully
understand why he acted as he did.
Aizawa’s act was definitely not one of madness. Without
discussing whether it was right or wrong, I know that, prior to
acting, he had repeatedly given the matter serious thought. His
was not a rash undertaking nor one, as many now say, of
seeking fame for himself. Neither, I am convinced, was it one of
 simple blind faith. There is no doubt that, given Aizawa’s purity
of character and self-sacrificing devotion, he felt compelled to
do what he did in the face of present-day corruption.
I believe in Aizawa. The consistency of Aizawa’s character
lies in his readiness to serve sovereign and country on the
basis of a resolute and unshakable faith that enabled him to
transcend life and death. I am certain this is not a question of
placing too much confidence in him, for I know that many of his
former classmates [at the military academy] also recognize the
nobility of his spirit.22

Execution
In light of Mugai’s admiration for his disciple, it was only natural that
the close relationship between these two lasted even beyond the
grave. That is to say, following Aizawa’s execution by military firing
squad on 3 July 1936, it was Mugai who bestowed on his disciple a
posthumous Buddhist name (kaimyō) consisting of nine Chinese
characters, numerically speaking the highest honor a deceased
Japanese Buddhist layman can receive. The meaning of the
characters also reveal the esteem Mugai had for his disciple:
“layman of loyalty and thoroughgoing duty [residing in] the temple of
adamantine courage.”
Mugai bestowed this auspicious posthumous name on Aizawa in
spite of the fact that a general order had been issued which forbade
both elaborate memorial services and the erection of shrines or
monuments in his memory. Thus, by honoring a man the army had
branded a “traitor to the nation” (kokuzoku), Mugai himself became
the subject of an investigation by the military police. Although
hospitalized at the time, upon being informed of the investigation
Mugai said, “Are there any traitors in the realm of the dead? … If
they [the military police] have any complaints, tell them to have the
Minister of the Army come here and lodge them in person!”23
Aizawa had yet a second connection to Zen following his death.
A portion of his cremated ashes were retained in Tokyo and interred
in a common grave for all twenty-two former officers and civilian
sympathizers who were executed for their part in the 26 February
1936 military uprising referred to above. The grave site is located at
the Sōtō Zen temple of Kensōji in Azabu, Tokyo, founded in 1635 by
the Nabeshima family, the former feudal lord of Hizen (present-day
Saga Prefecture).
It was only in the postwar years that relatives of the deceased
were allowed to openly hold memorial services at Kensōji. In 1952
these relatives erected a tombstone over the common grave which
included the names of the deceased as well as the following
inscription: “Grave of the Twenty-two Samurai.” In 1965 this same
group erected a statue of the bodhisattva of compassion,
Avalokiteśvara (Kannon), with right hand raised, at the spot in
Yoyogi, Tokyo where the executions took place. This statue was
dedicated to the memory of both the executed rebels and their
victims. Even today, memorial services are held at Kensōji on 26
February and 12 July (the day on which most of the victims were
executed).
The organizational name chosen by the relatives for their
undertakings is Busshin-kai (Buddha Mind Association). One is left
to ponder the connection between “Buddha mind” and political
assassination.

Conclusion
In evaluating the above, it should be noted that Mugai was far from
the first modern Zen master to heap lavish praise on a military
disciple. The noted Meiji period Rinzai Zen master, Nantembo
(1839–1925), for example, praised his own famous disciple, Army
General Nogi Maresuke (1849–1912), as follows:

I have no doubt that Nogi’s great accomplishments during the

Sino-Japanese and Russo-Japanese Wars were the result of
the hard [Zen] training he underwent. The ancient Zen
patriarchs taught that extreme hardship brings forth the
brilliance [of enlightenment]. In the case of General [Nogi] this
 was certainly the case.… All Zen practitioners should be like
him.… A truly serious and fine military man.

And Nantembō went on to add: “There is no bodhisattva practice

superior to the compassionate taking of life.”24
This said, Mugai was certainly unique in praising a military man
who had been labelled a traitor to his country. It is abundantly clear,
however, that Mugai did not regard Aizawa as such. On the contrary,
he was convinced, as was Aizawa himself, that such acts were
necessary in order to “break the deadlock facing the nation in the
present emergency.” Although the historical validity of this statement
is questionable, what is of interest here is the almost uncanny
resemblance between Mugai’s thought and that of D. T. Suzuki. Only
two years later, i.e. in 1938, Suzuki would claim:

Zen has no special doctrine or philosophy, no set of concepts

or intellectual formulas, except that it tries to release one from
the bondage of birth and death, by means of certain intuitive
modes of understanding peculiar to itself. It is, therefore,
extremely flexible in adapting itself to almost any philosophy
and moral doctrine as long as its intuitive teaching is not
interfered with. It may be found wedded to anarchism or
fascism, communism or democracy, atheism or idealism, or
any political or economic dogmatism. It is, however, generally
animated with a certain revolutionary spirit, and when things
come to a deadlock - as they do when we are overloaded with
conventionalism, formalism, and other cognate isms – Zen
asserts itself and proves to be a destructive force [Italics
mine].25

In supporting the actions of an assassin, it can be said that Mugai

demonstrated just how “extremely flexible” Japanese Zen of the
1930s was “in adapting itself to almost any philosophy and moral
doctrine.…” In this context the question must be asked if there was
anything in Suzuki’s interpretation of Zen that would have argued
against Mugai’s endorsement of his disciple’s action.
 I suggest there is nothing. That is to say, the type of Zen
advocated by Suzuki, Mugai, and other Zen leaders of that period
was, under the right conditions, just as amenable to supporting
assassination at home as it was to supporting Japan’s aggression
abroad. In arguing this I would point to yet another of Suzuki’s
statements:

Zen did not necessarily argue with them [warriors] about the
immortality of the soul or righteousness or the divine way or
ethical conduct, but it simply urged going ahead with whatever
conclusion rational or irrational a man has arrived at.
Philosophy may safely be left with intellectual minds; Zen
wants to act, and the most effective act, once the mind is made
up, is to go on without looking backward. In this respect, Zen is
indeed the religion of the samurai warrior [Italics mine].26

Whether Aizawa’s act was rational or not is yet another contestable

point, but for both Suzuki and Mugai the question of ‘rationality’ was,
in any event, of little or no consequence. Furthermore, like Suzuki,
Mugai did not wish to consider “whether [his disciple’s act] was right
or wrong.” For both Suzuki and Mugai there was only one direction
for the Zen practitioner to proceed - straight ahead “without looking
backward.”
In pointing out the similarity in thought between Mugai and
Suzuki, I am not suggesting these two men were either
acquaintances or directly influenced each other’s thinking. This said,
it is interesting to note the existence of an indirect link between the
two men in the person of Hōjō Tokiyoshi. As noted above, Mugai had
arranged for Aizawa to reside in Hōjō’s home during the period he
trained at Rinnōji. Not only was Hōjō then president of Tōhoku
Imperial University, he was also the same man who, as D. T.
Suzuki’s former high school mathematics teacher, had first
introduced Suzuki to Zen.
One indication of Hōjō’s own Zen orientation is that he originally
trained as a layman under the noted Rinzai Zen master, Imakita
Kōsen (1816–92), abbot of Kamakura’s Engakuji monastic complex.
In the 1870s Kōsen had been a leading figure in promoting
reverence for the emperor and unquestioning loyalty to the state by
virtue of his role as a “national evangelist” for the Meiji government’s
ill-fated Ministry of Doctrine. No doubt it was Hōjō’s influence that led
Suzuki to train at Engakuji beginning in 1891, first under Kōsen until
the abbot’s death the following year, and then under Kōsen’s
successor, Shaku Sōen (1859–1919).
Be that as it may, Suzuki’s connection to Hōjō did not end in high
school, for the latter eventually resigned his university presidency to
become head of the prestigious Gakushūin (Peers’ School) in Tokyo
in June 1917. It was at Gakushuin that Suzuki once again found
himself under Hōjō’s tutelage, for Suzuki had been an English
teacher at this same school ever since his return to Japan from the
United States in 1909.
While I have no evidence indicating this indirect link was anything
more than coincidence, I suggest it reveals something about the
intellectual climate within Zen circles of that era. That is to say, it was
perfectly acceptable to represent Zen as being a “destructive force”
as long as that destruction was in the service of some alleged
“greater good,” most especially in the service of the state and its
policies. Although it was unusual for this destructiveness to be
directed against representatives of the state, even this was not
unprecedented, for Zen-related figures had already been deeply
involved in the so-called “Blood Oath Corps Incident,” i.e. the
assassination of two government and financial leaders in early
1932.27 This incident will be discussed in more detail in chapter 11.
Borrowing Suzuki’s words once again, it can be argued that this
was the inevitable price Japanese Zen in the 1930s had to pay for its
willingness to be found “wedded to anarchism or fascism,
communism or democracy, atheism or idealism, or any political or
economic dogmatism.”
 4

ŌMORI SŌGEN
The Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of Zen

Another Zen figure closely connected to the events described in the

previous chapter is Ōmori Sōgen (1904–94). Sōgen has been lauded
as the “greatest Zen master of modern times,” whose very life is
“worthy to be considered a masterpiece of Zen art.”1 As extravagant
as these claims may sound, Sōgen was unquestionably an
accomplished master of the traditional arts of swordsmanship
(kendō) and calligraphy (shodō), not to mention a prolific author of
books and articles on Zen. He also served as president of Rinzai
Zen sect-affiliated Hanazono University and was the founder of the
Chōzenji, International Zen Dōjō (Training Centre), in Hawaii.
Needless to say, Sōgen also claimed Buddhist enlightenment as his
own, having had his initial enlightenment experience at the of age
twenty-nine while yet a lay disciple of another highly regarded Rinzai
Zen master, Seki Seisetsu (1877–1945).
Readers of Zen At War will recall that I touched on the wartime
activities of both Seki Seisetsu and his equally famous disciple
Yamada Mumon at some length.2 As for Sōgen, I noted that he was
closely connected to the Tōyama family, the head of which, Tōyama
Mitsuru (1855–1944), was the dean of Japan’s prewar and wartime
ultranationalists for whom intimidation, blackmail, and assassination,
both at home and abroad, were routine occurrences.3 What I didn’t
know at the time was the important role Sōgen played in the events
that both preceded and followed Aizawa Saburō’s assassination of
General Nagata Tetsuzan as described in the previous chapter.
 Yet, simply because Sōgen was an acquaintance of Japan’s most
notorious ultrarightist, or associated with persons involved in political
assassination, should that detract from his reputation as a Zen
master? Is it fair to judge Sōgen, or any person, solely on the basis
of the company they keep?
Obviously the answer to these questions is no. But, as the reader
will soon see, there is much more that is suspect about Sōgen than
simply his wartime friends. As this chapter will show, Sōgen was
himself a significant ultranationalist leader not only in prewar and
wartime Japan but in the postwar period as well. Before exploring
this “dark side” of Sōgen, however, let us first become better
acquainted with the “official” version of his life as related by his
numerous admirers. After all, what makes the “good” Dr. Jekyll such
a fascinating character is that he lived in the same body as the “evil”
Mr. Hyde.

Plate 5 Rinzai Zen Master Ōmori Sōgen.

Ōmori as the “Good” Dr. Jekyll

Perhaps more than any other modern Zen master, Ōmori Sōgen may
be said to personify what D. T. Suzuki, among others, held to be a
Zen ideal — the “unity of Zen and the sword” (Zenken ichinyo). In
fact, when in 1958 Sōgen published a book promoting this unity,
Suzuki praised it, saying, “I was enthralled by Mr Ōmori’s Zen to Ken
(Zen and the Sword).… With this, for the first time, we can speak of
Ken and Zen as one.”4
That Sōgen was an accomplished swordsman there can be no
doubt, for he began his practice of kendō (the Way of the sword) at
the age of fourteen or fifteen and subsequently trained under some
of Japan’s best-known masters, including Maeno Jisui (1870–1940),
Oda Katsutarō, and Yamada Jirōkichi, fifteenth generation head of
the Jikishin Kage school of swordsmanship. Further, Sōen studied
calligraphy under Yokōyama Setsudo (1884–1966) of the Jubokudō
school. In time, the two of them founded their own school of
calligraphy known as the Hitsuzendō (Way of Brush and Zen).
Sōgen’s connection to Zen was no less illustrious than his
mastery of the above arts. He commenced his Zen training at the
age of nineteen under Maeno Jisui who, like so many teachers of
swordsmanship, was also an experienced lay Zen practitioner in the
Rinzai tradition. As to why he took up Zen, Sōgen explained:

Honestly speaking, the reason I entered the Way of Zen from

the Way of the sword had nothing to do with any lofty ideals on
my part. Instead, being short, I realized that I had no hope of
standing up to opponents taller than me if I couldn’t
compensate for their physical advantage by acquiring superior
spiritual power. In short, I entered the Way of Zen due to the
fear I experienced when sword fighting. I hoped to overcome
that fear.5

Subsequently, in the late spring of 1925, Sōgen met Seki Seisetsu,

head of the Tenryūji branch of the Rinzai Zen sect. Sōgen continued
his training under this distinguished master for the next twenty years,
i.e. until the latter’s death in October 1945. It was in 1933, following
eight years of intensive struggle with the kōan “Mu,” that Sōgen had
his initial enlightenment experience. Sōgen related his
“breakthrough” as follows:
 I finished zazen and went to the toilet. I heard the sound of the
urine hitting the back of the urinal. It splashed and sounded
very loud to me. At that time I thought, “Aha!” and I understood.
I had a deep realization.6

Sōgen added that thanks to his breakthrough, he realized that he

was at the centre of absolute nothingness (zettai-mu) as well as at
the centre of the infinite circle. “To be at the centre of the infinite
circle in this human form,” he claimed, “is to be BUDDHA himself.”7
During the war years Sōgen remained a civilian and supported
himself and his family as an instructor of swordsmanship. The year
1945, however, dealt a double blow to Sōgen, for not only did Japan
lose the war but his own master, Seki Seisetsu, passed away. These
events, especially Japan’s surrender, became the catalyst for
Sōgen’s decision to formally enter the Rinzai Zen priesthood. “The
first half of my life ended when Japan lost the war,” he explained,
“[so] according to the samurai code, I became a Buddhist priest.”8
Seisetsu was succeeded by his chief disciple, Seki Bokuo (1903–
91). In 1946, Sōgen, at the age of forty-two, entered the priesthood
as Bokuo’s disciple. In little more than two years he completed the
kōan training he had started as a layman and received inka-shōmei,
a certificate attesting to his full enlightenment. Bokuo then directed
Sōgen to become the abbot of Kōho-in, a small temple located in
Tokyo’s Higashi-Nakano district.
Kōho-in might be called the perfect temple for someone like
Sōgen, for though it had been founded as recently as 1943, it was
built on land where Yamaoka Tesshū (1836–88) once lived.
Yamaoka was not only one of the Meiji period’s best known
practitioners of swordsmanship, calligraphy, and Zen, but he
contributed to the relatively bloodless transition from the Tokugawa
Shogunate to the new Meiji government. Thus, what Kōho-in lacked
in terms of institutional history was made up for by the character and
accomplishments of the man who had lived in its precincts. In
Sōgen’s eyes, Yamaoka was the very “model of a Japanese.”9
Life at postwar Kōho-in, however, was far from easy, for as a new
temple it lacked traditional parishioners to support it. Thus, Sōgen
was forced to turn elsewhere for his primary source of income, and
eventually became a civil magistrate in Tokyo, serving in this position
for some twenty years. He did, however, find time to write and, as
mentioned above, it was through his books that he became
acquainted with D. T. Suzuki. Suzuki thought so highly of Sōgen that
when he was asked by a high government official to recommend a
Zen teacher for then Crown Prince Akihito (now Emperor Akihito),
Suzuki reportedly said, “Mr Ōmori would be the best.”10
In 1970 Sōgen became a professor at Hanazono University in
Kyoto where he taught a course entitled “The Practice of Zen.” The
core of the course was the practice of zazen coupled with lectures
on such Zen classics as the Hekigan-roku (Blue Cliff Record) and
the Roankyō (Donkey-Saddle Bridge). He went on to serve as the
university’s president from 1978 to 1982. During these years he led a
Wednesday evening Zazen Club that was started on behalf of the
members of the university’s Kendō Club but grew in popularity to
take in members of other martial arts clubs, the all-male pep squad,
and the general public.
It was also during these years that Ōmori commenced a series of
visits to the West, most especially Hawaii, initially at the invitation of
the Japanese-American Rinzai Zen master, Tanoue Tenshin (b.
1938). In 1972 this led to the establishment of Chōzenji, International
Zen Dōjō, in Hawaii as “a place of Zen training where persons of any
race, creed, or religion who are determined to live in accordance with
Buddha Nature (the Inner Self or the Way) may fulfil this need
through intensive endeavour.”11 In Japan, Sōgen founded Seitaiji, a
Zen training centre for both clerics and lay people, in 1975 in
Yamanashi Prefecture.
Until he suffered a debilitating stroke in December 1988, Sōgen
carried on a busy schedule of lecturing, Zen instruction, and martial
arts demonstrations that seldom saw him at his primary residence in
Kōho-in for more than a few days at a time. Prior to his stroke, in
August 1979, he visited Europe as part of a spiritual exchange
entitled “The Fount of East-West Culture.” This visit was made
possible by the well-known authority on Japan, Trevor Leggett of the
BBC and Father Kadowaki, a Catholic priest who had practiced Zen
under Sōgen’s guidance. Had he not fallen ill during the tour, Sōgen
would have had an audience with the Pope.
In October 1979, Sōgen elevated Chōzenji, now located on two-
and-a-half acres of land in Hawaii’s Kalihi Valley, to the position of a
Daihonzan (great main temple), thereby creating a new line of Zen
with Tanoue Tenshin as its head. Ever faithful to his belief in the unity
of Zen and the sword, Sōgen included the following paragraph in the
canon for Chōzenji:

Zen without the accompanying physical experience is nothing

but empty discussion. Martial ways without truly realizing the
“Mind” is nothing but beastly behaviour. We agree to undertake
all of this as the essence of our training [Italics mine].12

After six years of laying bedridden at Kōho-in, Sōgen died on the

afternoon of 18 August 1994.

Ōmori as the ‘evil’ Mr. Hyde

While all too brief, the preceding description demonstrates that
Sōgen enjoyed a distinguished career as a master of Zen,
swordsmanship, and calligraphy, among his other religious and
literary accomplishments. Yet there was also another, and less
known, side to Sōgen’s life - that of political activist. Here, too,
Sōgen distinguished himself from his peers, for he is the only Zen
master to have his own fifteen-line entry in the 1991 Japanese
publication, Dictionary of the Right Wing (Uha Jiten). Instead of a
master concerned with the “life-giving sword” (katsujinken) of Zen,
we encounter someone who from the 1920s took an active part in
the ultra-right’s agenda to eliminate parliamentary democracy
through political assassination at home and promote Japan’s
imperialist aims abroad. In short, a man willing to kill all who stood in
the way of his political agenda, yet claiming the enlightenment of the
Buddha as his own.
 Sōgen’s statement
But, what exactly did Sōgen believe in so strongly that he was willing
to kill on its behalf? Fortunately, Sōgen himself left behind a
statement that, though far from providing the whole story, serves to
introduce his political thought. It also affords him the opportunity to
put the best possible face on his political past (at least for a
Japanese audience). Sōgen’s views are contained in his foreword to
a 1974 enlarged edition of A Major History of the Right Wing [Dai-
Uha Shi] originally published in 1966 by right-wing leader Arahara
Bokusui (b. 1905). It is included here in its entirety.

From the time I knocked on Tōyama Mitsuru’s door as a youth

of twenty until war’s end at age forty-two, I was, at least to
some extent, actively involved in national affairs and
endeavoured to train our youth. Yet, during this period I never
once referred to myself as a rightist. The reason for this is not
because I was too proud to be placed in the rightist category.
Instead, it was because I am of the opinion that if the left wing
designates Communism and its adherents, then its opposite,
the right wing, must naturally refer to capitalism and those who
would defend it.
[Rightist leader] Maeda Torao often said, “We are not
rightists. If compelled to call ourselves something, we are the
“imperial wing.” In truth, our position was, to the best of our
ability, to clarify the national polity and achieve a restoration of
the Imperial Way. It was definitely not our intent to either
defend capitalism or become running dogs for the military
authorities.
On the one hand, it is true that in its initial stages Japanese
capitalism contributed to the national interest by creating a “rich
country” Yet, in its later stages it became a part of the financial
machinery of Britain and the US and ended up creating a
feudal plutocracy, throwing the national polity into confusion. Its
true character was revealed by both the Washington [Naval
Arms Reduction] Treaty [of 1922] and the London [Naval]
Treaty [of 1930].
 As for a “strong military,” this was a demand of the Meiji
state. It was precisely the step by step realization of this goal
that made it possible, thanks to both the Sino-Japanese and
Russo-Japanese Wars, to smash the surging waves of
European expansionism, thereby enhancing the radiant glory
of our nation before the whole world. However, when this goal
next produced a “military clique” linked to the feudal plutocracy,
it became a force that disturbed the emperor’s right of supreme
command [of the military].
If one lacks a proper understanding of this history, it is
impossible to appreciate the self-sacrificing conduct of those
who, seeking a Restoration [of political and economic power to
the emperor], engaged in a series [of political assassinations]
starting with the Blood Oath Corps [in early 1932] and
extending through [the Young Officers’ Uprising of] 26 February
1936.
So-called progressive commentators criticize these incidents
as having been aimed at either the defense of capitalism or the
expansion of the military’s influence. However, their arguments
contain many discrepancies and half-baked inconsistencies. If
one followed their reasoning, it would be utterly impossible to
understand why the list of persons to be overthrown included
senior officials in the government and the Imperial Household
Department, as well as military leaders and financial magnates.
In desperation, these commentators seek to fool everyone
with talk about military factionalism and personal ambition. But
no sane person would believe that a large number of pure-
minded youth together with their even more numerous military
units would throw away their irreplaceable lives on behalf of
one or two ambitious persons or as part of a factional struggle.
For example, at the time of the 26 February Incident, Isobe
[Asaichi] wrote in his heart-rending prison diary: “Please
overthrow the military clique!” by way of an appeal to the
Japanese people. Similarly, just before Shibukawa [Zensuke]
was executed he is said to have shouted: “People of Japan,
don’t be deceived by the military clique!” Would anyone dare
claim these words represent nothing more than the resentment
felt by the pawns of the military clique at having been betrayed
by their masters? Be serious!
Nothing was dearer to myself and my comrades than the
elimination of the privileged classes who stood in opposition to
the national polity. That is to say, we sought to eliminate the
military, financial and political cliques who, having created a
feudal plutocracy, placed themselves between the emperor and
the people. In this way we believed that the benevolence of the
August Mind of His Majesty would pour down on all the people
just as the rays of the sun in spring flood the earth with warmth.
The feudal plutocracy, on the other hand, was like a black
cloud blocking the sunlight.
In times past, this is what the Restoration [of political and
economic power to the emperor] was all about. For example, at
the time of the Taika Reforms [of 645 CE], powerful families
owning both the land and the people on it were the black
clouds. At the time of the Meiji Restoration [in 1868], the
Tokugawa Shogunate, ruling by force of arms, was responsible
for having destroyed the parent-child relationship that
previously existed between the sovereign and the people.
Hence, our predecessors did away with these black cloud-like
entities and in so doing were able to clarify the national polity,
contributing to the accomplishment of a forthcoming
Restoration that will once again allow the sun to shine
resplendently.
I am speaking here of a Shōwa Restoration, the central
thesis of which is the overthrow of the feudal plutocracy
through the return of property to the emperor. This in turn
would make it possible to dispose of capitalism within the
context of the national polity and enable the economy to
occupy its proper position in society. For this reason it is clear
that the Restoration forces can never be described as simply
being right wing as opposed to left wing. If one must label
these forces, then, as Mr Maeda said, there is no alternative
but to call them the “imperial wing.”
After the rise of Communism, the theory of national socialism
became popular among those who opposed it. National
socialism, premised on an affirmation of the state, is an
ideology requiring the state to put socialism into operation.
However, while at first glance this ideology appears to be quite
reasonable, from the point of view of the pure-minded
members of the Imperial Way, it was rejected as something
akin to “refrying an eel that has already been cooked.” That is
to say, it was seen as being totally unnecessary.
From the point of view of Japan’s ancient history and
tradition, the emperor is the nucleus at the centre of the state.
And the Great August Mind of His Majesty is something that
pours down on the people just as a parent offers unlimited
affection to his child. Out of this comes the expression:
“Heavenly gods, if there be sin, blame me, for these are the
people whom We have given birth to.”
In a country such as ours, it follows that politics ought to be
thoroughly based on the people. For someone like myself, the
[left-wing] idea that the state was an organ for class
exploitation was no more than a nonsensical delusion of little
importance. The Japanese state, graced by His Majesty, has
from its beginnings naturally incorporated (and ought to
incorporate) the good points and advantages of socialism.
Hence there was no need for us to take up these matters
again. It was for this reason that we viewed national socialism
as “refrying an eel that has already been cooked.”
Later on, the totalitarianism of the Nazis and Fascists
became popular, but this was incompatible with Japan’s
traditional thought that held Japan to be a single, indivisible
body. The progressives swept aside those of us who loved
Japan and esteemed the state as right-wing fascists and
totalitarians. How ignorant they were!
Totalitarianism is a system that, unwilling to admit the
uniqueness of the individual within the whole, sees the
individual as being in opposition to the whole, discriminating
between the two. While totalitarianism takes an organic view of
society, it does not accept the independence of the cells that
make up the social organism. Instead, the cells are expected to
submit unilaterally to the whole. In this respect, totalitarianism
is completely different from the standpoint of this country that
has as its ultimate aim uniting together as one with our divine
emperor while respecting the independent existence of each
individual.
Nevertheless, as the war intensified, there was a tendency,
no doubt related to the need to prosecute the war, for Japan’s
military and political leaders to gradually embrace
totalitarianism. There is abundant material, however, showing
how this tendency produced serious rifts between civilian
restorationists outside the government and officials inside.
In rough outline, then, these are the reasons I deny being a
rightwinger. Yet, it is true that we were anti-Communist, and
therefore opposed to the left wing. In that sense it is not
unreasonable to label us as the right wing. However, as
detailed above, it is equally clear that it was not our intent to
defend capitalism. Nor did we ever intend to establish a
dictatorship in contravention to the principles of democracy. On
the contrary, we were convinced that the political principles of
Japan rejected despotism.
For that reason, we claimed to follow the Imperial Way that
consists of the great doctrine of the mean as the highest
righteousness. Seen in this light we are decidedly not right-
wingers. However, this doctrine does not necessarily mean that
we occupy a position equidistant from both wings. That is to
say, the doctrine of the mean is not some kind of neutrality ever
ready to compromise. Rather, because it is the way of Truth, it
is only natural that when, as at present, society is excessively
tilted to the left, it takes the form of a tilt to the right.
In today’s Japan, at a time when the people of our nation
have lost their spirit and society as a whole is tilted to the left,
were we to remain exactly in the middle, the ship [of state]
would capsize. In this situation it is necessary for us to make a
seat for ourselves on what appears to be the right in order to
preserve the ship’s stability. Understood in this sense we are
the right wing.
At this point in time I am a priest, that is to say, someone
who has forsaken the secular world. Thus, I am hardly the
 appropriate person to write a foreword for a book as graphic as
this one. But, in consideration of the bonds that existed
between myself and the author in the past, I dared to write
down an outline of my thoughts by way of an introduction to
this book (March 1966).13

For those readers unfamiliar with the history and terminology of the
prewar period, the meaning of a number of the above passages may
be obscure at best. Nevertheless, the deep reverence Sōgen had for
the emperor is clearly revealed in such statements as “we believed
the benevolence of the August Mind of His Majesty would pour down
on all the people.…” While it can be argued that something
approaching emperor-worship is not necessarily a bad thing in itself,
the uncritical attitude Sōgen displayed toward the imperial institution
suggests that at the very least we are dealing with matters of faith
rather than objective analysis.

Historical record

Kinki-kai
When compared with the historical record, Sōgen’s words will be
seen as comprising a curious blend of truth, half-truth, and downright
fabrication. To demonstrate this, however, we first need to review
Sōgen’s connection to the Japanese right, beginning with the first
right-wing organization he joined, i.e. the Kinki-kai (Imperial Flag
Society), in May 1927 at the age of twenty-three.
The Kinki-kai had just been formed for the purpose of pushing for
the creation of a totally emperor-centric society. Among other things,
this entailed the abolishment of political parties and the transfer of
the nation’s wealth, especially industrial wealth, from the private
sector to the emperor for disposal as befits a “benevolent father.” As
Sōgen himself indicated above, this latter demand lay at the heart of
his political agenda from then on. The justification for restoring the
nation’s wealth to the emperor was described in the first tenet of the
Kinki-kai as follows: “We believe that Japan is one sacred, indivisible
body consisting of the emperor, our benevolent father and a living
god, and we the masses, his loyal retainers and children.”14 At its
peak, the Kinki-kai had some seven hundred members and
published its own organ, Japanese Thought (Nihon Shisō).
Not content with mere membership of a right-wing organization,
Sōgen helped found the Kinnō Ishin Dōmei (League for Loyalty to
the Emperor and the Restoration) on 11 February 1932. Inasmuch
as Sōgen served as the League’s secretary-general, its three
founding principles may rightly be seen as reflecting his thinking, at
least at the time:

I Taking the establishment of our nation as a matter of first

importance, we march forward in a movement dedicated to
making a prosperous country through the historic Restoration
(of economic and political power to the emperor).
II We cry out for the nation’s democratic financial machinery to
be restored to the emperor as the second phase of the Meiji
Restoration.
III Restoring the spirit of the Taika Reforms [of 645 CE], we
eagerly await the placing of all private production under the
emperor’s firm control as well as the completion of the
Japanization of all aspects of the nation including its politics,
economy, culture, etc.15

Significantly, Sōgen did more than merely participate in, or found,

emperor-centric organizations. Utilizing his prowess as a master
swordsman, he was also willing to both support, and personally
engage in, violence to achieve his political goals. This is most clearly
demonstrated by his involvement in a July 1933 anti-government plot
known as the Sacred Soldiers Incident (Shinpeitai Jiken).

Shinpeitai Jiken
The aim of this attempted coup d’état was to bring about the Shōwa
Restoration through the creation of a Cabinet composed of members
of the Imperial family. Toward this end, a group of mostly civilians
drawn from various right-wing organizations intended to assassinate
the entire existing Cabinet, the presidents of the two major political
parties, the Superintendent-General of the Metropolitan Police,
together with other leading politicians and financial magnates.
Though none of the radical young officers in the Army were directly
involved, Navy Commander Yamaguchi Saburō was scheduled to
bomb the Cabinet from his plane.
The scale of this plot was unprecedented as demonstrated by the
fact that the police, who uncovered the plot only hours beforehand,
arrested a total of ninety-five persons armed with ninety-eight
swords, and backed by some four hundred armbands to identify all
participants. Interestingly, one of the plot leaders arrested was
Maeda Torao (1892–1953). The reader will recall that Sōgen
previously expressed his approval of Maeda’s claim that their
movement was not right wing at all, but merely the “imperial wing.”
The conspirators also prepared a large number of leaflets, some
of which were to be scattered from Commander Yamaguchi’s plane,
to justify their actions. The leaflets contained three main principles,
the third of which read: “The sacred soldiers will annihilate the
financial magnates, political parties, and traitors surrounding the
sovereign together with their watchdogs, who continue to block the
development of the basic principles of our imperial state.” This
statement was followed by the following five slogans:

I Establish politics by the emperor!

II Establish an economy in accordance with the Imperial Way!
III Long live the restoration of the Imperial Way!
IV Exterminate the Communist movement!
V Annihilate financial magnates and political parties!16

Returning to the perpetrators, by rights there should have been one

more arrestee, together with his sword. This was Sōgen who
recounted how he avoided arrest as follows:

The police were looking for me as one of the top leaders in the
affair. I was on the list of people to arrest. I had to hide, so I left
for Nagoya with only the kimono I was wearing and my short
sword. In Nagoya I was caught in a police cordon and was
searched, but my sword was carefully hidden under my arm.
The detective did not find it.… From then, I went from place to
place and hid.17

The fact that Sōgen had time, before being stopped by the police, to
get as far away as Nagoya, more than three hundred kilometres to
the southwest of Tokyo, reveals an important fact about his
involvement in this incident. That is to say, Sōgen had decided, albeit
at the last minute, against participating in the plot and was therefore
not present when the main body of conspirators was arrested. Sōgen
explained what led him to drop out as follows:

One of the leaders of this incident, Mr Suzuki [Zen’ichi], asked

me to join them. But after listening to what he said, there were
several points I could not agree with. One of their targets was
General Araki, a man that I respected.18

General Araki Sadao (1877–1966) was then Minister of War, a

position he had held in two successive Cabinets, beginning in
December 1931. Sōgen’s objection to killing Araki is explained by
the fact that, together with General Mazaki Jinzaburō, Araki was
regarded as the leader of the Imperial Way faction in the military. He
was highly respected by the Young Officers for the premium he
placed on military spirit as expressed in the Bushido code. He was
also the author of the Japanese military’s redesignation as the
“Imperial (or Emperor’s) military” (Kōgun).
Nevertheless, Araki’s performance since assuming the position of
Minister of War was from the point of view of Japan’s
ultranationalists far from satisfactory. That is to say, the civilian-
dominated governments of which Araki was a part consistently
blocked his moves to significantly increase military expenditures let
alone put into effect the political and economic reforms required of
the Shōwa Restoration. The dissatisfaction with Araki’s lack of
effectiveness reached the point that at least the leadership of the
Sacred Soldiers was ready to see him die alongside the other
despised civilian Cabinet members. Sōgen, on the other hand,
perhaps because of his close ties to members of the Young Officers’
Movement, viewed Araki’s assassination as unwarranted.
Japanese historian Hori Yukio reports that an additional factor
influencing Sōgen was his belief that “the time was not yet ripe.”19
This may account for Sōgen’s own statement that he found himself
in disagreement with “several points” of the plot. Here too, Sōgen’s
opinion may have been influenced by supporters of the Young
Officers’ Movement, specifically his close friend, Nishida Mitsugi
(1901–37), a former military officer. In the fall of 1933 Nishida is
known to have counseled patience to yet another group of plotters
composed of young officers, non-commissioned officers, soldiers
and civilians. In Nishida’s opinion the timing for such an uprising was
“premature.”20
Whatever its causes, Sōgen’s decision to drop out of the plot at
the last minute was clearly fortuitous, for otherwise he would have
been arrested alongside his fellow conspirators. Yet, it must not be
forgotten that Sōgen, literally with sword in hand, had been prepared
to take part in the mass assassination of at least the civilian
members of the Cabinet, plus many other political and financial
leaders, with no apparent objection to the murderous nature of his
task. It should be noted that Japan’s civilian politicians, primarily
because of their power over the budget, were still able to exercise a
degree of control over the military. It was exactly for that reason,
together with their ongoing support of the capitalist status quo, that
they had to be eliminated.
In short, while Sōgen may have disagreed with his fellow
conspirators over tactics, he had no quarrel with them over ultimate
goals or the use of violence to achieve those goals. As a master
swordsman, Sōgen was fully prepared to wield his sword in his self-
appointed role as judge, jury and executioner of those whom he saw
as preventing the implementation of his political ideals. Neither
should it be forgotten that this incident occurred in the same year
that Sōgen had his first enlightenment experience. That is to say, it
occurred in the year he realized: “To be at the centre of an infinite
circle in this human form is to be BUDDHA himself.”

Jikishin Dōjō
Despite having narrowly avoided arrest, Sōgen quickly resumed his
right-wing activities. On 1 January 1934 Sōgen opened the Jikishin
Dōjō (lit. “Direct Mind” Training Centre) in the Koishikawa district of
Tokyo. The Dōjō was created with the support of a number of right-
wing activists aligned with the Imperial Way Faction, especially the
Young Officers’ Movement, and included such men as Nishida
Mitsugi, Kobayashi Junichirō (1880–1963), and yet another former
officer, Shibukawa Zensuke (1905–36). And in the role of Dōjō
“advisor” was Tōyama Ryūsuke, the sickly eldest son of the grand
old man of Japan’s ultranationalists, Tōyama Mitsuru.
Appropriately, Sōgen headed the new Dōjō, appropriately that is,
because the Dōjō incorporated all of his skills and interests. Namely,
under one roof it became possible to practice Zen, kendō, jūdō, and
calligraphy, all in preparation for the realization of the Shōwa
Restoration. Given the nature of its program, it is not surprising that
right-wing historian Arahara Bokusui described the Dōjō as “giving
the impression of having been the inner citadel of the Imperial Way
Faction among all the patriotic organizations of the day.”21 This
impression was given concrete expression in the Dōjō’s founding
statement:

Based on our respect for the Founder of the Empire [i.e.

mythical Emperor Jimmu], we reverently seek to promote the
prosperity of our glorious Imperial Throne by respectfully
revealing the fundamentals of statesmanship and investigating
through our own persons the essentials of governance. The
spread of the emperor’s work is the national policy of Japan
while the mission of the people is to assist in this endeavour. It
is for this reason that we have taken it upon ourselves, first of
 all, to aid each other in cultivating divine justice. Therefore, we
have established the Jikishin Dōjō in order to resolutely
promote the true practice of the Way of the warrior.
We pray that by hiding nothing, we will encounter excellence;
by exerting ourselves to the utmost, we will foster our talents;
and by pointing directly at the source of the mind received from
our ancestors, we will encounter our divine, immortal native
spirit. Furthermore, we have made the reverent
accomplishment of the [Shōwa] Restoration a pledge of steel in
which mundane, personal interests have no place.22

An ordinary day at the Dōjō began with wake-up at 6 a.m., followed

by cleaning and then approximately forty-five minutes of zazen, i.e.
the time required for one stick of incense to be consumed. This in
turn was followed by a morning worship service consisting of the
recitation of Shinto prayers (not Buddhist sūtras) before the Centre’s
main altar on which was enshrined a large tablet of the Sun
Goddess, mythical progenitress of the Imperial family. To the left of
the main altar were three rows of photographs of Japan’s greatest
military heroes and right-wing civilian leaders. To the right was an
alcove in which, together with a flower arrangement and traditional
Japanese swords, was hung a large scroll reading: “Enemy
Countr(ies) Surrender!” (Tekikoku Kōfuku).
From 4 to 6 p.m. every afternoon there was martial arts practice.
Jūdō was taught on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, while kendō
was on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. Thursday afternoon was
reserved for study circles while calligraphy was practiced on Sunday
afternoon. In addition, from the fifteenth of every month there was a
five-day period of intensive Zen meditation, i.e. sesshin,
commencing at 4 a.m. and lasting until 10 p.m. each day. The
purpose of the sesshin was described as “the realization of our great
pledge [to achieve the Shōwa Restoration] by acquiring an
indestructible and adamantine body of indomitable resolve through
introspection and Zen practice.”23 Further, in justifying this rigorous
training schedule, Sōgen wrote:
 In Bushido, as a traditional Way transmitted from ancient times,
a person throws his mind and body into Bushido. Forgetting
himself and becoming one with the Way, he completely
transforms the small self into the Way of the warrior. He then
lives the Great Life.”24

More will be said about the transformation of the “small self”, etc. in
chapter 7.
For Dōjō students, the “Great Life” clearly entailed a great deal of
right-wing political activism, activism that would eventually bring
imprisonment or death to many of its participants. Initially, however,
the Dōjō’s activism took the form of publishing right-wing organs, the
first of which was a monthly magazine entitled Essence (Kakushin).
The initial issue was published on 18 September 1934 with the lead
article entitled “Destroy the False and Establish the True … Risk
Your Life in Spreading the Dharma … the Great Essence of the
Shōwa Restoration.” The article contained the following call to
action:

The [Shōwa] Restoration is a holy war to destroy the false and

establish the True and applies equally to [Japan’s] domestic
and foreign affairs. The [army manual] Essentials of Combat
(Sentō Kōyō) states: “The essence of victory lies in integrating
various combat elements, both material and immaterial, so as
to concentrate and give full play to power superior to that of
your enemy at a strategic point.”
In this instance, “various combat elements, both material and
immaterial” refer to the unity in speech and action of all military
and civilians involved in the Restoration Movement and other
patriotic activities. The “enemy” refers to the enemy amongst
us, that is to say, today’s ruling powers who, with the backing of
various financial cliques and elder statesmen, command the
services of bureaucrats, big and small, as well as the police.
The basis of power superior to this enemy is the force of all
those dedicated to destroying the false and establishing the
True. This force is to be found in the great unity of the people’s
 forces composed of the civilians and military of this imperial
land.…
As a practical matter, we recognize that the Restoration can
only be put into effect through the realization of a new Cabinet
of national unity centred on a unified army and navy. We must
therefore support and promote the Imperial Army and Navy as
the main force backing the Restoration while reverently
seeking the promulgation of an Imperial Order that will
promptly disperse the black clouds engulfing us. This is the
proper duty of all citizens who cooperate with, and support,
imperial policy.
Duty is heavier than mountains while death is lighter than
feathers. Given this, how is it possible that the epoch-making,
great undertaking [of the Shōwa Restoration] can be
accomplished without the valiant, dedicated spread of the
Dharma at the risk of your life?25

The Buddhist influence on this article is as unmistakable as its

political extremism. In addition to its call to “spread the Dharma,”
readers will recall the frequent references in the previous chapter to
“destroy(ing) the false and establish(ing) the True.” This phrase first
appeared in a famous Chinese Buddhist treatise entitled Sanlun
Xuanyi [Profound Meaning of the Three Treatises] written by the Sui
Dynasty priest, Jicang (643–712). It forms one of the fundamental
tenets of the Sanlun (Three Treatises) school based on the
Mādhyamika philosophy of Nāgārjuna. However, the “destruction”
called for in this school originally had nothing to do with taking the
lives of other sentient beings. Instead, it referred to “destroying” the
mind of attachment, such “destruction” being in and of itself the
establishment of the True.
Needless to say, doctrinal “subtleties” of this nature were of no
interest to Sōgen and his associates, for they sought to use
Buddhism as a means of bolstering their claim that the Restoration
Movement was part of a “holy war.” Not only that, by calling on
readers to risk their lives on behalf of the Shōwa Restoration, the
article’s unspoken assumption was that killing the “enemy amongst
us” was a necessary part of that process. This last point was not lost
on police censors who impounded the magazine’s first issue only
two days after its publication.

Aizawa Saburō
Despite ongoing police interference, the Dōjō added a second
magazine, Imperial Spirit (Kōki) to its list of publications and then, on
23 November 1935, established a monthly newspaper, Great
Essence (Taiganmoku). As Arahara noted: “Under the guidance of
Nishida Mitsugi and other Young Officers, and using their sharp
editorial style, this newspaper made propaganda for the Pure
Japanism Movement.”26 Needless to say, this newspaper was also
strongly supportive of Lt. Colonel Aizawa, introduced in the previous
chapter, who was then awaiting court martial for the assassination of
General Nagata in August 1935. Although Aizawa was not directly
associated with the Dōjō, his “direct action” against a man seen as
the leader of the Control Faction was eagerly embraced as a further
step on the road to the Shōwa Restoration. Israeli historian Ben-Ami
Shillony describes the Dōjō’s role at this time as follows:

The ex-military activists of the Young Officers’ Movement,

Nishida Mitsugi, Shibukawa Zensuke, Muranaka Kōji, and
Isobe Asaichi, became the “brain trust” of Aizawa’s defense,
trying hard to make the most of it for their cause. They founded
a special organization, the Jikishin Dōjō (Sincere Spirit
Seminary) for propagating “the ideals of Aizawa” and wrote
articles in Nishida’s Taiganmoko, which hailed the defendant as
a forerunner of the Shōwa Restoration.27

On the one hand it must be pointed out that Shillony’s description

contains two errors, the first being his claim that the Jikishin Dōjō
was founded specifically to support Aizawa. As we have seen, the
Dōjō had already been in existence for more than a year and a half
prior to Nagata’s assassination. Second, while in theory it is possible
to translate the Dōjō’s name as “Sincere Spirit Seminary,” this
translation misses the traditional Zen meaning of the title, fully
expressed in Sino-Japanese as “pointing direct(ly) at the human
mind, seeing one’s nature, and realizing Buddhahood” (jikishi
ninshin, kenshō jōbutsu). No doubt, Shillony, like so many historians
of modern Japan, was simply unaware of the Buddhist, especially
Zen, background to terms like these.
Nevertheless, Shillony is quite correct in identifying the Dōjō as
being at the heart of the movement seeking to create popular
support for Aizawa and his “ideals.” This is hardly surprising since
not only did all of these men share the same political agenda, but
they were personal friends as well. In fact, Aizawa had stayed at
Nishida Mitsugi’s house the night before he assassinated General
Nagata. The morning of the attack Nishida told Muranaka and Isobe:

Aizawa stayed with me last night after arriving in Tokyo from

Fukuyama. This morning he said he was going to the Ministry
of War to see Nagata. Knowing what kind of person Aizawa is,
I think he may do something.28

The Dōjō published a number of leaflets on Aizawa’s behalf, some

anonymously, in which the Zen emphasis on “transcendence” played
an important role. One of these leaflets described Aizawa’s actions
as stemming from his desire to “clarify the national polity, cleanse the
military, and bring about the Restoration revolution.” The leaflet also
identified ongoing support for capitalism and the rule of law as two of
the elements then present in Japan that were “opposed to the
national polity” and thus had to be eliminated. Significantly, the “rule
of law” was held to be synonymous with “individualism and
liberalism” (kojinshugi-jiyūshugi), both of which were regarded in
right-wing circles as “unJapanese” imports from the West.29
The strong attack on the rule of law is hardly surprising in that a
successful Shōwa Restoration would have meant the suspension of
any semblance of the rule of law, at least as contained in the Meiji
Constitution of 1889. That is to say, all political parties were to be
dissolved and, accordingly, policy debate would become not only
unnecessary but a sign of disloyalty. Instead, the emperor, aided by
his (mostly military) advisors, would rule directly as the “benevolent
father” he was held to be. Thus, while it can be argued that there
was a populist element of government “for the people” in the
proposed Shōwa Restoration, there was not the slightest hint of a
government either “of the people” let alone “by the people.”
More to the point, in Aizawa’s case the rule of law had to be
suspended if he were to escape the death penalty, for in killing a
superior officer he was clearly guilty of having committed a capital
offense. Thus the same leaflet contained the following demand: “The
fate of those parties who, having transcended the law, have
sacrificed themselves for the Restoration that also transcends the
law, must itself transcend the law.”30

26 February Incident
As noted in the previous chapter, one of the Dōjō’s demands, i.e.
that Aizawa’s court martial be open to the public, was successful;
and the first hearing was held on 28 January 1936. Yet by this time
Aizawa’s trial was no longer the main focus of the Dōjō’s activities.
Rather, the time for large-scale action had come at last; and on the
evening of the trial’s opening, Dōjō activists Isobe Asaichi and
Muranaka Kōji met with their active military counterparts to plan what
would become the largest military revolt in modern Japanese history
- the Young Officers’ Uprising of 26 February 1936. Although Nishida
Mitsugi initially felt that the time was still not ripe, he was evenually
won over and all of the Dōjō’s activists devoted themselves to the
uprising’s success.
Just how important the role played by these activists was, is
revealed by the fact that the uprising was planned by only five men,
three ex-military civilians and two officers. All three civilians, i.e.
Nishida, Isobe, and Muranaka, were also key figures in the Jikishin
Dōjō.31 Further, Isobe and Muranaka comprised two of the three
members of the committee that drew up the political demands to be
submitted to the Minister of War once the uprising was underway. At
a more practical level, Shibukawa Zensuke and his wife spent the
night of 23 February at a Japanese inn located in Yugawara,
Kanagawa Prefecture, to observe the movements of Lord Keeper of
the Privy Seal, Count Makino Nobuaki (1863–1949), one of the “evil
advisors” surrounding the throne slated for assassination.
 What Sōgen’s exact role was in all this is unknown. It may well
have been limited in that the uprising’s leaders made a conscious
decision to exclude civilians, at least those who were not former
military officers, from the initial phase of operations. Shillony
suggests this decision was made because “civilian terrorists were
held in lower public esteem than military officers and their
involvement could impair the heroic image that the rebels wished to
create.”32 As for Sōgen himself, he later admitted that “during the
[26] February Incident, the persons involved in the incident had
come to me for advice.” Yet, he also claimed, “but I said, ‘Now is not
the time. You must wait a little longer,’ and opposed the action.”33
Once again, we find Sōgen opposed to the timing for political
assassination, not its use.
Sōgen’s associates, however, had no such reservations. For
example, Isobe and Muranaka once again donned their military
uniforms to help lead the revolt. In addition, on the uprising’s first
day, Nishida, Shibukawa and other civilians gathered at the home of
another and much better known Buddhist supporter of the Young
Officers, Kita Ikki (1883–1937). Kita was better known because,
inspired by the teachings of Nichiren (1222?—82), he was one of the
chief ideologues to whom the Young Officers turned for guidance,
especially as to the nature of an emperor-centric, yet populist-
oriented Shōwa Restoration. (More will be said about the role played
by Nichiren and his adherents within Japanese militarism in chapter
9.)
During the four days of the Uprising, the civilian supporters used
Kita’s house as a liaison centre between the twenty-one rebel
officers and the more than 1,400 men they commanded. These
supporters provided the rebels with encouragement and advice as
well as information from the outside world. They also published three
issues of a Shōwa Restoration Bulletin (Shōwa Ishin Jōhō) in which
they appealed to the people of Japan to rise up in armed revolt on
the one hand and to sympathetic officers stationed outside of Tokyo
to commit their units in support of the “glorious uprising in the
capital.”34 Before any of these things could occur, however, the revolt
was bloodlessly suppressed, apart from two officer suicides, on 29
February.
The revolt had collapsed for one key reason. Despite support for
its goals from Imperial Way Faction generals like Araki Sadao, and
most especially Mazaki Jinzaburō, Emperor Hirohito was dead set
against it from the outset. Awakened in the early morning of 26
February and informed of what had taken place, Hirohito told his
chief aide-de-camp: “They have killed my advisors and are now
trying to pull a silk rope around my neck.… I shall never forgive
them, no matter what their motives are.”35
True to his word, shortly after the uprising’s collapse, Hirohito
insisted on a Special Court-Martial to try those involved. In the end, a
total of thirteen officers, together with Dōjō activists Isobe,
Muranaka, Shibukawa, and Nishida, and including Kita Ikki, faced a
military firing squad. As the American historian Herbert Bix notes, it
was Hirohito’s resolute decisiveness that “abruptly ended the period
in which alienated ‘Young Officers’ had tried to use him as a principle
of reform to undermine a power structure they could not successfully
manipulate.”36
As for Sōgen, this time he was unable to avoid arrest and,
together with four additional Centre members, was held at the
Otsuka Police Station on suspicion of having fanned the revolt.
Sōgen described one of his interrogation sessions as follows:

The prosecuting attorney said that I had agitated the emperor’s

army. I asked, “Do you really think that an ordinary citizen like
myself could agitate the soldiers of the emperor? If you think
that, you are really showing contempt for the army.” When I
said that, the prosecuting attorney began to tremble.
I continued, “During the 26 February Incident, you called
them (those who participated in the incident) revolutionary
soldiers, in other words, you were calling them the enemy. If
that is so, according to military law, in the event that the
general staff office is occupied by enemy forces, even if just
temporarily, the person in charge must be punished. Was the
commander in chief, Naninnomiya (an aristocrat) punished? If
 he has not yet been punished, he should be punished before
me.”
When I said that, the prosecutor’s face turned blue.37

Unbowed, Sōgen was finally released after two months in detention,

the police unable to amass sufficient evidence to convict him of any
offense. By this time, however, the trials of both the military and
civilian rebels had begun. Given that all the military court hearings
related to these cases were now closed to the public, there was a
strong likelihood that the accused would be sentenced to death.
Furthermore, because martial law was still in effect, including strict
censorship provisions, direct appeals to the public on behalf of men
whom the emperor himself had branded as “mutineers” (bōto) were
out of the question. This, however, did not stop Sōgen from trying.
Specifically Sōgen and two of his students from the Dōjō, Kuroda
Sueo and Kaneko Nobuo, got their hands on a number of
memoranda written by Isobe Asaichi that had been smuggled out of
prison by his wife when she visited him. One read in part:

Appeal to the patriots of Japan. Help us destroy the members

of the military clique in power [i.e. the Control Faction] which is
the enemy of the true Restoration.… Annihilate them in order
that the Restoration may be realized. I shall fight to the end!38

Sōgen and his students proceeded to mimeograph these

memoranda and mail copies throughout Japan. Not content with this,
they hit on a unique method of distributing them to the larger public.
According to a postwar Allied intelligence report entitled The
Brocade Banner, Sōgen and Kuroda “distributed the appeals like
Gideon Bibles in the toilet compartments of the Tokaido Line
trains.”39 Given his earlier spiritual “breakthrough” in a urinal, it is
almost comical to picture Sōgen making his way from one toilet to
the next armed with nothing more than leaflets.
Unsurprisingly, the police were not amused by Sōgen and his
student’s activities. Eventually both of them were arrested together
with fifty-eight other rightists who had engaged in similar acts. They
were convicted and sentenced to prison where Sōgen remained for
one year before being placed on probation for three years. Later, in
1940, he received a full pardon. As the following reveals, Sōgen
found his time in prision quite beneficial, both mentally and
spiritually:

A solitary cell in a prison is a great convenience. Everything

can be done in one room: the toilet is there; you can eat there;
you can even study there. While I was there, I didn’t think that I
should read all the time, so during the day I read books, and at
night I did zazen.40

Sōgen was later gratified to find that his Zen master, Seki Seisetsu,
approved of his conduct.41 That is to say, on the day of his release
from prison Seisetsu visited Sōgen at the Dōjō and said, “You had a
long sesshin. You had much hardship, but you did well.”42 Seisetsu
then took his disciple out to dinner. Sōgen summed up his prison
experience as follows: “Since there is no other place where one can
study so leisurely, everyone should do the right thing and get into
prison.”43 In light of Sōgen’s actions up to that point, one can but
express surprise that he had not succeeded in “do[ing] the right
thing” earlier.

Wartime activities
In postwar years Sōgen’s disciples claimed that their master “had
tried his best to prevent Japan’s involvement in World War II.”44 If
this were true, it must be said that he had a strange way of showing
his opposition. That is to say, not long after his release from prison,
he resumed his right-wing activities, only this time as a loyal
supporter of Japan’s military actions in China and Asia. In August
1940 he helped found the Youth League for the Construction of the
(Imperial Rule) Assistance Structure (Yokusan Taisei Kensetsu
Seinen Renmei). When the participants in this group couldn’t agree
on a common agenda, Sōgen left to form yet another organization,
the Japanism Youth Council (Nipponshugi Seinen Kaigi), founded in
September 1940. Finally, in July 1944 Sōgen took up an
administrative position in the (Imperial Rule) Assistance Manhood
Group (Yokusan Sōnen Dan).
This last organization was a service group of the Imperial Rule
Assistance Association (IRAA), a government-sponsored mass
organization modelled on the Nazi Party that had been established in
October 1940. Like its Nazi counterpart, its purpose was to replace
all political parties and factions and create one united, war-affirming
body, based on the slogan of “100 million [citizens of] one mind”
(ichi-oku isshin). However, as noted in the Brocade Banner, the
IRAA and its supporting organizations were beset from the outset
with internal policy and organizational differences, not to mention
petty personal jealousies, all of which combined to reduce their
effectiveness in rousing and sustaining the people, especially as it
became clear that Japan was losing the war. Nevertheless, they did
at least succeed in “regimenting and herding the populace behind
the war effort” even if the old struggles for power remained as active
as ever.45 Whatever reservations he may have had, there can be no
doubt that Sōgen was an integral part of this overall effort.
This said, in fairness to Sōgen it should be pointed out that in
mid-1940 he made direct contact with the aristocratic Prince Konoe
Fumimarō (1891–1945), then in the midst of forming his second
Cabinet. Sōgen repeatedly pleaded with him to choose either
General Ugaki Kazushige (1869–1956) or General Mazaki Jinzaburō
as his new Minister of War. Konoe, however, refused Sōgen’s advice
and eventually stopped inviting him to his advisors’ meetings. For
Sōgen, his failure to sway Konoe became a source of lifelong regret.
As he later wrote: “I should not have given up. I should have
persevered and even used intimidation if necessary [Italics mine].46
Sōgen further claimed that his plea to Konoe had been motivated
by his earnest desire “to prevent the war.”47 Inasmuch as Japan had
already been engaged in full-scale warfare with China since July
1937, it is reasonable to assume that what Sōgen had in mind was
preventing war with the USA and its western allies. This is in accord
with the Imperial Way Faction’s unyielding belief that Japan’s primary
enemy was Russia and its Communist ideology. Thus, Sōgen may
genuinely have wanted to prevent a misguided attack on the USA.
 However, even had Sōgen been successful, this would have
done nothing to save the colonized peoples of Taiwan, Korea, and
Manchuria; for Generals Ugaki and Mazaki’s careers reveal that they
were as dedicated to the maintenance and, if possible, the
expansion of the Japanese Empire as any of Japan’s other military
leaders. Ugaki, for example, had willingly accepted appointment as
governor general of Korea in 1931.48 Further, neither Sōgen’s
writings nor those of the many right-wing organizations of which he
was a part contain the slightest hint of opposition to Japanese
imperialism. For geographical, historical and ideological reasons,
Russia, not the USA, was seen as the chief threat to the
maintenance and expansion of the Japanese Empire. Thus, Sōgen’s
effort “to prevent the war” was in reality an effort to prevent war with
the wrong enemy!
Nevertheless, even Sōgen’s disciples admit that their master had
a change of heart following Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbour.
Hosokawa Dōgen, one of Sōgen’s Dharma successors and current
abbot of Hawaii’s Chōzenji, notes that Sōgen was determined to see
the war through to the end. “Winning or losing was not the point. He
[Sōgen] felt that something that had been started should be carried
through to the end,” Dōgen wrote.49 In light of the many millions of
lives lost in seeing the war “through to the end,” this must surely be
one of the most inane justifications for the mass slaughter of human
beings ever written.
Sōgen’s total commitment to Japan’s war effort is further
demonstrated by his attempt to preempt the emperor’s pre-recorded
radio broadcast scheduled for noon on 15 August 1945. “Since I
wanted to resist till the end,” Sōgen stated, “I was going to obstruct
the emperor’s broadcast [in which he would announce Japan’s
surrender]. For that reason I often went to the Imperial Headquarters
to incite the soldiers.”50 Needless to say, Sōgen would have had to
be very well connected indeed to even know that such an
unprecedented broadcast was planned.51
Had Sōgen and his ilk succeeded in preventing Japan’s
surrender, an Allied invasion of Japan would have become
inevitable. As chapter 7 describes in detail, this would have resulted
in almost unimaginable carnage, most especially for those millions of
Japanese civilian men and women of all ages required to fight the
Allied invaders armed with little more than sharpened bamboo
spears. But that was of no concern to Sōgen, for whether one was
trying to prevent a war or fight it, he claimed that “if one trains in Zen,
one must do everything thoroughly and completely…”52

Postwar activism
When Japan finally surrendered, Sōgen’s initial impulse was to
commit suicide. Surprisingly for someone schooled in Bushido,
Sōgen had no intention of using a sword to slowly and painfully
disembowel himself in the traditional manner. Instead, “I had decided
to kill myself instantly with a pistol,” he explained.53 However, early
on the morning of the appointed day, his old calligraphy teacher,
Yokoyama Setsudo dropped by the Dōjō, now relocated in Tokyo’s
Setagaya district. Yokoyama also intended to kill himself because in
his opinion: “These days all Japanese have become hopeless
cowards.” Yet Yokoyama subsequently had a change of heart and,
after waking Sōgen, said, “The reason we lost the war is because
there was some weak point.… It won’t be too late to die after we
completely investigate the reason.” Sōgen replied, “I agreed right
away, but if he hadn’t come, I would have committed seppuku
(suicide).”54
As previously noted, Sōgen stated that after Japan’s defeat he
had decided to enter the Rinzai Zen priesthood “according to the
samurai code.” What he neglected to mention, however, was that as
a practical matter, apart from suicide, he had very few other options.
In the first place this was because his prominent role in Japan’s
ultranationalist movement brought him to the attention of the Allied
Occupation authorities. While the Allies did not indict him as a war
criminal, they did include his name on a list of persons purged from
public life including employment even as a school teacher. In
addition, as the practice of the martial arts was also proscribed,
Sōgen’s career as an instructor of the martial arts came to an abrupt
end. Practically speaking, the Zen priesthood was one of the few
remaining positions open to him.
Priestly status, however, by no means spelled the end of Sōgen’s
right-wing activism. Thus, on 1 April 1952, four weeks prior to the
formal end of the Allied Occupation, Sōgen held a meeting with ten
other former right-wing leaders to discuss rebuilding the Right in a
soon-to-be independent Japan. Subsequently, this group met
regularly for about a year under the name of the East Wind Society
(Tōfū-kai). Sōgen and his associates felt that in its weakened state,
the Right could only influence events if it spoke with a united voice.
With the goal of creating a united Right, Sōgen became one of
the founders, and first committee chairman, of the Kantō District
Council of the Restoration Movement (Ishin Undō Kantō Kyōgi-kai),
founded in July 1953. Similar to the prewar years, the goals of this
new umbrella organization included the creation of a “racial state”
(minzoku kokka), the ousting of the Communist Party and its allies,
and the purging of corrupt political parties, financial magnates, and
government bureaucrats.
Despite Sōgen’s best efforts, the old rivalries soon appeared, and
by May 1954 it became necessary to create yet another umbrella
organization fostering right-wing unity, the General Federation of
Citizens for the Salvation of the Nation (Kyūkoku Kokumin Sōrengō).
Once again, Sōgen served as the committee chairman of this group.
Nevertheless, by December 1956, so many of the constituent right-
wing organizations in the federation had dropped out that a further
name change became necessary. The end result was called simply,
the General Federation of Citizens (Kokumin Sōrengō).
Never one to give up, in January 1958 Sōgen became a
permanent director of the New Japan Council (Shin-Nippon Kyōgi-
kai). As its name suggests, this was the most mainstream of the
many right-wing organizations of which Sōgen had been a part. In
fact, it has been described as a “vehicle for the unification of the right
wing with Japan’s financial circles and the Liberal Democratic Party
(LDP).”55 The LDP, of course, is the conservative (and corrupt)
political party that has ruled Japan on an almost uninterrupted basis
for the past half-century.
 On the one hand, Sōgen was now aligned with financial
magnates like Takasugi Shin-ichi (1892–1978), chairman of the
board of directors of Mitsubishi Electric Co. and Council finance
chairperson. On the other hand, Sōgen’s longstanding anti-
Communism was reflected by the following tenet of the Council’s
charter: “This Council will endeavour to expel Communism,
defeatism and all plots by foreign countries that threaten the peace
and freedom of our citizens.”56 In this context, the Council was
particularly critical of the left-leaning Japan Teachers’ Union
(Nikkyōsō) and demanded that education be “normalized” (seijō-ka)
in accord with what it called the “proper ethics for teachers.”57
In addition, the Council demanded that Japan’s postwar “peace”
constitution be revised in order that Japan might once again maintain
a full-fledged military. This was coupled with a demand for the
maintenance of the Japan-US Mutual Security Treaty that came up
for renewal in the face of strong left-wing opposition in 1960 and
again in 1970. In the face of this opposition the Council also called
for the establishment of a law to “preserve public peace and order,”
thereby enhancing the power of police to control anti-Treaty
demonstrations. As Hori Yukio commented: “In the final analysis, the
Council became the mouthpiece for the ideology of [Japan’s] political
and financial circles who sought to steer Japan to the right by
creating a sense of crisis.”58
This is not to say that Sōgen cut himself off from his old roots
altogether, for in October 1961 he became a director of the postwar
version of the infamous (and deadly) Black Dragon Society, now
renamed as the Black Dragon Club (Kokuryū-kurabu). The original
Black Dragon Society (Kokuryū-kai) had been created in 1901 to
block Russian penetration into the Far East on the one hand and
promote Japanese advancement onto the Asian continent, especially
Manchuria, on the other. The postwar Black Dragon Club sought to
“succeed to the spirit of the [prewar] Black Dragon Society and
promote the Restoration.” It also aimed at “comforting and exalting
the spirits of the society’s former members.”59 Although the Club
never attracted more than one hundred and fifty members, Sōgen no
doubt felt more at home there than he did in the New Japan Council
where he sat alongside the corrupt politicians and financial
magnates he had so long opposed.
Finally, it is noteworthy that the last entry regarding Sōgen in the
Dictionary of the Right Wing states that he eventually became
President of Rinzai Zen-affiliated Hanazono University. While at first
glance this appears to be unconnected to Sōgen’s right-wing
activism, in reality it was not; for it had been Sōgen’s right-wing
reputation that brought him to the university in the first place.
That is to say, in 1970, left-wing student activism was on the rise
throughout Japan, centred on opposition to the extension of the
Japan-US Mutual Security Treaty and a demand for an increased
student voice in campus affairs. Hosokawa Dōgen describes the
circumstances under which Sōgen was asked to teach at Hanazono
University as follows:

During this time [1970] there was unrest at universities all over
Japan. Hanazono University was no exception. Along with
Ritsumeikan University, it was a well known base for the
students in the Japanese Red Army. Within the university there
was strife.… As a result, [Sōgen] Roshi became a professor at
that university.60

Although he had dropped out of university as a youth, who better

than Sōgen to suppress left-wing student activism. Sōgen could not,
of course, accomplish this task on his own so he reached out to a
group of students he knew, from past experience would readily
support him - students of the martial arts. Even today martial arts’
students at Japan’s universities regard themselves as the
embodiment of the wartime “Spirit of Japan” (Yamato-damashii) and
are decidedly right-wing in their political orientation. Sōgen therefore
began a weekly Zazen Club, initially for members of the Kendō club
but then expanded to include the Karate and Kenpō clubs as well as
the all-male pep club. Since these students were more than willing to
use their martial arts skills to intimidate left-wing students, it did not
take long for university “strife” to end.
Finally, with the strong backing of these right-wing students,
Sōgen the university dropout became Sōgen the university president
in 1978. It would appear Sōgen learned something from his earlier
failure to intimidate Prince Konoe after all.

Conclusion
In evaluating Sōgen’s life, especially his manifestation as Mr. Hyde, I
am reminded of the following claim made by Bernard Phillips of
Philadelphia University in his book Zen and Western People: “Aside
from Zen, there is no other universal religion.” Phillips justified this
rather surprising claim as follows:

It is true that many other religions have emphasized a universal

religion; but all of the other religions have been influenced by
the time, place, and character of the region. Other religions
have been instrumental in a specific nation, during a specific
time, and in a specific area. They did not play a part in the lives
of all mankind or in all endeavours. They all made the mistake
of trying to create an absolute form or absolute creed. The
reason is that the forms and creeds of these religions lost their
absoluteness and are restricted historically or were the product
of a certain geography, certain society, and economic
environment.61

Needless to say, here Phillips embraces without reservation the view

promoted by such Zen representatives as D. T. Suzuki that Zen
transcends not only things like concepts, ethics and time, but history
itself. As Suzuki wrote: “Zen does not affirm or negate temporal
actuality. Actuality has historicity, with which the ultimacy of Zen has
no dealings.”62
One cannot help but wonder if Phillips, let alone Suzuki, would
argue that when Imperial Way Faction supporters, under Sōgen’s
“enlightened” guidance, daily practiced zazen, worshipped the Sun
Goddess, practiced swordsmanship etc., in preparation for staging a
violent Shōwa Restoration, that Zen was not “the product of a …
certain society”?
 What is even more interesting about Phillips’ quotation is that
Sōgen himself employed it in a series of talks given at Hanazono
University on the Roankyō, a collection of teachings by the famous
warrior-turned-Zen priest, Suzuki Shōsan (1579–1655).63 Sōgen
invoked Phillips to show that even westerners recognized that Zen
alone contains “the basic principle that will save the world.”64
Based on Sōgen’s clear acceptance of assassination as the
preferred method for achieving his political aims, let alone his
wartime support of Japanese militarism, one might well ask if it was
not Sōgen himself who made Zen “instrumental in a specific nation”?
If this is what is really required to “save the world,” I think I am not
alone in suggesting the world would be better off, much better off, left
“unsaved.”
Hosokawa Dōgen writes: “The life of Ōmori Roshi is the
manifestation of traditional and true Zen. After eight years of arduous
training, he experienced this absolute negation and for the rest of his
life tried his best to use his experience of absolute negation in every
possible circumstance.”65 If Sōgen, as Mr. Hyde, represents
“traditional and true Zen” then it must be said that Zen faces a very
bleak future, not least of all morally. Bleak, that is, unless one
happens to agree that Zen ought to be “united as one” with what was
in reality a deadly form of emperor-worshipping fascism. Of course, if
D. T. Suzuki is correct, there is no reason to be alarmed about this
since Zen can be readily “wedded to anarchism or fascism,
communism or democracy, atheism or idealism, or any political or
economic dogmatism.”
If the word “fascism” seems too strong a term to employ in regard
to Sōgen and his ilk, I would point to the writings of Maruyama
Masao, one of postwar Japan’s most distinguished political
scientists. After describing the features of prewar and wartime
Japanese society that clearly made it fascist in nature, Maruyama
identifies the three stages of fascism’s development:

1
the preparatory stage, between 1919–31, when various fascist
societies of civilians existed on the margins of Japanese politics;
the mature stage, from 1931–36, when fascism was endorsed by
2
young officers and manifested in acts of terrorism;
3 stage of consummation, from 1936–45, when fascism was
a
adopted by Japan’s ruling elite.66

Maruyama also identifies three distinct types of political personality

involved in this process who “serv[ed] to formulate not only the
fascist period but the entire political world of Imperial Japan.”
Designating the three as the “Shrine,” the “Official,” and the “Outlaw,”
he described their respective roles as follows:

The Shrine represents authority; the Official, power; and the

Outlaw, violence. From the point of view of their position in the
national hierarchy and of their legal power, the Shrine ranks
highest and the Outlaw lowest. The system, however, is so
constituted that movement starts from the Outlaw and
gradually works upwards. The Shrine is often a mere robot who
affects other people by “doing nothing” (Ch. wu wei).
The force that “holds aloft” the Shrine and that wields the
real power is the Official (civilian or military). His rule over the
powerless people is based on the legitimacy that descends
from the Shrine. He in his turn is being prodded from behind by
the Outlaw.67

Needless to say, the “Outlaw” encompasses Japan’s civilian

ultranationalists whose emperor-centric, fascist-promoting societies
gathered steam in the 1920s and then, bolstered by their youthful
military supporters, burst on the scene as terrorists in the 1930s.
While not the only legitimating body in Japanese society, Emperor
Hirohito was nevertheless the ultimate “Shrine” who legitimated the
entire system ruled over by the “Official,” both military and civilian. As
Herbert Bix notes, Hirohito was “the reason the system worked.”68
Sōgen, due to his right-wing affiliations in the 1920s and his
involvement in terrorist violence in the 1930s, clearly falls in the
Outlaw type. In evaluating the influence he and his ilk had on turning
Japan into a fascist state, it is important to remember “that
movement start[ed] from the Outlaw and gradually work[ed]
upwards.” This said, it is also true that in the biggest Outlaw act of
them all, i.e. the 26 February Young Officers’ Uprising, the Outlaws,
Sōgen included, appear to have failed miserably.
Appearances, however, can be deceiving, for as David Titus
notes in Palace and Politics in Prewar Japan: “The Outlaw(s) of the
unsuccessful Shōwa Restoration were instruments of pressure used
to consolidate a bureaucratic monolith in government and then
discarded.”69 More concretely, Herbert Bix adds:

Interestingly, in their concept of total war the thinking of the

[uprising’s] leaders and their senior commanders in the Army
Ministry and the Army General Staff was strikingly similar: Both
wanted state control of industrial production in order to fully
mobilize the nation’s resources.… The emperor and most of his
advisers concurred with the demands of the Army and Navy for
accelerated military buildup and state-directed industrial
development.70

Nevertheless, it can be argued that Sōgen and his fellow Outlaws

never meant it to turn out this way. Yet, planned or not, Titus argues:

The winners [of the uprising] were the Army’s Control Faction
Officials and their colleagues in the Navy and the civil
bureaucracy: they capitalized on the successful use of Outlaw
violence by the Imperial Way Faction against moderate
Officials, and on the mistakes of the Imperial Way Faction’s
Officials in the way they did so, to consolidate bureaucratic
“fascism from above.”71

If the military and civilian bureaucrats, including the emperor,

represented “fascism from above,” it is equally important to
recognize, as Maruyama Masao asserts, that the violence unleashed
by the Outlaws represented “fascism from below” and further, that in
“suppressing fascism from below, … fascism from above made rapid
progress.”72
 As we have seen, despite his initial reservations, Sōgen went on
to align himself as completely with “fascism from above” as he had
with “fascism from below.” No doubt he was sustained in this by his
belief that “if one trains in Zen, one must do everything thoroughly
and completely.” And, of course, there was his equally firm belief that
“with regard to their ultimate goals and aims, the sword and Zen are
one.”73
Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde? Or both?
 5

ZEN MASTER DŌGEN GOES TO

WAR

The militarist and anti-Semitic writings

of Yasutani Haku’un

In reviewing the history of Zen’s introduction to the West - and in

particular to the United States - it can be argued that the vast and
varied terrain of the Zen landscape was funnelled through just a
handful of Japanese teachers. Of these, Yasutani Haku’un (1885–
1973) is undoubtedly one of the most significant.
In 1965 Yasutani’s American disciple, Philip Kapleau, compiled
The Three Pillars of Zen. The first section is devoted to Yasutani’s
instructions for beginning students and continues to this day to be an
important source of Zen teachings. Although Yasutani travelled to
the West seven times in the 1960s, it was largely this widely-read
and influential book that made him so important to the growing Zen
movement. This led to Yasutani becoming a major player in the
transmission of Zen from Japan to the West.
However, like Ōmori Sōgen in the previous chapter, there is
another side to Yasutani, one that was almost totally unknown in the
West until the appearance of Zen at War in 1997. There Yasutani
was introduced as “no less a fanatical militarist and anti-communist
than his master.”1 This passage was, however, a quotation from
another book, Nihon Fashizumu-ka no Shūkyō (Religion under
Japanese Fascism), written by the late Rinzai Zen-affiliated scholar-
priest Ichikawa Hakugen (1902–86).2 But was this a fair or objective
assessment of this distinguished master whose lectures on Zen have
been highly praised by such luminaries as Huston Smith, professor
of philosophy at MIT, and Ruth Fuller Sasaki, director of the First Zen
Institute of America? Could Yasutani, had he once been a “fanatical
militarist,” gone on to exercise such a profound influence on the
development of Zen in the West, particularly in the USA?
To be sure, it would be difficult to find fault with Hakugen’s similar
characterization of Harada Daiun Sōgaku (1870–1961), Yasutani’s
own Sōtō Zen master. Among many similar quotes included in Zen
At War, this is demonstrated by Harada’s call for ten years of “fascist
politics” in Japan while maintaining that “the Japanese people are a
chosen people whose mission is to control the world,” and “it is
necessary for all one hundred million subjects [of the emperor] to be
prepared to die with honour.”3 Perhaps Harada’s most memorable
wartime quote is:
 Plate 6 Sōtō Zen Master Yasutani Haku’un. Photograph by Francis Haar © Tom Haar,
Francis Haar Estate.

[If ordered to] march: tramp, tramp, or shoot: bang, bang. This
is the manifestation of the highest Wisdom [of enlightenment].
The unity of Zen and war of which I speak extends to the
farthest reaches of the holy war [now under way]. Verse: I bow
my head to the floor in reverence of those whose nobility is
without equal.4

Yet, this still does not address the question of whether or not
Yasutani should be so readily lumped together with his master. Was
not Hakugen attempting to discredit Yasutani by employing the time-
worn tactic of “guilt by association”? What proof did Hakugen offer in
support of his identification of Yasutani as a “fanatical militarist”?
In actual fact, Hakugen included in his book only a few right-wing
comments made by Yasutani in postwar years. Among other things
Yasutani was quoted as claiming that due to their left-wing stance,
Japan’s trade unions and four opposition parties “had taken it upon
themselves to become traitors to the nation” and, similarly, that “the
universities we presently have must be smashed one and all.”5
Granted that these and similar postwar quotes suggest that Yasutani
embraced, at the very least, a very conservative political agenda,
does this by itself justify the label of fanatical militarist?
It was, first of all, my desire to answer this question that served
as the catalyst for further research in Japan at the beginning of 1999.
I suspected I would find the answer in any of Yasutani’s writings that
dated from the war years. If ever there was a time when Japanese
Zen masters, like the leaders of other Buddhist sects, expressed a
militarist ideology, it was around the time of Japan’s surrender on 15
August 1945. Yet, had Yasutani written anything of substance during
this period, and even if he had, would it still be accessible?
What I discovered is that Ichikawa Hakugen was indeed mistaken
in his characterization of Yasutani as “no less a fanatical militarist”
than his master. On the contrary, Hakugen should have written:
“Yasutani was an even more fanatical militarist, not to mention ethnic
chauvinist, sexist, and anti-Semite, than his master!”
Not only that, Yasutani transformed the life and thought of Zen
Master Dōgen (1200–53), the thirteenth-century founder of the Sōtō
Zen sect in Japan, into a propaganda tool for Japanese militarism.
He portrayed Dōgen as a paragon of both loyalty to the emperor and
dedication to the nation’s “defense,” reinterpreting certain events in
Dōgen’s life so as to make the latter appear to have been among
Japan’s earliest advocates of restoring political power to the
emperor, thereby laying the groundwork for the loyalist actions of the
Meiji era reformers some six hundred years later. Similarly, Dōgen’s
interest in spreading the true Dharma in order to “protect the nation”
was recast by Yasutani into backing for Japan’s wartime goal of
exercising hegemony over all of Asia through establishing the
“Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere” under the slogan of the
“eight directions under one roof” (hakkō ichi-u).

Yasutani’s wartime writings

In February 1943 the firm of Fuji Shobō in Tokyo published a book
written by Yasutani entitled: Dōgen Zenji to Shūshōgi (Zen Master
Dōgen and the Treatise on Practice and Enlightenment). The
Shūshōgi, promulgated by the Sōtō Zen sect in 1890, was created to
provide the sect’s lay adherents with a relatively easily understood
digest of Zen Master Dōgen’s teachings concerning Buddhist
practice and enlightenment.
The publication date, February 1943, is significant because it
occurred only two months before Yasutani, at the age of fifty-eight,
received formal Dharma transmission from his master, Harada
Sōgaku. Equally important, this book was published at a time when it
was becoming clear that the war was no longer going well for Japan,
meaning that ever greater sacrifices would be required of the
Japanese people.
What follows are excerpts from this book. In format the book was
very traditional, consisting as it did of Yasutani’s sentence by
sentence, section by section commentary on the Shūshōgi’s text.
This said, Yasutani made it clear from the outset that he was not
interested in merely presenting yet another traditional interpretation
of Dōgen’s life and thought. Instead he wanted to “clarify the true
Dharma of Zen Master Dōgen,” something he maintained had
heretofore been misunderstood both within and without Zen Buddhist
circles in Japan. In this, we catch an early hint of the rationale
Yasutani would use in the postwar era, i.e. 1954, to justify his own
break with the traditional Sōtō Zen sect and the creation of an
independent Zen sectarian organization known as the Sanbōkyōdan
(Three Treasures Association).
Be that as it may, inasmuch as Yasutani’s book was composed of
some 416 pages in all, what follows is clearly only a very small
portion of the total. In having focused on Yasutani’s war-related
statements, it can be argued that the following material does not
fairly represent the overall book. Nevertheless, the quotations below
were contained, as the appended page numbers indicate, in what
was at the time the most comprehensive statement of the Sōtō Zen
sect’s position on the Asia-Pacific War. I make this claim inasmuch
as Ōmori Zenkai (1871–1947), then former administrative head of
the Sōtō Zen sect, contributed a calligraphic endorsement that
served as the book’s frontispiece. More will be said about Ōmori in
chapter 7 of this book.

On the book’s purpose

In describing the purpose of his book, Yasutani wrote:

Asia is one. Annihilating the treachery of the United States and

Britain and establishing the Greater East Asia Co-prosperity
Sphere is the only way to save the one billion people of Asia so
that they can, with peace of mind, proceed on their respective
paths. Furthermore, it is only natural that this will contribute to
the construction of a new world order, exorcising evil spirits
from the world and leading to the realization of eternal peace
and happiness for all humanity. I believe this is truly the
critically important mission to be accomplished by our great
Japanese Empire.
In order to fulfil this mission it is absolutely necessary to
have a powerful military force as well as plentiful material
resources. Furthermore, it is necessary to employ the power of
culture, for it is most especially the power of spiritual culture
that determines the final outcome. In fact, it must be said that
in accomplishing this very important national mission the most
important and fundamental factor is the power of spiritual
culture.…
It is impossible to discuss Japanese culture while ignoring
Buddhism. Those who would exclude Buddhism while seeking
to exalt the Spirit of Japan are recklessly ignoring the history of
our imperial land and engaging in a mistaken movement that
distorts the reality of our nation. In so doing, it must be said,
such persons hinder the proper development of our nation’s
destiny. For this reason we must promulgate and exalt the true
Buddha Dharma, making certain that the people’s thought is
resolute and immovable. Beyond this, we must train and send
forth a great number of capable men who will be able to
develop and exalt the culture of our imperial land, thereby
 reverently assisting in the holy enterprise of bringing the eight
corners of the world under one roof (pp. 1–2).

On the Spirit of Japan

The Spirit of Japan is, of course, unique to our country. It does not
exist in either China or India. Neither is it to be found in Italy or
Germany, let alone in the US, England and other countries.… We all
deeply believe, without the slightest doubt, that this spirit will be
increasingly cultivated, trained, and enlarged until its brilliance fills
the entire world. The most remarkable feature of the Spirit of Japan
is the power derived from the great unity [of our people].…
In the event one wishes to exalt the Spirit of Japan, it is
imperative to utilize Japanese Buddhism. The reason for this is that
as far as a nutrient for cultivation of the Spirit of Japan is concerned,
I believe there is absolutely nothing superior to Japanese Buddhism.
… That is to say, all the particulars [of the Spirit of Japan] are taught
by Japanese Buddhism, including the great way of “no-self” (muga)
that consists of the fundamental duty of “extinguishing the self in
order to serve the public [good]” (messhi hoko); the determination to
transcend life and death in order to reverently sacrifice oneself for
one’s sovereign; the belief in unlimited life as represented in the oath
to die seven times over to repay [the debt of gratitude owed] one’s
country; reverently assisting in the holy enterprise of bringing the
eight corners of the world under one roof; and the valiant and
devoted power required for the construction of the Pure Land on this
earth.…
Within Japanese Buddhism it is the Buddha Dharma of Zen
Master Dōgen, having been directly inherited from Śākyamuni, that
has emphasized the cultivation of the people’s spirit, for its central
focus is on religious practice, especially the great duty of reverence
for the emperor (pp. 7–11).

On Dōgen’s life
The Buddha Dharma of Zen Master Dōgen is thoroughly and
completely, from beginning to end, characterized by the great duty of
reverence for the emperor. While it can be said that this is a feature
of Japanese Buddhism as a whole, the great duty of reverence for
the emperor is especially thoroughgoing in the Buddha Dharma of
Zen Master Dōgen, pulsing through its every nook and cranny. It
must be said that this spirit was a natural expression of Zen Master
Dōgen’s [noble] lineage. Having said this, because Dōgen
thoroughly disliked such illusory things as fame and fortune, he didn’t
make a big fuss about this issue.…
The reason that Dōgen intensely sought after the Buddha
Dharma was definitely not for his own personal salvation. That is to
say, braving the billowing waves, he travelled to faraway great Song
China in search of the true Dharma of the Buddha because, being
deeply angered by the tyranny exercised by the military government
in Kamakura and deploring the hardship endured by the Imperial
House, he was consumed by his reverence for the emperor and
concern for what he might do to ensure the welfare of this imperial
land. If one thoroughly examines what Zen Master Dōgen
accomplished during his lifetime, it is clear that he was determined to
cultivate the foundation of the people’s spirit, causing them to awake
to the true Spirit of Japan (pp. 21–2).

On Dōgen’s thought
The Buddha Dharma of Zen Master Dōgen is thoroughly and
completely characterized by the great spirit of reverence for the
emperor and protection of the nation. For Zen Master Dōgen, the
fundamental method for realizing and practicing this spirit is to have
all the people practice zazen properly. The proper practice of zazen
consists in the practice of zazen with the proper mental attitude. By
nature, the body and mind are one, not two. For this reason, if the
mind is proper, then one’s physical posture will be proper. If one’s
mind and posture are proper, then one’s thoughts and feelings will,
as a matter of course, become proper. If one’s thoughts and feelings
become proper, then one’s original mind naturally manifests itself. If
one’s original mind manifests itself, then as Japanese it is inevitable
that the Spirit of Japan, consisting as it does of reverence for the
emperor and protection of the nation, will be enhanced. It is for this
reason that Zen Master Dōgen recommended the proper practice of
zazen to all our citizens.…
In other words, Zen Master Dōgen taught that when our citizens
maintain their bodies and minds properly, then the Way of the warrior
is put into practice, the Way of the farmer is put into practice, the
Way of the factory worker is put into practice, the Way of the
merchant is put into practice, and, most especially, the Way of the
loyal subject is thoroughly put into practice. The reason for this is
that when the body and mind are properly maintained, illusory
thoughts of seeking fame and fortune will not arise, nor will
distracting ideas of selfishness and personal feelings occur. When
illusory and distracting ideas disappear, then one’s original mind and
nature reveal themselves. That is to say, one’s divine nature will
manifest itself; the virtue of the Buddha will manifest itself. It is for
this reason that Zen Master Dōgen so earnestly recommended the
proper practice of zazen (pp. 29–30).

The precept forbidding killing

At this point the following question arises: What should the attitude of
disciples of the Buddha, as Mahāyāna bodhisattvas, be toward the
first precept that forbids the taking of life? For example, what should
be done in the case in which, in order to remove various evil
influences and benefit society, it becomes necessary to deprive
birds, insects, fish, etc. of their lives, or, on a larger scale, to
sentence extremely evil and brutal persons to death, or for the nation
to engage in total war?
Those who understand the spirit of the Mahāyāna precepts
should be able to answer this question immediately. That is to say, of
course one should kill, killing as many as possible. One should,
fighting hard, kill everyone in the enemy army. The reason for this is
that in order to carry [Buddhist] compassion and filial obedience
through to perfection it is necessary to assist good and punish evil.
However, in killing [the enemy] one should swallow one’s tears,
bearing in mind the truth of killing yet not killing.
Failing to kill an evil man who ought to be killed, or destroying an
enemy army that ought to be destroyed, would be to betray
compassion and filial obedience, to break the precept forbidding the
taking of life. This is a special characteristic of the Mahāyāna
precepts (pp. 245–6).

The precept forbidding stealing

In making China cede the island of Taiwan, and, further, in annexing
the Korean peninsula, our Great Japanese Imperial Empire engaged
in the practice of a great bodhisattva, a practice that reveals itself
through compassion and filial obedience. That is to say, it is this
practice that provides the basis for seeking the great stabilization of
East Asia, ensuring, first of all, the greatest happiness for the
inhabitants of Taiwan and Korea; and secondly, bringing peace of
mind and happiness to the various peoples of East Asia; not to
mention producing peace and happiness for all humanity.
I hear that there are those among our brethren on the Korean
peninsula who, ignorant of the noble purpose of our actions, rob
people of their belongings (of course there are such people in
mainland Japan as well) and even go so far as to say, “Japan is a
great robber who has stolen Korea. Why make such a big fuss when
we steal a few things!” I really would like to have the opportunity to
thoroughly explain to people who think like this the truth and spirit of
what I have written above, quickly dispelling their misunderstanding.
In a similar manner we must thoroughly and completely explain
the great ideal of the founding of our nation, that is to say, the great
spirit of the eight directions of the world under one roof. In so doing
we will not only be able to clarify the understanding and conviction of
our own people but, furthermore, make the various peoples of the
world understand and acquiesce to our ideals. In truth, it is our
Japanese Mahāyāna Buddhism that is fully equipped with the superb
homilies necessary to accomplish this task (pp. 254–5).
 On the Jews
While much of what Yasutani wrote above was echoed by
innumerable wartime Zen leaders, there was one area in which he
had less company: Yasutani was one of only a few Zen masters to
integrate virulent anti-Semitism into his pro-war stance. The following
are a few representative quotes, the first of which manages to mix
Confucian social values together with its sexism and anti-Semitism:

1 Everyone should act according to their position in society.

Those who are in a superior position should take pity on those
below, while those who are below should revere those who are
above. Men should fulfill the Way of men while women observe
the Way of women, making absolutely sure that there is not the
slightest confusion between their respective roles. It is
therefore necessary to thoroughly defeat the propaganda and
strategy of the Jews. That is to say, we must clearly point out
the fallacy of their evil ideas advocating liberty and equality,
ideas that have dominated the world up to the present time (p.
9).
2 Beginning in the Meiji period, perhaps because Japan was so
busy importing western material civilization, our precious
Japanese Buddhism was discarded without a second thought.
For this reason, Japanese Buddhism fell into a situation in
which it was half dead and half alive, leaving Japanese
education without a soul. The result was the almost total loss of
the Spirit of Japan, for the general citizenry became fascinated
with the ideas of liberty and equality as advocated by the
scheming Jews, not to mention such things as individualism,
money as almighty, and pleasure-seeking. This in turn caused
men of intelligence in recent years to strongly call for the
promotion of the Spirit of Japan (pp. 10–11).
3 We must be aware of the existence of the demonic teachings
of the Jews who assert things like [the existence of] equality in
the phenomenal world, thereby disturbing public order in our
nation’s society and destroying [governmental] control. Not
only this, these demonic conspirators hold the deep-rooted
 delusion and blind belief that, as far as the essential nature of
human beings is concerned, there is, by nature, differentiation
between superior and inferior. They are caught up in the
delusion that they alone have been chosen by God and are
[therefore] an exceptionally superior people. The result of all
this is a treacherous design to usurp [control of] and dominate
the entire world, thus provoking the great upheavals of today. It
must be said that this is an extreme example of the evil
resulting from superstitious belief and deep-rooted delusion (p.
19).

From the book’s conclusion

At this point in time, nothing is more urgent than the clarification of
the true Dharma of Zen Master Dōgen, thereby extolling the great
duty of reverence for the emperor, and, at the same time, rectifying
numerous unsound ideas, cultivating proper belief among the
Japanese people as leaders of the Orient, one hundred million
[people] of one mind, equipped with a resolute and immovable
attitude.
In this connection I have provided a brief and simple outline of
Zen Master Dōgen’s Buddha Dharma. Nothing could bring me
greater joy than if, through the dissemination of this book, the true
Dharma becomes known once again, resulting in the total and
complete exaltation of the Spirit of Japan and benefiting both the
state and humanity.
Moreover, I am convinced this will become the spiritual
foundation for the establishment of the Greater East Asia Co-
Prosperity Sphere, the standard for cultural activities, and the pillar
for the construction of a new world order (p. 416).

Dōgen as a paragon of imperial loyalty

Undoubtedly the most striking, if not deeply disturbing, aspect of
Yasutani’s wartime writings as introduced above is his anti-Semitism.
Before examining this critically important topic, however, let us first
examine Yasutani’s attempt to turn Zen Master Dōgen into a paragon
of imperial loyalty. Was Dōgen the man Yasutani made him out to
be?
Inasmuch as Yasutani devoted an entire book to setting forth his
interpretation of Dōgen, it would require at least the same if not more
space to fully examine his claims, an impossible task in a single
chapter. Therefore let us focus on just one of Yasutani’s key claims
to see if it can withstand the scrutiny of modern scholarship. I refer to
Yasutani’s claim that Dōgen was “consumed by his reverence for the
emperor.”
Yasutani supported this claim by alluding, first of all, to Dōgen’s
noble birth though conveniently omitting the fact that the oldest
sources containing Dōgen’s biographical details fail to name his
father let alone his mother. Even today reputable scholars like
Nakaseko Shōdō and James Kodera put forth strong cases for two
different candidates, i.e. Minamoto Michitomo and Minamoto
Michichika respectively. Furthermore, as Heinrich Dumoulin has
pointed out, the background of Dōgen’s mother is “completely
uncertain.”6 In light of Yasutani’s adulation for both Dōgen and the
emperor, however, it is difficult to imagine that this master would
have had much use for such scholarly “quibbling.”
Be that as it may, of far more importance to an understanding of
Dōgen’s political orientation is his alleged visit to Kamakura, the
country’s military and political capital, in the winter of 1247–48.
According to Yasutani the purpose of Dōgen’s visit was as follows:

Dōgen’s only objective in going to Kamakura was to urge the

restoration of imperial rule. Inasmuch as this request was
refused, Dōgen no longer had any reason to remain in
Kamakura. Not only that, but we can respectfully infer that it
was [Dōgen’s] intense desire not to accept so much as a grain
of rice from the Kamakura government, the greatest robber of
the day (p. 28).

And what proof did Yasutani offer in support of this assertion? In

other words, how did Yasutani seek to convince his readers that
Dōgen had advocated the restoration of political power to the
emperor?
Surprisingly, Yasutani offers evidence that on the surface would
appear to contradict the very idea that Dōgen went to Kamakura in
the first place. Yasutani quotes the following exchange contained in
a collection of Dōgen’s sayings known as the Shōbōgenzō ZuimonkI
(Record of Things Heard):

Someone suggested that in order for the Buddha Dharma to

prosper, [Dōgen] should travel to Kamakura. [Dōgen] replied:

I will not go. In the event there is someone who seeks the
Buddha Dharma, that person should be willing to cross
over mountains, rivers and seas to study it. It would
therefore be inappropriate for me to agree to travel on
behalf of someone lacking in this aspiration (p. 25).

Yasutani’s point in quoting this passage is to show that Dōgen must

have had a very serious purpose in eventually going to Kamakura in
spite of his initial misgivings. The serious purpose was, in Yasutani’s
eyes, Dōgen’s commitment to restore the emperor to power.
Yasutani also offers a second exchange that appears at first
glance to be much more pertinent to the question in hand. The
exchange in question is said to have occurred on 25 September
1381 and involved Rinzai Zen Master Gidō Shūshin (1325–88),
abbot of Kyoto’s Tenryūji monastery, and Shōgun Ashikaga
Yoshimitsu (1358–1408). Addressing Gidō, Yoshimitsu said: “In the
event of a [political] upheaval, I would like to forsake the world. That
is to say, I would like to do just what the abbot of Eiheiji [i.e. Dōgen]
recommended that [Kamakura Regent] Hōjō Tokiyori do” (p. 26).
Inasmuch as Yasutani built his case for Dōgen’s one-man
‘imperial-restoration movement’ on nothing more than the two
preceding quotes, it is clear that he had a very weak case indeed. In
fact, Yasutani himself appears to have recognized this fact inasmuch
as he admitted that Dōgen failed to leave a record of his visit for
posterity. This, however, Yasutani attributed to Dōgen’s personal
character: “Dōgen never divulged the details of his visit [to
Kamakura] to the outside world because he didn’t wish to publicize
himself and because he was very meticulous and thorough” (p. 26).

Making sense out of “nonsense”

By this time, readers may be wondering how a man whose lectures
and writings on Zen have been so highly praised in the West could
have put forth an interpretation of a key episode of Dōgen’s life
based on such fragmentary, even contradictory, evidence. Even were
it true that Dōgen visited Kamakura to urge Hōjō Tokiyori to become
a monk, it requires a giant if not gigantic leap in logic to interpret this
as motivated by Dōgen’s desire to see political power restored to the
emperor. Here, however, it may be well to remember that Yasutani
also taught: “Buddhism has clearly demonstrated that discriminative
thinking lies at the root of delusion…”7
Yasutani’s interpretation notwithstanding, with the spread of non-
sectarian-based scholarship in postwar years, the question of
whether or not Dōgen ever went to Kamakura in the first place has
become the focus of attention and debate. Foremost of those who
deny such a visit took place is Yanagida Seizan (b. 1922), Japan’s
preeminent scholar on the history and early development of
Chan/Zen in China.
On 18 November 1980 Yanagida commenced a series of twenty
articles in the Buddhist newspaper Chūgai Nippō under the overall
title of “Tabū e no Chōsen” (Challenging Taboos). As the title of the
series suggests, it has long been taboo in Japan to challenge certain
key articles of “faith” associated with Japan’s major religious figures,
regardless of their sectarian affiliation. For the Sōtō sect, Dōgen’s
visit to Kamakura is one of those defining events in his life that fits
within that category.
Due to limitations of space I can give but the barest of
introductions to Yanagida’s research. Not surprisingly, his research
focuses on a careful examination of the historical materials that refer
to this event. Yanagida notes, for example, that the only historical
material alleging that Dōgen visited Kamakura is connected with
Eiheiji, the monastery Dōgen founded in 1246: there is no outside,
independent verification of his visit dating from the time it is alleged
to have occurred. This is especially suspicious inasmuch as the
official history of this period, commissioned by the Kamakura military
government and entitled Azuma-kagami, makes no mention
whatsoever of Dōgen’s visit in spite of the fact that it details Tokiyori’s
relationship with various other Zen masters.
Yanagida further points out that not even all of the Eiheiji
biographical materials agree on this issue. One biography of Dōgen
formulated by Gien (d. 1314) and entitled Eihei Genzenji Goroku
makes no mention of Dōgen’s having either left Eiheiji for Kamakura
or his return. On the other hand, while it is true that the Eihei Kōroku
does contain an entry mentioning this trip, Yanagida suspects this
entry may be a later addition to the original text exactly because the
travel dates are so clearly recorded, unlike other entries in which
references to the exact dates of events are missing. Yanagida also
suggests that it is doubtful that Dōgen would have absented himself
from Eiheiji for an entire winter, i.e. during one of a Zen monastery’s
two key training periods.
These and a number of other factors led Yanagida to conclude:
“Dōgen’s visit to Kamakura never happened.”8 Furthermore, he
suggested the following rationale lay behind the creation of Dōgen’s
mythical trip to Kamakura:

As time went by, the number of biographical materials gradually

increased. When the person in question was the great founder
of a sect, this increase was even more pronounced. The
authors [of these biographical materials] had to be responsive
to the different interests of their readers. These readers,
regarding themselves as children of the age of the degenerate
Dharma, burned with an extremely intense faith that was not
necessarily related to their biological age. The background to
their broad interests is to be found here. I think this is the
meaning of the phrase “killing a person with kindness.”
Living biographies take on a life of their own, and readers
seek after a new and comprehensive image [of their subject].
They are not interested in Dōgen as a linguist or as a skin and
bones philosopher. It was absolutely necessary for Dōgen to
 have travelled to Kamakura, just as it was absolutely
necessary for him to have expounded [the Buddha Dharma] to
a famous general like Tokiyori.9

While there is, no doubt, room for further scholarly debate on

whether Dōgen actually visited Kamakura, in light of Yanagida’s
research and absent additional proof that he went, I am persuaded
that the whole episode was the invention of subsequent sectarian
advocates. These advocates saw Dōgen’s alleged visit to Kamakura
as proof that even while their sectarian founder was still alive, his
greatness had been recognized by no less than the most powerful
secular figure of his day.
With this background in mind, it is not difficult to understand the
rationale behind Yasutani’s insistence that Dōgen’s “only objective in
going to Kamakura was to urge the restoration of imperial rule.” In
fact, I suggest this is the key to unlocking the rationale behind
Yasutani’s overall effort to transform Dōgen’s life and thought, Zen,
Japanese Buddhism, Mahāyāna Buddhism and the Buddha Dharma
itself, into a comprehensive system dedicated to the fervent and
unconditional support of Emperor Hirohito and Japanese military
aggression. In 1943, with Japan engaged in a losing war throughout
Asia, it was “absolutely necessary” for Yasutani to have done so.
This said, it must be admitted that at least one of Yasutani’s
comments was, historically speaking, completely accurate. I refer to
Yasutani’s obvious pride in noting that for hundreds of years
Japanese Zen priests had, following their recitation of the sūtras,
chanted the following verse: “We reverently pray that the sacred life
of His Excellency, the Reigning Emperor, may extend for ten
thousand years; ten thousand years; ten, ten thousand years” (p.
23).

Yasutani’s anti-Semitism
To think of anti-Semitism in the West is to be reminded of the
Holocaust as perpetrated by the Nazis. Does this mean that in
addition to his militarist stance, Yasutani was a “closet-Nazi”?
 While not discounting a Nazi influence on Yasutani, it should be
noted that in Japan, as in Europe, the history of anti-Semitism
predates the emergence of the Nazis. This said, the unique feature
of Japanese anti-Semitism is that it developed in a country where, at
least in the prewar era, there were almost no Jewish residents, and
no Japanese citizens of Jewish descent. Thus, Japan presents us
with the rare spectacle of an anti-Semitism without Jews!
However, the fact that Japan lacked Jews does not mean that
Japan, as one of the Axis powers, was simply aping, in some
abstract or meaningless way, the racist ideology of its Nazi ally. As
David Goodman pointed out in his book, Jews in the Japanese Mind:

Anti-Semitism [in Japan] was not used to persecute Jews, nor

was it by any means central to Japan’s wartime ideology, but it
did influence the way the Japanese viewed the war and was
employed by the government on the home front to silence
dissent and enforce ideological conformity [Italics mine].10

The parallels between the Japanese government’s use of anti-

Semitism and Yasutani’s own views are all too clear. The reader will
recall that in his book Yasutani explained his desire to “rectify
numerous unsound ideas, cultivating proper belief among the
Japanese people as leaders of the Orient, one hundred million
[people] of one mind, equipped with a resolute and immovable
attitude.”
Yet, just how did the promotion of hatred of the Jews, or more
accurately, hatred of “the demonic teachings of the Jews” serve to
silence dissent and enforce ideological conformity?

Anti-Semitic propaganda
Readers familiar with the development of anti-Semitic thought in the
West, including Nazi Germany, will immediately recognize the
important role played by The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a work
claiming to be the original minutes of twenty-four secret sessions of
Zionist “Elders” meeting in Basel, Switzerland in 1897. The purpose
and goal of these sessions was nothing less than the takeover of the
entire world in order to install a Jewish despot. The Elders are
presented as believing that only a despot can rule society effectively
and only force can ensure social order.
The Zionist leaders determined to further their plot for world
conquest through support for liberalism, including a liberal education,
as well as democratic institutions. They reckoned that pluralism and
democracy would inevitably be accompanied by ever-growing social
and political dissent, leading eventually to the disintegration of
society. At that point, Jewish financiers would use the power of the
capital they controlled to force the collapse of the already weakened
Gentile states, setting the stage for the unification of the world under
their own rule. Article 10 of Protocol 5 expresses these sentiments
as follows:

In order to put public opinion into our hands we must bring it

into a state of bewilderment by giving expression from all sides
to so many contradictory opinions and for such a length of time
as will suffice to make the gym [Gentiles] lose their heads in
the labyrinth and come to see that the best thing is to have no
opinion of any kind in matters political, which is not given to the
public to understand, because they are understood only by him
who guides the public. This is the first secret.11

It was in this way that, as Yasutani would later phrase it, the
allegedly socially disruptive ideas of “freedom and equality” became
an expression of “the demonic teachings of the Jews.”
Historically speaking, the Protocols were a total fabrication by
agents of Russian Czar Nicholas II (reigned 1894—1917). The
Protocols were introduced to Russia as early as 1903 to prove the
existence of a nefarious Jewish plot to overthrow the Tsar and take
control of the country. The Protocols did not, however, become
influential until after the Russian Revolution of 1917 when they
proved to be a useful propaganda tool in building a counter-
revolutionary movement opposed to the Bolsheviks, whose leaders,
it was claimed, were all Jews.
 It was in this context that the Protocols first came to the attention
of the Japanese Army, sent to Siberia in August 1918 to fight
alongside soldiers from such countries as the USA, England, and
France, in support of the counter-revolutionary White Russian and
Ukrainian troops. Needless to say, the Japanese Army, like the
Japanese government, also feared the spread of Bolshevism, i.e.
Marxism, into Japan and seized on the Protocols as an effective
method of countering domestic voices demanding such things as
social equality, land reform, and freedom from economic exploitation.
One of the earliest Buddhist voices to echo the Japanese
military’s anti-Semitic propaganda was Tanaka Chigaku (1861–
1939), a one-time Nichiren sect priest who later founded the National
Pillar Society (Kokujū-kai) in 1914, a lay Buddhist organization
dedicated to promoting what Tanaka called “Nichirenism” (Nichiren-
shugi). Included in Tanaka’s ultranationalist program was the
adoption of an economic system similar to Nazi national socialism
though centered, like all Nichiren-related movements, in exclusive
faith in the Lotus Sūtra as promulgated by Nichiren (1222–82).
Tanaka had a number of prominent disciples, perhaps the best
known of which was Lt. General Ishiwara Kanji (1889–1949), the
officer primarily responsible for planning and executing the
Manchurian Incident of 1931. This incident led first to the Japanese
military takeover of the whole of Manchuria and eventually to full-
scale warfare with China in 1937. In the same year that Japan went
to war with China, Tanaka had the following to say about Jews:

At present sixty to seventy per cent of the world’s money is

said to be in Jewish hands. There are many poor and
penniless countries that end up having to accept capital from
abroad in order to get by, and consequently they have to
submit to Jews in order to borrow the money they need.
Typically Jews invest in transportation facilities, electric
plants, railroads, and subways.… The reason for this is based
on the plan contained in the Protocols to constantly foment
revolution in various countries, eventually leading to their
collapse. It is then that the Jews will be able to take over.12
As with Yasutani, Tanaka argued that Jews were fomenting social
unrest in order to rule the world. He went on, again like Yasutani, to
point out that Jews advocated liberalism, especially within academic
circles, as part of their plan to destroy the people’s moral sense.
Even the 1936 Olympic Games were, according to Tanaka, part of
the Jewish conspiracy; for spectators at Olympic events went wild
with enthusiasm, the first step on the road to a life of debauchery.
This in turn undermined the people’s moral sense even more,
making them easy targets for revolution - “a truly dreadful
prospect.”13
Helped by men like Tanaka, anti-Semitism spread rapidly
throughout Japanese society despite the near total absence of Jews.
The US ambassador to Japan, Joseph Grew (1880–1965) gloomily
noted that an anti-Semitic propaganda exhibition held in Tokyo
toward the end of 1938 had been something of a success.14 By the
1940s, anti-Semitic ideas became so widespread that the famous
writer Tokutomi Iichirō was able to utilize them in his 1944 book A
Citizen’s Reader for Certain Victory (Hisshō Kokumin Tokuhon) to
justify his assertion that Japan and Japan alone was capable of
serving as “the model, the pattern, the standard for the world.” Not
only that, Japan was destined “to lead the whole world along the
path of virtue.”15
But why Japan? Did not the USA, with its greater national wealth
and power, not to mention its democratic institutions, have a superior
claim to world leadership? Not according to Tokutomi, for in his view
American democracy was only a charade in which real political
power rested in the hands of the rich. And behind the rich stood the
“evil and ugly plutocracy of the Jews.”16

The Buddhist connection

In Japan, institutional Buddhist leaders had played a prominent role
in the ideological struggle against anarchism, socialism, and
communism since the late Meiji period (1868–1912). In 1911, for
example, Toyota Dokutan (1840–1917), the administrative head of
the Myōshinji branch of the Rinzai Zen sect, condemned Japanese
socialists and anarchists for having “fallen into the trap of believing in
the heretical idea of ‘evil equality’” (aku byōdo). 17
Even earlier, in 1879, the noted Shin sect priest and scholar
Shimaji Mokurai (1838–1911) wrote an essay entitled “Differentiation
[Is] Equality” (Sabetsu Byodō). Shimaji asserted that distinctions in
social standing and wealth were as permanent as differences in age,
sex, and language. Thus, socialism and the like were fatally flawed
because they emphasized only social and economic equality. That is
to say, socialists failed to understand the basic Mahāyāna Buddhist
teaching that “differentiation is identical with equality” (sabetsu soku
byōdō).18
Needless to say, socialism and its like were seen as imports from
a West that threatened Japan’s existence not only externally, through
force of arms, but internally, through ideological subversion. One of
the most outspoken proponents of this point of view was Lt. General
(and Viscount) Torio Tokuan (1847–1905). General Torio was the
founder of the Yuima-kai, a lay society established in 1881 to
promote Zen practice among Japan’s military leaders.
Headquartered at the Rinzai Zen monastery of Shōkōkuji in Kyoto,
this society actively pursued its nationalist and militarist mission on
an ever-expanding scale up until Japan’s defeat in 1945.
Torio’s ideological orientation is well illustrated by the following
excerpt from a newspaper editorial he wrote for Japan’s Daily Mail in
1890:

The adoption of the [occidental] principles of liberty and

equality in Japan would vitiate the good and peaceful customs
of our country, render the general disposition of the people
harsh and unfeeling, and prove finally a source of calamity to
the masses.…
Though at first sight occidental civilization presents an
attractive appearance, adapted as it is to the gratification of
selfish desires, yet, since its basis is the hypothesis that men’s
wishes constitute natural laws, it must ultimately end in
disappointment and demoralization.…
 Occidental nations have become what they are after passing
through conflicts and vicissitudes of the most serious kind.…
Perpetual disturbance is their doom. Peaceful equality can
never be attained until built up among the ruins of annihilated
western States and the ashes of extinct western peoples
[Italics mine].19

Underlying comments like the above is an interpretation of the

Buddhist doctrine of karma which held that differences in social and
economic status were not the result of either social injustice or
exploitation but were, instead, solely the reward (or punishment) for
an individual’s past actions in either this or previous lives. Rinzai Zen
Master Shaku Sōen (1859–1919), D. T. Suzuki’s master and the
abbot of Engakuji, expressed this viewpoint as follows:

We are born in a world of variety; some are poor and

unfortunate, others are wealthy and happy. This state of variety
will be repeated again and again in our future lives. But to
whom shall we complain of our misery? To none but
ourselves!20

A marriage made in hell

Given this background, what happened next was all too predictable.
That is to say, Yasutani’s anti-Semitism, like that of other Japanese
Buddhist leaders, represented the “marriage” or “personalization” of
the two preceding strands of reactionary thought in prewar Japanese
society. This marriage made it possible for Yasutani and others to
identify foreign and potentially socially destabilizing liberal and left-
wing ideas with a foreign and alien people - the Jews - a people
allegedly espousing liberty and equality as part of their nefarious plot
to take over the world, Japan included.
Seen in this light, Yasutani’s anti-Semitic remarks are no mere
aberration or afterthought, let alone a mere aping of the anti-
Semitism of Japan’s Nazi ally. Rather, his remarks go directly to the
heart of the “home-grown” reactionary social role that Japanese
institutional Buddhism played in Japanese society following the Meiji
period (and before).

Sexism
In this connection, reference must also be made to Yasutani’s dictum
that “men should fulfil the Way of men while women observe the Way
of women, making absolutely sure that there is not the slightest
confusion between their respective roles.” Here, too, Yasutani was
but reiterating the longstanding sexist attitudes of Japan’s male
Buddhist leaders, regardless of sectarian affiliation. As Okano
Haruko has noted:

In Japan, as in many other societies, religions - in this case

Shinto, Buddhism, and Confucianism - have contributed
significantly to the development and maintenance of separate
gender roles and of gender inequality. These religions have
encouraged people to accept a notion of ethics which
proclaims that people are born with differing abilities and into
different statuses within society, thereby serving to maintain the
prevailing social order.… Buddhism [was] the most influential of
the three in shaping the image and role of women and
supporting sexism in Japanese society.21

Significantly, as Okano herself points out, it was only Zen Master

Dōgen, among all the founders of Japan’s traditional Buddhist sects,
who clearly opposed religious discrimination against women. In the
“Essence of Worship” (Raihaitokuzui) chapter of the Shōbōgenzō,
Dōgen wrote:

Though of humble appearance, a person who has awakened to

the Bodhi [Wisdom-seeking]-mind is already the teacher of all
mankind. Even a little girl of seven can become the teacher of
the four classes of Buddhists and the compassionate mother of
all beings; for [in Buddhism] men and women are completely
equal. This is one of the highest principles of the Way.22
Needless to say, Yasutani had no more use for what would today be
seen as a feminist viewpoint than he had, in the “Merit of Entering
the Priesthood” (Shukke Kudoku) chapter of the Shōbōgenzō, to
Dōgen’s references to Japan as no more than a “little country”
located in a “remote place,” i.e. in comparison with countries like
India and China. More importantly, nowhere in Yasutani’s writings is
there the slightest reference to Dōgen’s statement in the same
chapter that “although in this small and remote country there is a
king in name, he lacks virtue and is completely overcome with
greed.”23
That Japan, as a “land of the gods” ruled eternally by a “living
god,” i.e. the emperor, could ever have been merely a “little country”
under the control of a greedy and virtueless ruler was as
unacceptable to Yasutani as was the idea of sexual equality. The
reason for this is not hard to fathom, for Yasutani and his peers, like
their masters before them, had wholeheartedly embraced the role of
“ideological shock troops” for Japanese aggression abroad and
thought suppression at home. As such they were dedicated to an
unwavering and unremitting struggle against all forms of thought,
left-wing or merely “liberal,” that did not completely and totally
subsume the individual to the needs and purposes of a
hierarchically-constituted, patriarchal, totalitarian state.

Liberalism
It is important to remember that in prewar Japan it was liberalism,
not socialism or communism, which formed the last effective barrier
to the rule of the military and its bureaucratic allies. This reality is
best reflected in the successful 1935 attempt to drive the renowned
constitutional scholar, Professor Minobe Tatsukichi (1873–1948) of
Tokyo University, from public life. In the eyes of his right-wing critics,
Professor Minobe committed the unforgivable sin of interpreting the
Japanese constitution to mean that the emperor was not identical
with the state, but was, instead, a subordinate “organ” (kikan) of it.
Had Minobe’s interpretation prevailed, it would have served as a
brake on the emperor’s power in that the government of the day
would have been responsible to both the emperor and the Diet (i.e.
parliament), and thereby to the electorate. This would have
enhanced the power and prestige of not only the civilian government
but the Japanese people as a whole.
Needless to say, Minobe’s interpretation did not survive the right-
wing onslaught. True to form, the Japanese military, especially the
Imperial Military Reserve Association (Teikoku Zaigo Gunjin-kai),
played the leading role in denouncing Minobe. Typical of the
Reserve Association’s denunciations was the following:

A non-Japanese, blasphemous, Europe-worshipping ideology

which ignores our three-thousand-year-old tradition and ideals
is rife. This liberalism which threatens to turn us into western
barbarians (yōi) is basic to Minobe’s beliefs. His books must be
burned to show how we [reservists] feel about his servile
individualism [Italics mine].24

Minobe, it should be noted, was not only a leading constitutional

scholar but also a member of Japan’s House of Peers, the upper
chamber of the Diet. Thus, when in September 1935 Minobe
reluctantly resigned from all of his official positions, including both his
professorship and seat in the Diet, the last major ideological
impediment to the military’s control of Japan was eliminated.
Nevertheless, while liberalism had been blocked in the short term,
the danger of its reemergence, like that of communism and
socialism, was always there. Recognizing this, the Ministry of
Education published a tract in July 1941 entitled Shimmin no Michi
(The Way of the Subject) which called for overthrowing “the old order
based on the dominance of individualism, liberalism, and dialectical
materialism.”25
Needless to say, the danger of internal discontent became
especially acute from 1943 onwards as the possibility, if not the
likelihood, of Japan’s defeat became ever clearer. Thanks to men
like Yasutani, however, any internal dissent that did exist never
became an organized force. It can be argued, however, that the very
success these men enjoyed spelled Japan’s defeat, for as the
historian Edward Drea has argued, underlying all Japanese strategy
was what turned out to be a colossally wrong assumption:
“Americans [were] products of liberalism and individualism and
incapable of fighting a protracted war.”26 Ironically, it was exactly
these two features, attributed to Jews in particular and westerners in
general, that turned out to be one of the main sources of the fighting
spirit of allied soldiers. They understood what it meant to fight (and
die if necessary) for “liberty.”
The question remaining to be examined is whether or not Japan’s
surrender on 15 August 1945 brought an end to Yasutani’s anti-
Semitic and ultranationalist crusade.

Yasutani’s postwar ideology

In postwar Japan it was no longer acceptable to be an explicit anti-
Semite let alone a “militarist.” This said, the US-dominated
Occupation authorities did share one fundamental value with Japan’s
wartime leaders, i.e. their fear and hatred of Communism.
Furthermore, these former enemies had long recognized that
applying labels like “Communist,” “Communist stooge”, etc. to any
political movement challenging the status quo was an effective way
to demonize and destroy it. Similarly, they knew that religious
leaders could be counted on to endorse and promote any crusade
directed against “godless” Communists and their materialist ideology.
In light of the abject poverty prevailing in postwar Japan, it is
hardly surprising that the left-wing promise of economic and social
betterment for the working class attracted large numbers of
supporters. The Japanese Left grew so powerful that in April 1947 it
succeeded in electing a Socialist-led government headed by
Katayama Tetsu (1887–1978), albeit under the supervision of the
Occupation authorities.
This unprecedented development, though short-lived, set off
alarm bells in both Washington and among Japan’s right-wing forces,
many of whom as seen in the previous chapter had been closely
allied with the military during the war years. This led, by fair means
and foul, to a resurgence of conservatism, one result of which was
that by 1957, only six years after the end of the Allied Occupation,
Japan found itself led by a prime minister, Kishi Nobusuke (1896–
1987), who had been arrested in December 1948 under suspicion of
being a Class A war criminal.
Japan’s eventual disavowal of left-wing parties in the postwar era
is due, at least in part, to the ongoing efforts of Japan’s institutional
Buddhist leaders, including many leading Zen masters. For example,
as we have seen, in 1954 Ōmori Sōgen became head of a major
federation of newly-reconstituted ultranationalist organizations. In
1974 Asahina Sōgen (1891–1979), head of the Engakuji branch of
the Rinzai Zen sect, was one of the founders of the “Association to
Protect Japan” (Nihon o Mamoru Kai). This organization sought to
“exalt patriotism” and rid Japan of so-called “biased education,”
especially any suggestion in school textbooks that Japan had
engaged in aggressive warfare, let alone committed atrocities in
Nanjing and elsewhere.
Similarly, in 1976 Zen Master Yamada Mumon (1900–88), head
of the Myōshinji branch of the Rinzai Zen sect, helped establish the
“Society to Repay the Heroic Spirits [of Dead Soldiers]” (Eirei ni
Kotaeru Kai). Yamada asserted that since Japan’s fallen soldiers had
clearly been involved in a “holy war,” the government should
reinstate financial support for enshrining their “heroic spirits” (eirei) in
Yasukuni Jinja, a major Shinto shrine located in the heart of Tokyo.
Given this background, it is hardly surprising to learn that
Yasutani, like his Zen contemporaries, continued his own struggle
against left-wing and liberal thought in the postwar era. For example,
in March 1971 Yasutani wrote:

Those organizations which are labelled right-wing at present

are the true Japanese nationalists. Their goal is the
preservation of the true character of Japan. There are, on the
other hand, some malcontents who ignore the imperial
household, despise tradition, forget the national polity, forget
the true character of Japan, and get caught up in the schemes
and enticements of Red China and the Soviets.27

If the preceding is representative of Yasutani’s ongoing struggle

against the Japanese Left, then the following, written in September
1972, reveals his ongoing opposition to liberalism of any kind, not
least of all in education:

The universities we presently have must be smashed one and

all. If that can’t be done under the present constitution, then it
should be declared null and void just as soon as possible, for it
is an un-Japanese constitution ruining the nation, a sham
constitution born as the bastard child of the Allied Occupation
Forces.28

One notable characteristic of both of these quotes is that they were

written in Japanese for a purely domestic audience. In addition, the
second of these quotes, in its disdain for a western-style liberal
education, bears the unmistakable imprint of the views of Yasutani’s
own master, Harada Daiun Sōgaku. In March 1934 Harada wrote:

At present, the thoughts and [religious] faith of the ordinary

people are totally confused. We patriots, nay, all of the
Japanese people, must immediately rouse ourselves in order
to fundamentally reform all levels of Japanese education, from
primary and intermediate schools up through the various types
of universities.… These schools all know how to make shallow,
cosmopolitan-minded persons but they have completely
forgotten how to make Japanese. The cardinal point of
education in Japan ought to be to make Japanese.29

US visits
Chauvinistic comments like the above were noticeably absent from
Yasutani’s “Dharma talks” given during his numerous visits to the
USA in the 1960s. Yet perhaps such comments were not as entirely
absent as it first appears, for in 1969 Yasutani shared the following
thoughts with his American disciples:

Western-style social sciences have been based on a deluded

misconception of the self, and they attempt to develop this “I”
consciousness. This is dichotomy. As a result, they have
 reinforced the idea of dichotomy between human beings which
has led to conflicts and fighting. They have even created a
crisis which may destroy all of mankind.30

In seeking to understand why Yasutani chose to attack western-style

social sciences, it is crucial to understand that in Japan the social
sciences have long been regarded with deep suspicion if not outright
hostility by the right wing. As David Goodman notes:

Beginning in the 1920s, Marxism was virtually synonymous

with social science in Japan, that is, with the systematic
analysis of society against a broad historical background, and
to turn one’s back on it was therefore to abandon the effort to
deal rationally with the world. Thus Japanese intellectuals
rejected Marxism and embraced irrational nationalism.31

I suggest that Japanese intellectuals were not the only ones to have
“abandoned the effort to deal rationally with the world.” That is to say,
Yasutani’s own eagerness to “embrace irrational nationalism” is all
too plain to see, both during the war and even after it. As D. T.
Suzuki pointed out:

[Zen] simply urges going ahead with whatever conclusion

rational or irrational a man has arrived at. Philosophy may
safely be left with intellectual minds; Zen wants to act, and the
most effective act, once the mind is made up, is to go on
without looking backward. In this respect, Zen is indeed the
religion of the samurai warrior [Italics mine].32

For his part, Yasutani is quoted in Kapleau’s Three Pillars of Zen as

having taught: “Thought is the sickness of the human mind.”33

The postwar legacy of anti-Semitism

In one sense it can be argued that Yasutani’s anti-Semitism, like that
of his contemporaries, had very little to do with flesh and blood Jews
at all. Thus in wartime Japan the near total absence of Jews was no
hindrance to a government-endorsed campaign of anti-Semitism of
which Yasutani was merely one representative. It must be
remembered that Japanese militarism, like its Nazi counterpart, was
fundamentally a reactionary movement that sought to create a
totalitarian society as a counter to liberalism, democracy, socialism
and communism, both at home and abroad. Thus, in Japan, criticism
of the Jews was merely a convenient method of “personalizing” the
struggle against western thought in general and left-wing ideologies
in particular. As John Dower explains:

The single most corrupting feature of western thought was

identified as being preoccupation with the self, or the individual,
as opposed to the larger collectivity. From this egocentrism and
individualism stemmed most of the ills of the modern age:
utilitarianism, materialism, capitalism, liberalism, socialism, and
communism among them. Innumerable public and private
statements … explained the rationale for purging Japan of
these degenerate and corrupting influences.34

For this reason, in the postwar period it was a relatively simple

matter for Yasutani to substitute the words “western-style social
sciences” for the words “scheming Jews” and carry on his
ultranationalist and right-wing crusade as if nothing had changed. In
one sense he was simply reverting back to the conservative if not
reactionary social agenda of institutional Buddhist leaders from the
mid to late Meiji period onwards. It can only be described as highly
ironic that Yasutani’s western disciples, some of whom are
themselves from Jewish backgrounds, failed to notice the
substitution.

The Nazi connection

I note that my discovery of Yasutani’s wartime writings in early 1999
was no accident - I owe my discovery to comments made by Rinzai
Zen Master Shimano Eido (b. 1932) on the occasion of Yasutani’s
death in 1973. In the Summer/Fall issue of that year’s ZCLA Journal,
Eido wrote:
 During World War II … the German government sent Professor
Durckheim to Japan to study Japanese culture, especially Zen
Buddhism. After arriving in Japan, Professor Durckheim
searched for an appropriate book to study and finally, with the
assistance of Professor [Fumio] Hashimoto, he found a book
called Dōgen Zenji and Shushogi, published in 1943.… So
impressed was Durckheim that he visited Yasutani Roshi’s
temple with Professor Hashimoto. Yasutani Roshi entertained
them by preparing a Japanese bath which they all took
together.35

As innocent as this story appears, Eido omitted some significant

facts about both Professor (and Count) Karlfried Graf Durckheim
(1896–1988) as well as Professor Fumio Hashimoto (b. 1909). First
of all, Durckheim was no ordinary professor visiting Japan on some
cultural exchange program. Instead, from 1935 through to the end of
1937, Durckheim had been a member of the then Nazi Ambassador
to England (and later Foreign Minister) Joachim von Ribbentrop’s
(1893–1946) so-called “Brain Trust.” Unfortunately for Durckheim, it
was discovered that he had a Jewish grandmother, cutting short his
career at the highest levels of the Nazi foreign service. Although he
did not lose his job, he was demoted and given a choice between
attending to the needs of German youth organizations abroad or
serving as a cultural envoy to Japan.
Durckheim chose the latter assignment and departed for Japan in
June 1938 for an initial nine-month stay. He returned to Japan a
second time at the beginning of 1940 and remained there through
the end of the war. It was during this latter period that Durckheim first
met Yasutani. That these two men became acquaintances was
primarily due to the presence of Hashimoto Fumio, who was then not
a professor but a former higher school teacher of German serving as
a translator for the German embassy in Tokyo.
Hashimoto described his relationship to Durckheim as follows:

When Durckheim first arrived in Japan, he was surrounded by

Shintoists, Buddhist scholars, military men and right-wing
thinkers, each of whom sought to impress him with their
 importance. The Count found it difficult to determine which of
them was the real thing, and I stepped in to serve as his
adviser. In addition, a great number of written materials were
sent to him, and my job was to review them to determine their
suitability.…
In the end what most interested the Count was traditional
Japanese archery and Zen. He set up an archery range in his
garden and zealously practiced every day. In addition, he went
to Shinkōji temple on the outskirts of Ogawa township in
Saitama Prefecture where he stayed to practice Zen for a
number of days. His instructor in zazen was the temple abbot,
Master Yasutani. I accompanied the Count and gladly practiced
with him.36

Durckheim’s interest in the relationship of the military arts to Zen was

not limited to his own practice of archery. He attended a number of
lectures on this topic and held extended discussions with such
leading military figures as Imperial Navy Vice-Admiral Teramoto
Takeharu and Imperial Army General Araki Sadao. As previously
mentioned, Araki was well known for both his fierce anti-Communism
and the importance he placed on promoting the Spirit of Japan
among both military men and civilians, particularly school-age youth.
In postwar years, Araki would be tried as a Class A war criminal and
sentenced to life imprisonment.
Hashimoto relates that it was he who first took an interest in
Yasutani because of his master’s strong emphasis on both the
practice of zazen and the realization of enlightenment. This
emphasis on practice was a new revelation for him, for until then his
only knowledge of Buddhism had come from scholars who “had
never properly done zazen or realized enlightenment.”37 In particular,
Hashimoto was impressed by Yasutani’s 1943 book on Zen Master
Dōgen and the Shūshōgi which revealed “the greatness of this
master [i.e. Yasutani] and the profundity of Buddhism.”38 So
impressed was Hashimoto by this book that not only did he provide
Durckheim with a detailed description of its contents but went on to
translate the entire book into German.
 Thus, Yasutani’s book was clearly the catalyst for Durckheim to
train at Shinkōji. While there is nothing particularly sinister in this, it is
clear that Durckheim could not help but have been aware of
Yasutani’s militarist and anti-Semitic rhetoric as previously
introduced. Given that, his Jewish grandmother notwithstanding,
Durckheim was a cultural envoy for the Nazis, it is hardly surprising
that he would have been “so impressed” by Yasutani’s writings.
While Yasutani was demonizing the Jews in Japan in 1943, the
Nazis had long since started to herd Jews into concentration camps
in preparation for their extermination. This is not to claim, of course,
that Yasutani, any more than Durckheim or Hashimoto, was directly
responsible for either the Nazi-perpetrated Holocaust or Imperial
Japan’s own “home-grown” massacres, e.g. the December 1937
“Rape of Nanjing” among many others. Nevertheless, in Yasutani’s
case there is a disturbing parallel, for history reveals that the journey
from “demonized other” to massacre, if not to gas chamber, is very
short indeed.
It is also noteworthy that Yasutani went even further than the
Japanese government of his day by asserting that his emperor-
worshipping, pro-war, imperialistic, sexist and anti-Semitic
sentiments were nothing less than the “true Buddha Dharma.” In so
doing, it is no exaggeration to say that Yasutani had, consciously or
not, so completely subordinated himself to the state that he was
indeed “self-less.” He not only rendered unto Caesar what was
Caesar’s, but proffered the entirety of the Buddhist faith as well. Not
content with that, he urged the entire Japanese nation to do likewise.

Conclusion
Even this cursory glance at Yasutani’s wartime writings reveals that
he was more than willing to twist and distort Zen Master Dōgen’s life
and thought; the Mahāyāna precepts; Jewish identity, etc. in order to
present a picture of the “true Buddha Dharma” that was
indistinguishable from the aims and goals of Japanese militarism.
Further, as readers of Zen At War will recognize, Yasutani was only
one of many Zen masters and other institutional Buddhist leaders in
wartime Japan to have done so.
If there is anything that distinguishes Yasutani from his fellow
priests, it is simply the thoroughness of his subordination of all
aspects of the Buddha Dharma in general, and the Zen tradition in
particular, to the ideology of the totalitarian (or fascist) state. The
strength and frequency of his anti-Semitic remarks, while not unique
among his contemporaries, are yet another distinguishing feature of
this overall pattern.
For those looking for some kind of “saving grace” in Yasutani’s
ultranationalist ideology it may be found in the fact that, as noted
above, even following Japan’s defeat in 1945, Yasutani continued his
right-wing ideological crusade unabated. This suggests at least a
certain degree of integrity or consistency in his approach. The caveat
here, of course, is that while his right-wing statements continued
unabated in the Japanese language, they were conspicuously
absent from remarks directed toward westerners.
The “bifurcation” of Yasutani’s exposition of the Buddha Dharma
to Japanese and western audiences cannot but raise the question of
Yasutani’s underlying integrity. There may, however, be more
continuity in Yasutani’s statements to the two groups than appears at
first glance as, for example, when words like “western-style social
sciences” are recognized as what we would today call a “politically
correct” substitution for “scheming Jews.” Furthermore, when in the
mid-1960s an American student asked Yasutani what to do in the
event he were drafted to serve in Vietnam, Yasutani simply
answered: “If your country calls you, you must go.”39
Yasutani was not, of course, the only Zen master to reflect a “split
personality” in statements directed toward either Japanese or
western audiences in the postwar era. Rinzai Zen masters Yamada
Mumon and Ōmori Sōgen, previously introduced, come immediately
to mind as Zen masters who acted similarly.40
Postwar Japanese political leaders have also manifested the
same kind of split personality, though usually not in one and the
same person: almost every time one leading Japanese politician
makes some kind of apology for Japan’s past military aggression,
another politician will almost simultaneously offer a justification or
rationalization for Japan’s wartime acts. In some sense it may be
said that Zen masters like Yasutani only reflect the overall split in the
entire Japanese nation, or at least its leadership.
It should be noted however, that the Zen tradition has long played
the role of “ideological policeman” for the state. In 1608, for example,
it was Rinzai Zen Master Ishin Sūden (1569–1633), abbot of the
major monastic complex of Nanzenji, who formulated a decree
banning Christianity on behalf of the Tokugawa government. As in
the case of the later anti-Christian movement spearheaded by
Buddhist leaders during the middle part of the Meiji period (1868–
1912), Christianity’s call to faith in a truly transcendent and universal
deity was regarded as a threat to the absolute loyalty an imperial
subject owed his sovereign.
It is possible to argue that even today, more than fifty years after
the end of the Asia-Pacific War, little has changed in this regard. For
example, when Josh Baran, a former Sōtō Zen sect priest, visited
Japan in March 1998, he met with Toga Masataka, director of the
Institute of Zen Studies at Rinzai sect-affiliated Hanazono University
in Kyoto. “In Japanese Zen,” Toga explained, “loyalty is most
important. Loyalty to one’s teacher and the tradition is more
important than the Buddha and Dharma.”
In commenting on Toga’s words, Baran pointed out:

The Buddha never taught that loyalty was more important than
truth or compassion. Blind loyalty outside the zendo can and
did have disastrous results. Until key assumptions can be
questioned, the roots of warrior Zen remain alive and well.41

My own research leads to a similar conclusion. Thus, it can be said

that in today’s Japanese Zen tradition, as demonstrated so vividly by
Ōmori Sōgen, the unity of Zen and the sword, i.e. the belief in “holy
war,” lives on. One cannot help but believe that Zen masters
Yasutani Haku’un and Harada Daiun Sōgaku, among many others,
would be pleased.
 6

CARRYING ZEN TO CHINA

Many readers will recognize this title as a variation of the familiar

maxim: “carrying coals to Newcastle.” Just as one would question
the reason for transporting coal to a major coal-producing area like
Newcastle, it is necessary to question why leaders of the Japanese
Zen school thought it necessary in the 1930s to reintroduce Zen to
China, the land of its birth.
To be sure, Japanese Buddhist leaders of all sects had
established Buddhist “missions” in China, some as early as 1876.1
The Japanese government lent its support to these efforts; for, as a
pan-Asian religion, Buddhism was seen as a useful tool in promoting
the unity of East Asian peoples under Japanese hegemony. In
addition, from the Meiji period onwards, leading Japanese Buddhists
maintained that Buddhism in China and the rest of Asia was
backward, passive, and indifferent to social needs while Japanese
Mahāyāna Buddhism was activist, socially engaged, and scientific –
the world’s only “true Buddhism.”2
Consequently, Buddhist leaders, conjuring up a Japanese version
of “the white man’s burden,” felt themselves duty-bound to bring
Japan’s “true Buddhism” to the benighted peoples of Asia and even
the West, whether the latter wanted it or not.
With this background in mind, let us examine a missionary effort
led by Rinzai Zen Master Yamamoto Gempō, first introduced in
chapter 1. As early as 1932, Gempō had justified the political
assassination of “even good people” in the name of Buddhism.
Given this, it is hardly surprising that this master would lend his
prestige to the promotion of Japanese colonial policy abroad. More
telling, in postwar years leaders of the Myōshinji branch of the Rinzai
Zen sect rewarded Gempō for his wartime efforts by selecting him to
head their influential branch from 1947-9.

Cultural exchange
Japan’s formal recognition of its puppet state of Manzhouguo
(Manchukuo) in September 1932, followed by its ever-increasing
military and economic intervention in north China, heightened anti-
Japanese feelings on the part of the Chinese government and
people. To counter this militant Chinese nationalism, the Japan-
China Buddhist Research Association dispatched, in June 1935, an
eleven member delegation, including Gempō, to promote
“international friendship” between Japan and China. Seeking to
promote a feeling of pan-Asian solidarity, Gempō and his fellow
priests visited some of China’s most famous temples and met many
prominent Buddhists.
 Plate 7 Nakajima’s master Rinzai Zen Master Yamamoto Gempō. Courtesy Nakajima
Genjō.

In July 1935, prior to returning to Japan, Gempō decided to visit

Xinjing (present-day Changchun), the newly created capital of
Manzhouguo. Upon arrival, the Manchurian government’s vice
minister of foreign affairs held a dinner banquet on his behalf.
Significantly, the vice minister, Ōhashi Chūichi, was not Manchurian,
but Japanese. Ōhashi’s nationality was no accident for Japanese
vice ministers, aided by a staff of Japanese secretaries, stood
immediately behind and in control of all native Manchurian Cabinet
ministers.
Among the dinner guests was the adjutant general of the
occupying Japanese Guandong (Kwantung) army; the local branch
head of the Mitsubishi financial combine; the vice-president of the
central bank of Manchuria; a judge of the Manchurian Supreme
Court; other senior military officers and business leaders; and
government officials and legislators, numbering more than twenty in
all. As it turned out, these leaders had more on their minds than
simple hospitality, for their goal was to ensure “the proper exaltation
of the spirit of both the Japanese military and other Japanese
residents of Manchuria.”3 They believed this could be accomplished
if Gempō would agree to create a branch temple of the Rinzai Zen
sect-affiliated Myōshinji in Xinjing.

New branch temple

Gempō immediately accepted their request, though he first had to
return to Japan to secure permission from the head of Myōshinji.
This in hand, construction began quickly and Gempō’s personal
residence was completed on 7 July 1936, while the dedication
ceremony of the new zendo (meditation hall) was held on 29
November of the same year. This ceremony was attended by no less
a figure than Zhang Zhonghui, prime minister of Manzhouguo,
together with his cabinet ministers, the mayor of Xinjing and, of
course, a bevy of Japanese government vice ministers, Japanese
embassy personnel, and other local leaders.
 Although no Japanese military officers were present at the
opening ceremony, the Guandong army had played a key role in the
temple’s actual construction, especially of Gempō’s living quarters
and the meditation hall. In addition, Hanaya Tadashi (1894-1957),
Guandong army staff officer and yet another youthful instigator of the
Manchurian Incident of 1931, donated the first 500 yen toward the
temple’s construction. The total construction costs came to more
than 50,000 yen, a large sum in those days; but, with the military
taking the lead, the remaining funds were readily raised from various
Japanese companies doing business in Manchuria, notably the
quasi-governmental South Manchuria Railroad Company.

Controversy
The naming of the new temple turned out to be a contentious issue,
for the temple’s major patrons, the officers of the Guandong army,
did not want the new temple to have the word “temple” in its title.
Instead, they favoured calling it a “spiritual training centre” (shūyō
dōjo). However, as far as Gempō and his superiors at Myōshinji in
Kyoto were concerned, the new temple was definitely meant to be a
branch of the head temple and should be designated as such.
The officers’ demands reflected a controversy that had been
going on since the early days of the Meiji period. It was then that, for
the first time in Japanese history, institutional Buddhism as a whole
was subjected to a major repression, including destruction of
thousands of temples and the forced laicization of like numbers of
priests. Although this anti-Buddhist movement was short-lived, post-
Meiji Japanese Buddhism remained suspect as a “foreign” and
therefore “non-Japanese” religion. The result was that many military
men, especially in the officer corps, were wary of being seen to place
their faith in anything that even hinted at less than total devotion to a
Shinto-inspired divine emperor who, descended from the Sun
Goddess, ruled over a divine land.
This said, Zen was different. As will be detailed in chapter 7, Zen
had long been an integral part of Japan’s warrior culture and
therefore Zen training, particularly the practice of meditation, was
regarded as a method of spiritual empowerment. In turn, this spiritual
empowerment was believed to enhance the practitioner’s martial
prowess on the battlefield. Yet, while Zen training per se was
acceptable to the military, as much as possible of its Buddhist
“facade” was to be discarded.4

Resolution
A solution acceptable to both parties was eventually worked out: the
new temple would have two signboards – one identifying it as a
spiritual training centre, another identifying it as a Zen temple (i.e.
Myōshinji Shinkyō Betsuin). Gempō managed to unite these two
positions when he later created a temple stamp engraved with both
names and centred on the figure of Bodhidharma, the legendary
sixth-century founder of Zen (Chan) in China.
In postwar years, some of Gempō’s disciples attempted to portray
this incident as an early indication of Gempō’s opposition to war, or
at least to the Japanese military. Further, they claimed that soon
after the new temple was completed, Gempō invited leading military
figures in for a discussion on how to enhance the spirit of Japanese
military and civilians resident in Manchuria. This time, however,
Gempō’s anti-war remarks so enraged his military guests that one of
them threatened to kill him with his sword. Gempō responded: “Well,
you’re a military man, aren’t you? A military man wins when he cuts
down his opponent as quickly as he can. So why don’t you go ahead
and strike me!”
There is only one trouble with this story – it never happened – or
in the more circumspect words of Gempō’s disciple and biographer,
Takagi Sōgo: “This theatrical story is far removed from the truth.”5
Instead, Takagi indicates that the following incident, at which he was
present, was typical of Gempō’s relationship to the military:

Not long after the temple was complete, I took a few rough and
ready warrior types from the military, who had just arrived in
Xinjing from Mukden [present-day Shenyang], to visit Zen
Master [Gempō]. These young officers spouted their theories
 and sought to challenge Gempō with their arguments. Gempō,
however, responded to them calmly, showing not the least sign
of agitation. There was, of course, no question of his having
said anything like “Strike me!” After that we all drank sake.6

Takagi also writes that Major General Tanaka Ryūkichi (1893-1972)

and then Lt. Colonel Tsuji Masanobu (1901-61?) were among
Gempō’s many military visitors and drinking companions.7 General
Tanaka is best known for having secretly instigated the Shanghai
Incident of 1932 by arranging for five Japanese Nichiren priests and
novices resident in that city to be beaten so badly by supposed “anti-
Japanese” Chinese thugs that one of the priests later died. This
served as the excuse for landing thousands of Japanese marines,
ostensibly to defend Japanese interests in Shanghai and punish
Chinese residents for their hostile attitude toward Japan. During the
postwar Tokyo war crimes trials, Tanaka testified as a cooperative
witness for the Allies in what turned out to be a ploy to ensure that
Emperor Hirohito’s wartime role would never be examined. Lt.
Colonel Tsuji’s wartime exploits will be detailed in chapter 11.

General Yamashita
Gempō’s most famous military acquaintance was Army General
Yamashita Tomoyuki (1888-1946). While Yamashita would later earn
the title of “Tiger of Malaya” for his successful campaign in February
1942 to capture Singapore, 1936-7 saw him serving as a brigage
commander in Seoul, Korea. As important as his position was, his
transfer from Tokyo nevertheless represented punishment for having
sympathized with the abortive Young Officers’ Uprising of 26
February 1936.
Gempō met General Yamashita on his way back to Manchuria
from Japan. Yamashita, honoured by his visit, asked Gempō for a
calligraphic specimen on which he wanted inscribed his favourite
phrase: “Do your best and leave the rest to fate.” Gempō readily
acceded to the General’s request but suggested a slight alteration to
the latter part of the text in order to eliminate its passive character.
The text now read: “Do your best and act in accordance with fate.”
Yamashita found the altered text even more to his liking and
thereafter kept Gempō’s calligraphy wrapped around his stomach as
a sort of good luck charm.8 While he survived the war unscathed,
Yamashita was nevertheless executed as a war criminal in February
1946 for having had ultimate command responsibility for the sacking
of Manila and other atrocities committed during the final days of
Japan’s occupation of the Philippines.
Gempō’s call on Yamashita had been no accident; for the former
was appointed, on 21 August 1937, by Myōshinji officials as the
superintendent-general (sōkan) of a delegation of five Rinzai priests
who were to pay “sympathy calls” (imon) on members of the imperial
military stationed on the continent. For this purpose, Gempō took off
his Buddhist robes and put on the plain, military-style uniform,
including billed hat, that was rapidly becoming standard wear for all
civilians in wartime Japan. During his travels, Gempō was
accompanied by one of his chief disciples, Nakagawa Sōen (1907-
84), yet another priest whose postwar admirers have sought to
portray as a war opponent.

Nakagawa Sōen
Sōen was not merely Gempō’s attendant, for he, too, made the
rounds of various Japanese enterprises in Manchuria urging
employees, then designated as “industrial warriors” (sangyō senshi),
to increase production on behalf of Japan’s war effort. Sōen
described both his own and his master’s efforts as having been
motivated by “the spirit of eight corners of the world under one roof”
(hakkō ichiu), the ubiquitous wartime slogan used to justify Japan’s
attempt to bring Asia, if not the world, under its control.9
Sōen visited the Manchurian Mining Company, a major producer
of such strategically important raw materials as gold, copper, zinc
and molybdenum. This company, with headquarters in Xinjing and
mining operations throughout Manchuria, was owned and operated
by the Nissan financial combine (zaibatsu) from 1937 onwards. More
importantly, it is well known, if not infamous, for its utilization of a
slave labour force made up of Chinese peasants, prisoners of war,
and criminals, all subjected to inhuman living and working conditions.
One of the company officials responsible for directing this labour
force was Yamada Kōun (1907-89). Yamada served as the
company’s personnel manager in 1941 and later became the deputy
director of the General Affairs Department in 1945. Yamada was also
Sōen’s former schoolmate and a lay Zen practitioner, initially training
under Gempō’s successor at Myōshinji Betsuin during the war years.
Following repatriation to Japan at war’s end, Yamada trained
under Rinzai Zen Master Asahina Sōgen (1891-1979), Sōtō Zen
Master Harada Sōgaku (1870-1961), and finally, Yasutani Haku’un,
whose chief Dharma heir he became in 1961. In 1967 Yamada
succeeded to the leadership of the Sambō-kyōdan (Three Treasures
Association), an independent, lay-oriented Zen sect that Yasutani
had created in Kamakura in 1954. Significantly, one common thread
uniting all of Yamada’s Zen teachers was their fervently-held
ultranationalism, both during the war and even after it.10

Gempō’s activities
Gempō’s efforts, like those of his disciple Sōen, were not limited
exclusively to the military. He, too, was expected to enhance the
patriotic spirit of the many Japanese civilian residents of Manchuria.
One form this took was the construction of a memorial hall on the
grounds of Myōshinji Betsuin temple for all those Japanese who had
died in the process of creating Japan’s puppet state. The impetus for
this memorial came from a delegation of civilians who first came to
see Gempō shortly after the new temple’s construction. They said:
“The reason we are able to live in this foreign country without any
fear or want is due to the more than 10,000 heroic spirits [eirei] who
earnestly sacrificed themselves in order to preserve and pacify our
country. For this reason we would like to build a memorial hall to pray
for their repose.”11 Although the initial steps were taken for the
construction of this memorial, work eventually came to a halt due to
the worsening war situation.
 Gempō, who suffered from poor eyesight, had been ill throughout
much of his life. In 1939, aged seventy-four, he contracted an ear
disease which led to his resignation as abbot of Myōshinji Betsuin in
January 1940 and subsequent return to Japan. It did not, however,
lead to any lessening of his close relationship with the Japanese
military. For example, Gempō eventually turned over most of his
home temple of Ryūtakuji near the city of Mishima in Shizuoka
Prefecture for military use. The Buddha Hall, for example, became
an army hospital for the seriously wounded while the bell tower was
used as a food warehouse for an army regiment stationed in
Mishima. Further, for the benefit of his lay parishioners, Gempō had
a special Rinzai Zen sūtra booklet printed in 1942 which ended with
the following words: “I pray for victory in the Great East Asian War.…
Gempō.”12

Turning toward peace

If there is anything that distinguished Gempō’s war support from that
of his contemporaries, it was his relatively early recognition that
Japan was losing the war. When Tokyo came under air attack for the
first time in 1943, Gempō reportedly told one of his disciples: “Well,
Japan is really done for now!” Yet, when asked what might be done
to stop the war, Gempō cautioned patience, pointing out:

Events have their own momentum and direction. If you try to

oppose that momentum or change direction before the time is
ripe, you will accomplish nothing. When people are running to
the east you must run to the east with them. When they are
running west, you must do likewise.13

Gempō clearly followed his own advice, for he never publicly spoke
out against the war. Yet by April 1945, with Tokyo and other cities
being progressively reduced to ashes by Allied fire bombing, Gempō
reached the conclusion that the time to act, if only indirectly, had
come. Accordingly, when 77-year-old Admiral Suzuki Kantarō (1867
—1948) sought his advice on whether or not to end the war, Gempō
replied:
 In terms of sumo, Japan is like a champion wrestler (ōzeki).
When a champion loses, he loses like a champion – in a
dignified way. Given the present state of affairs, Japan must
figure out how to win by losing. Today you are the only person
capable of accomplishing this great task. Although I know that
a person of your pure and unblemished character is not suited
for politics, I nevertheless hope that you will, even at the risk of
your life, render this final public service.14

Admiral Suzuki may well have taken Gempō’s advice to heart, for
only a week later he accepted a request from Emperor Hirohito to
become the next prime minister. Just how deeply touched the
Admiral was by Gempō’s words is revealed by the fact that early on
the morning of 12 August 1945 he sent a special messenger to
inform Gempō of Japan’s imminent surrender three days later. Aware
of the difficult situation Suzuki found himself in, Gempō immediately
gave the messenger a note of encouragement to be delivered to
Suzuki. The note contained phraseology that was, in part, identical
with the emperor’s famous radio broadcast of 15 August 1945
announcing Japan’s surrender. Specifically, it contained the following
words: “Your true public service is set to begin from this point
onwards. Please be careful of your health and work for the
reconstruction of our country while enduring what is hard to endure
and practicing what is hard to practice.”15
Based on this, Gempō’s disciples later maintained that the
following passage of the emperor’s radio address was influenced by
Gempō’s note:

The hardships and sufferings to which Our nation is to be

subjected hereafter will be certainly great. We are keenly
aware of the inmost feelings of all ye, Our subjects. However, it
is according to the dictate of time and fate that We have
resolved to pave the way for a grand peace for all the
generations to come while tolerating what is hard to tolerate
and enduring what is hard to endure [Italics mine].16
In addition to the possible influence of Gempō’s words on this key
wartime document, what is revealing about the preceding incident is
just how well-connected this Rinzai Zen master was to one of the
most powerful figures in Japan. It was connections like this that led
Gempō’s disciples to claim that their master’s influence on national
events continued even into the postwar period. Specifically, they
asserted that Gempō made a key contribution toward resolving the
single most contentious question facing Japan’s postwar government
– the appropriate role for the emperor within the new constitution. It
was Gempō, they claimed, who made possible the preservation of
the chrysanthemum throne at a time when the Allied Occupation
authorities were thought to favour Emperor Hirohito’s removal.

Emperor’s new clothes

In early 1946, Narahashi Wataru (1902-73) was chief cabinet
secretary in the government of Prime Minister Shidehara Kijūrō
(1872-1951). Narahashi was already acquainted with Gempō, having
first been introduced by a mutual friend.17 Narahashi described his
postwar relationship with Gempō as follows: “I visited Gempō-rōshi
on two or three occasions to hear what he had to say. I was
exceedingly charmed by his humanity and deeply impressed with his
intuitive way of thinking, something that transcended mere
knowledge.”18
According to Narahashi’s version of events, 1946 found him
facing an impossible situation. As mediator (matomeyaku) of the
Constitutional Revision Committee (Kempō Kaisei I’in-kai), headed
by Minister of State Matsumoto Jōji (1877-1954), it was his
responsibility to come up with a draft proposal for the new Japanese
constitution – a proposal that would be acceptable to both his fellow
committee members and the Allied Occupation authorities. While the
provisions for the establishment of a democratic form of government
went relatively smoothly, none of the committee’s initial proposals for
the continuation of the emperor’s position were acceptable to the
Allies. According to Narahashi, the Allies, under pressure from the
Soviet Union among others, wished to see the emperor’s position
eliminated in the new constitution.19 Narahashi described the
reasoning behind what he claimed to be the Allied position as
follows:

Because the Japanese people believed the emperor to be a

god, they calmly died on his behalf, crying out, “May the
emperor live for ten thousand years!” Claiming that it had to
make the August Virtue of His Majesty shine throughout the
world, Japan adopted [the slogan of] “the eight corners of the
world under one roof” and committed aggression. The emperor
is the cause of all of this. Without removing him, true
democracy, in which sovereign power resides in the people,
cannot exist; and Japan will be unable to find acceptance in the
world as a peaceful nation.20

For Narahashi and his politically conservative fellow committee

members, such Allied thinking concerning the emperor was totally
unacceptable. In their eyes the imperial system had to be saved at
all costs. But how? At this point Narahashi thought of seeking
Gempō’s advice and asked the Occupation authorities for a delay of
four or five days in order to come up with a mutually acceptable
solution. Narahashi found Gempō recuperating at a hot springs
resort in Nagaoka and provided the following description of their
meeting at a local inn:

I found [Gempō]-rōshi seated beside a charcoal brazier, a

bottle of sake by his side. The moment I entered his room he
said, “You’ve come about the emperor, haven’t you. I think that
if the emperor takes an interest in politics or the government of
the day, there will be no end to internal struggles. This is
because there are those [politicians] who engage in factional
disputes claiming to have the emperor’s backing because they
received an Imperial Edict.”
“Therefore the emperor must transcend all political
considerations and shine in the heavens like the sun. In the
future we must have a politics that brings to fruition truth,
goodness, and beauty based on the Imperial will. If politics are
 conducted prudently and reverently, then even with an
emperor, we can still have a fine, democratic country. The
emperor will be like a symbol shining in the sky.”21

Narahashi claimed to have been deeply impressed by this proposal

for a symbolic emperor system and pleased, subsequently, to find
that it was acceptable to both his fellow committee members and the
Occupation authorities. Narahashi noted that General Douglas
MacArthur (1880-1964), Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces
in Japan, particularly welcomed this proposal since the latter was
personally sympathetic to the emperor and hoped to find a formula
that would preserve the emperor’s position (sans political power)
within a democratically constituted Japan. The result, as
incorporated in Chapter I, Article 1, of the 1947 Japanese
constitution, was that the emperor became “the symbol of the State
and of the unity of the people.”22 According to Narahashi, the
imperial throne was saved due to a combination of General
MacArthur’s “wisdom” and Gempō’s “great intuitive contribution.”23

Conclusion
In Chapter XVII, verse 228 of the Dhammapada, Śākyamuni Buddha
is recorded as having said: “There never was, there never will be,
nor is there now, a person who is always to be blamed, or a person
who is always to be praised.”
In evaluating Yamamoto Gempō, or other Zen and Buddhist
figures introduced in this book, it is important to remember that none
of them had horns, much less tails, i.e. they were not the devil
incarnate. Instead, like most human beings East and West, they
were readily captured by the values and prejudices of the societies
and ages of which they were a part. In this respect they may best be
described as having been all too “ordinary,” claims to enlightenment
notwithstanding. It was their very ordinariness, however, that
contributed to the deaths of millions of human beings. Thus, if
Gempō is to be credited with having urged Japan to surrender as
early as April 1945, then, as seen in chapter 1, he must also be held
responsible for having justified, as early as 1934, the killing of those
“who destroy social harmony and injure the polity of the state.”
Even Gempō’s plea for Japan’s surrender is more problematic
than it first appears. That is to say, was Admiral Suzuki Kantarō, as
Japan’s new prime minister from April 1945, really motivated to seek
peace as a result of Gempō’s entreaty? In December 1945 Suzuki
responded to Allied questioning about the attitude toward peace of
the six-member Supreme War Council of which he was a member as
follows:

The Supreme War Council, up to the time [that] the atomic

bomb was dropped, did not believe that Japan could be beaten
by air attack alone.… [They] proceeded with the one plan of
fighting a decisive battle at the landing point and were making
every possible preparation to meet such a landing. They
proceed[ed] with that plan until the atomic bomb was dropped,
after which they believed the United States … need not land
when it had such a weapon; so at that point they decided that it
would be best to sue for peace.24

Furthermore, as military historian Richard Frank notes, upon

becoming prime minister, “Suzuki promptly signed a pledge
presented by a delegation of generals from Imperial Headquarters
committing himself to prosecute the war to the bitter end, … and to
exert every possible effort to totally mobilize the nation.”25
The above notwithstanding, it is possible that at a personal level
the Admiral hoped to bring an early end to the war as Gempō had
urged. Nevertheless, it appears that the atomic bombs dropped on
Hiroshima and Nagasaki played a far more important role in bringing
peace than the appeal of a Zen master.

Surrender
The alleged influence of Gempō’s words on the content of the
emperor’s surrender rescript is yet another example of what might
best be described as the “wishful thinking” of Gempō’s disciples.
Chaen Yoshio, author of a book devoted exclusively to the surrender
rescript, records that the emperor himself was the source of the
words in question. At approximately 2 a.m. on the morning of 10
August 1945 the emperor addressed an emergency Imperial
Conference as follows:

If we continue on as we have, both the Japanese people and

Japan will perish. When I think of the people, the military, the
war dead and their families, I feel heartbroken. Thus, enduring
what is hard to endure, I wish to open the way toward peace
for all time [Italics mine].26

The man charged with drawing up the surrender rescript, Sakomizu

Hisatsune (1902-77), chief cabinet secretary in the Suzuki
government, states that immediately after the end of the above
conference, he set to work on the rescript’s first draft with the
express purpose of “including His Majesty’s words just as they were”
into the text of the document.27 Thus, assuming that Chaen’s
attribution is accurate, whatever credit is due for calling on the
Japanese people to “endure what is hard to endure,” i.e. both
surrender and the subsequent Allied Occupation, rightfully belongs
to the emperor, not Gempō.

Symbolic emperor
Far more importantly, Gempō’s contribution to the creation of the
postwar symbolic emperor system cannot be taken at face value
despite the credentials of the man who made this claim, i.e.
Narahashi Wataru, chief cabinet secretary in the postwar Shidehara
government. For one thing, staff members of the US State
Department’s Office of Far Eastern Affairs were producing
memoranda referring to the emperor as “a symbol of Japanese
national unity” as early as December 1942.28 Further, Joseph Grew
(1880-1965), former US ambassador to Japan and wartime head of
the State Department’s Office of Far Eastern Affairs, had long urged
the retention of the emperor as “purely a symbol.”29
 Japanese historian Nakamura Masanori notes that due to his ten
year’s residence in Japan, Grew exerted a powerful influence on the
views of General MacArthur.30 One sign of this influence was
revealed in a secret telegram that MacArthur sent to US Army Chief
of Staff Dwight Eisenhower on 25 January 1946. The thrust of the
telegram was to argue against indicting Hirohito as a war criminal
and contained the following passage: “[Hirohito] is a symbol which
unites all Japanese. Destroy him and the nation will disintegrate.”31
While none of the preceding references offers conclusive proof
that Article 1, Chapter 1 of the 1947 Japanese constitution providing
for a symbolic emperor system was an American invention, it does
strongly suggest that the American influence was far stronger than
Narahashi admitted. Yet, if this were so, why would Narahashi claim
otherwise?
The following statement made by Narahashi suggests the
answer: “The initial drafts [of the constitution] were created by
Japanese so it was a Japanese constitution.”32 Countering this
claim, the historian Hugh Borton states that “an analysis of the
official Japanese text indicates that the original text was in English
rather than in Japanese.”33 Nakamura adds that at 10 a.m. on the
morning of 13 February 1946 high-ranking members of General
MacArthur’s staff arrived at the residence of Foreign Minister
Yoshida Shigeru (1878-1967) to present both him and Minister of
State Matsumoto Joji with a draft of the constitution that had been
written by the Government Section of Allied Headquarters.
Matsumoto claimed to have been “really quite surprised” by the use
of the word “symbol” in Article 1, Chapter 1 of this American draft,
the text of which read as follows: “The Emperor shall be the symbol
of the State and of the Unity of the People, deriving his position from
the sovereign will of the People, and from no other source [Italics
mine].34
The discrepancy between Narahashi’s claim and Burton and
Nakamura’s research is obvious, but it is well documented that the
committee on which Narahashi served did come up with an initial
draft for a new constitution as Narahashi claimed. The provisions of
this draft, however, merely altered some of the phraseology of the
former Meiji constitution, leaving the emperor’s powers unchanged;
and it was quickly rejected by MacArthur. Instead, MacArthur, as
noted above, ordered his Government Section to produce a draft
incorporating his own views, giving the section only one week to do
so.35 Narahashi acknowledges the existence of this American draft,
but asserts nevertheless that the source of the relevant wording in
Article 1 stemmed from Gempō as transmitted to the Occupation
authorities by himself.36
In attempting to resolve these conflicting versions of events, it
must be admitted that, with the principals now dead, a final
resolution is all but impossible. Even after exhaustive study, historian
Nakamura Masanori admitted that he had been unable to determine
precisely the origins of the symbolic emperor system. “Having got
this far, I found that I had reached a dead end,” he writes.37 Thus,
there is no way to prove definitively that Gempō’s proposal either
did, or did not, contribute to the wording of Article 1.
There is, however, further evidence that needs to be taken into
account. First, according to historian Herbert Bix, Narahashi was the
type of man who not only exaggerated his own role in events but
was quite capable of inventing meetings that never happened.38
More importantly, it was clearly in his and his fellow committee
members’ self-interest to claim that the Japanese side had come up
with, or at least made a substantial contribution to, the new
constitution if for no other reason than to save face, a key
consideration in Japanese culture.
Narahashi’s description of events had the added advantage of
allowing the Japanese side to take credit for having saved the
emperor system, albeit one stripped of political power due to Allied
pressure. Thus, making Gempō the inspiration for the creation of the
symbolic emperor system may have been the proverbial fig leaf
required to disguise the new constitution’s foreign origins. After all,
who was more authentically “Japanese” than a Zen master?

Gempō’s wartime role

In assessing Gempō’s overall wartime role it should not be forgotten
that he unhesitatingly turned over much of his temple complex to the
Imperial Army while earnestly praying for Japan’s victory. Yet the
most telling of Gempō’s wartime actions was the establishment of a
temple in the capital of the puppet state of Manzhouguo. Gempō’s
action was, of course, not the least unusual; for, as has been noted
earlier, institutional Buddhist leaders had been establishing temples
on the Asian continent from the late 1800s. Like Gempō, these
leaders were ever ready to work hand in hand with both the
Japanese government and military in seeking to establish Japanese
hegemony in Asia if not throughout the world.
The creation of Myōshinji Betsuin was, nevertheless, somewhat
unique; for it was clearly a temple dedicated almost exclusively to
meeting the spiritual needs of the Japanese residents of
Manzhouguo. While this appears to be a legitimate goal for any
religious body, it was the leadership of the Japanese Army, the de
facto rulers of this puppet state, who took the lead in establishing
what they regarded as a “spiritual training centre.” Accordingly, the
Army’s goal, accepted by Gempō, was “the proper exaltation of the
spirit of both the Japanese military and other Japanese residents of
Manchuria.” Not only that, this temple was slated to become a centre
valorizing the thousands of Japanese “heroic spirits” who were
alleged to have died in the process of establishing Manzhouguo.
Seen in this light, the militarist character of Myōshinji Betsuin is
unmistakable.
Gempō is also recorded as having travelled throughout
Manchuria on a number of occasions.39 Although neither he nor his
biographers mention it, one of the sights Gempō could not have
missed were the ubiquitous street booths located on the downtown
streets of major Manchurian cities. Men, women, boys and girls lined
up at these booths to thrust their arms through a hole in the canvas
to receive a shot of their choice of morphine, cocaine, or heroin.
These booths, as well as the legally licensed opium-smoking
dens, had come under the control of Japanese dope-peddlers from
the late 1920s with the result that by 1938, one out of every forty
Manchurians was hooked on drugs. Drug addiction served to
weaken Manchurian resistance to Japanese control while enriching
the dope-peddlers, their patrons among the Japanese secret police,
and the Japanese-controlled Opium Monopoly Bureau. By contrast,
in Japan proper, where the use of narcotics was strictly proscribed,
only one out of every 17,000 Japanese was addicted.40 If ever there
were a time for religious leaders to speak out against drugs, it was in
1930s Manchuria. Yet Gempō and his fellow Buddhist missionaries
remained silent even though they collectively laid claim to being
Asia’s most “socially engaged” Buddhists.
It can be justly argued that the role played by Buddhism in
general, and Zen in particular, as the spiritual vanguard of Japanese
militarism was not all that different from what various Christian
missions had previously done on behalf of western imperialist
expansion into Africa, Asia and the Americas. While some may gain
solace in pointing out that other religions were as guilty as their own,
it can never excuse the conduct of Zen adherents who claimed to
have realized the same enlightenment Śākyamuni Buddha first
experienced some 2,500 years earlier.
The key issue is not simply the way in which leading Zen figures
like Gempō actively collaborated with Japanese imperialism and
military aggression, for the issue runs far deeper than that. As
chapter 7 will reveal, the real problem is that certain key aspects of
Zen doctrine lay at the very heart of the Japanese military spirit.
 7

ZEN “SELFLESSNESS” IN
JAPANESE MILITARISM

SECTION ONE: THE GENERAL AND THE ZEN

MASTER
On 8 January 1941, then Army Minister Tōjō Hideki (1884–1948)
promulgated the Field Service Code (Senjinkun). More than any
other wartime document, this 32-page Code encapsulated Japan’s
“do or die” military spirit. Section Eight of chapter 2, for example,
contained the injunction: “Never accept alive the shame of capture;
die, so as not to leave the disgrace of such an offense.” This alone
resulted in the pointless deaths of tens, even hundreds of thousands
of Japanese soldiers, not to mention civilians, who chose suicide
over surrender.
The Code was distributed to every soldier, and it’s effectiveness
is suggested by these sobering statistics on Axis soldiers taken
prisoner of war during World War II on all fronts. While the
International Red Cross recorded 9,451,000 German and 4,906,000
Italian POWs, the corresponding figure for Japan was only 208,000,
i.e. slightly more than 2 per cent of the German figure.1 In addition,
many of those Japanese soldiers who ended up as prisoners were
emotionally scarred for life, believing they had brought shame on
themselves and their families by being captured alive.
Further evidence is contained in a December 1945 US military
document entitled: “Report on a Survey of Japanese Prisoners’
Attitudes towards the War.” Of the 1,953 prisoners interviewed, more
than two-thirds considered they had committed a shameful act and
did not wish their families to be notified of their whereabouts.
Seventy-five per cent expressed the wish to either commit suicide or
be executed.2
On the evening preceding the Code’s promulgation, General Tōjō
gave a newspaper interview which he concluded as follows: “The
entire Code has a great deal in common with the spirit of the
Hagakure though our officers and men must clearly recognize the
present situation prevailing in East Asia.”3 The “present situation”
Tōjō referred to was the fourth year of a costly, stalemated war with
China. As the war dragged on, there had been a noticeable
deterioration in the conduct of Japanese troops as epitomized in the
events surrounding the fall of the Nationalist Chinese capital of
Nanjing in December 1937. The atrocities committed there, i.e. the
“Rape of Nanjing,” were but one in a long series of similar acts.
By 1938, Japanese military leaders recognized the need to do
something to curtail the rapacious conduct of their soldiers. One of
their first steps was a major expansion in the number of infamous
“comfort women” (ianpu) stations designed to cater, in a controlled
manner, to the sexual appetites of soldiers in the field. These comfort
stations, serviced primarily by impoverished Korean women, had the
added “benefit” of maintaining battle readiness by reducing the
incidence of venereal disease among the rank and file.
In addition, Japan’s military leaders hoped that the creation of a
new Field Service Code would effect a revival of the ideals
associated with the traditional Bushido warrior code as expressed in
such writings as the Hagakure. In his classic 1938 work, Zen and
Japanese Culture, D. T. Suzuki described the Hagakure as follows:

There is a document that was very much talked about in

connection with the Japanese military operations in China in
the 1930s. It is known as the Hagakure, which literally means
“Hidden under the Leaves,” for it is one of the virtues of the
samurai not to display himself, not to blow his horn, but to keep
himself away from the public eye and be doing good for his
fellow beings. To the compilation of this book, which consists of
 various notes, anecdotes, moral sayings, etc., a Zen monk had
his part to contribute.
The work started in the middle part of the seventeenth
century under Nabeshima Naoshige, the feudal lord of Saga in
the island of Kyūshū. The book emphasizes very much the
samurai’s readiness to give his life away at any moment, for it
states that no great work has ever been accomplished without
going mad – that is, when expressed in modern terms, without
breaking through the ordinary level of consciousness and
letting loose the hidden powers lying further below. These
powers may be devilish sometimes, but there is no doubt that
they are superhuman and work wonders. When the
unconscious is tapped, it rises above individual limitations.
Death now loses its sting altogether, and this is where the
samurai training joins hands with Zen.4

The Zen monk Suzuki referred to was Yamamoto Jōchō (1659-

1719), a former samurai of the Nabeshima fief in Kyushu who
entered the priesthood on the occasion of his lord’s death in 1700.
Suzuki is more than a little misleading in noting that a Zen monk did
no more than “contribute” to the compilation of the Hagakure, for in
reality Jōchō dictated all eleven chapters of this work to a young
samurai admirer over a seven-year period beginning in 1710.
Though neither systematic nor closely reasoned, the Hagakure
nevertheless forcefully and repeatedly expressed the selfless “loyalty
unto death” demanded of the warrior.
As in the Hagakure, there was also a Zen influence on the
“modern version” of that work. The following is a discussion of that
influence, the first part of which looks at the Zen influence on the
person primarily responsible for the Code, Imperial Army General
Imamura Hitoshi (1886-1968). The second part examines the Code’s
underlying ideology as interpreted both by the imperial military itself
and leading Zen masters. When the two parts are considered as a
whole, it will be clear that the Zen influence on the Field Service
Code was not merely deep-rooted but even foundational.
 General Imamura Hitoshi and Zen
General Imamura Hitoshi was widely recognized as one of the most
intelligent strategists in the Imperial Army. Following the Japanese
attack on Pearl Harbour in December 1941, he commanded the 16th
Army as it successfully drove colonial power Holland out of the oil-
rich “Dutch East Indies,” i.e. today’s Indonesia. War’s end found him
in command of some 76,000 troops on the islands of Rabaul, New
Ireland, and Bougainville in the southwest Pacific.
Imamura has been credited with saving the lives of many
thousands of his troops by encouraging them to grow their own food
even prior to being cut off from supplies from Japan in the latter
stages of the war. Unlike many top Japanese military leaders,
Imamura did not commit suicide at the war’s end but worked closely
with Australian military authorities to ensure an incident-free
surrender and the early repatriation of his troops. This accomplished,
Imamura did attempt, in July 1946, to take responsibility for Japan’s
defeat by first taking poison and then cutting his throat with a razor
blade. Unsuccessful, he was subsequently tried as a war criminal
and found guilty of having failed to prevent the maltreatment of Asian
forced labourers under his command. Sentenced to ten years
imprisonment, he was incarcerated for nine years before gaining
release in 1954.
Imamura’s troops revered him as epitomizing the essence of the
Bushido spirit. Even General Douglas MacArthur agreed with their
assessment, for during the allied occupation of Japan he was so
moved by Imamura’s ongoing concern for his former soldiers that he
commented: “This is the first time since coming to Japan that I feel I
have encountered the true Bushido spirit.”5 On the other hand, at his
earlier trial as a war criminal, the presiding judge said: “I believe the
reason that the leaders of the Japanese military could never act
realistically was because of Bushido. Defendant Imamura…
believing as you do in conceptions and values from the middle ages
places you beyond redemption.”6
At the time of the Field Service Code’s promulgation in January
1941, Imamura was in charge of the Tokyo headquarters of the
Department of Military Education, a position he held for more than
eight months. As Tōjō noted in the newspaper article mentioned
above, it was this department that had written the Code. By virtue of
his position, Imamura was the key figure in the Code’s final
formulation, a fact Imamura himself attested to when he later wrote:
“I, too, took up the pen and spent about three months giving firm
shape to the Code.”7

Early Zen interest

Imamura’s interest in Zen can be traced back at least to 1907,
shortly after his graduation from officer candidate school. As a newly
commissioned second lieutenant, Imamura was assigned to an
infantry unit in the northern Honshū city of Sendai. He was
befriended there by First Lieutenant Itagaki Seishirō (1885-1948).
Imamura greatly admired Itagaki not only because of the latter’s skill
at both swordsmanship, i.e. kendō, and gymnastics, but because, as
a platoon leader, he exhibited brilliant combat leadership.
One Sunday afternoon, Imamura noticed a book on Zen laying on
Itagaki’s desk. Picking it up, Imamura said, “I am prone to becoming
agitated and quarrelling with people. Do you think I can overcome
this shortcoming through Zen?” Itagaki replied, “I’ve noticed you do
have a tendency to flare up. But since you are aware of this
weakness, I think you can overcome it.”8
Saying this, Itagaki lent Imamura his book on Zen, and after that
the latter continued to read about Zen on his own. At the time,
however, Imamura didn’t feel Zen was helping him much in
overcoming his temper, but he seemed to believe that Itagaki had
benefited from his Zen practice. Imamura later wrote: “Although I
don’t know how much longer Itagaki continued his Zen practice … I
do know that as he gained rank he received the respect and trust of
an ever-increasing number of people. Unlike me, he didn’t worry
about trifles, nor did he show his feelings in front of others.”9
Itagaki subsequently rose to the rank of full general and served
the government in various capacities including Minister of the Army
in 1938-9, Chief of the Army General Staff in 1939, and a member of
the Supreme War Council in 1943. He first distinguished himself
while still a colonel by helping to plan the 1931 Manchurian Incident,
a successful Japanese military plot to occupy all of Manchuria and
establish a puppet government. He was also an early proponent of a
military alliance with Nazi Germany. In the postwar period he was
tried and convicted as a Class A war criminal by the Tokyo War
Crimes Tribunal and hanged in 1948. Itagaki will be discussed
further in chapter 11.
It must be stressed that in the Japan of 1907, there was nothing
at all unusual about two young officers being attracted to Zen. It was
already well known that both Imperial Army Generals Nogi Maresuke
(1849–1912) and Kodama Gentarō (1852-1906), heroes of the
victorious Russo-Japanese War of 1904-5, were longtime Zen
practitioners.10 Nantembo (1839–1925), Nogi’s Rinzai Zen master,
had even designated his illustrious military disciple as one of his
“Dharma descendants” in recognition of his fully enlightened state.
As Sōtō Zen scholar-priest Nukariya Kaiten (1867-1934) wrote a few
years later in 1913: “It is Zen that modern Japan, especially after the
Russo-Japanese War, has acknowledged as an ideal doctrine for her
rising generation.”11

Ōmori Zenkai
For a deeper understanding of Imamura’s interest in Zen, we must
turn to the first volume of his war memoirs published in 1960. There,
in his only extended discussion of any religion, Imamura devotes
thirty-eight pages to Zen. In particular, he singles out Sōtō Zen priest
Omori Zenkai (1871-1947) as having contributed the most to his
understanding of Zen. Zenkai was, however, no ordinary priest; for
over his long career he served as a professor, dean, and finally
president of Sōtō Zen sect-affiliated Komazawa University from
1934-7; administrative head of the Sōtō sect in 1940-41; and then
chief abbot of both of the Sōtō sect’s head temples, Sōjiji and Eiheiji.
Imamura’s relationship to Zenkai was one of many years
standing, dating back to August 1921. Surprisingly, their first meeting
was not in Japan but on the deck of a ship steaming through the
Indian Ocean. Both men were on their way back to Japan after
separate sojourns in Europe. Imamura had served for nearly three
years as a military attaché at the Japanese embassy in London while
Zenkai had been engaged in research on early Buddhist sūtras
preserved in England and on the continent. Surprisingly for that
period, Zenkai spoke both fluent English and German, for from 1904
to 1911 he had studied the philosophy of religion at West Virginia
State and Washington universities in the US and Leipzig University
in Germany.
In explaining the events leading up to their shipboard meeting,
Imamura noted that it was so hot in the cabins that many of the
passengers preferred sleeping on deck in lounge chairs. This led
one of Imamura’s fellow officers, Captain Homma Masaharu (1887-
1946), to a discovery – there appeared to be a Buddhist priest on
board who came up on deck shortly after four in the morning to recite
sūtras. Homma said: “I was totally captivated by his recitation of the
sūtras and soon entered into a selfless realm. It was not just the
quality of his voice, but there was a kind of power that drew me in.”12
The Captain Homma who so rapidly entered a “selfless realm”
would later become Lt. General Homma, the man executed by the
Allies in April 1946 for authoring the Bataan Death March and
bombing of undefended Manila.
For his part, Imamura decided to get up early the next morning to
see if the suspected Buddhist priest was all Homma made him out to
be. Imamura wasn’t disappointed:

I became absorbed in his voice. I don’t know whether I should

say I was in a selfless realm, or in a trance, but in any event I
was so absorbed in the sound of his voice that I lost all sense
of time and had no idea how long his sūtra recitation lasted.13

Imamura did recognize, however, that Zenkai had first recited the
short Heart Sūtra and then the Shūshōgi. Imamura was particularly
struck by the latter sūtra’s opening words: “To understand life and
clarify death is of critical importance to a Buddhist. If the Buddha
exists within life and death there is no life and death.…” The reader
will recall that the Shūshōgi, a uniquely Sōtō Zen scripture, was
discussed in chapter 5. That Imamura immediately recognized this
sūtra is one indication of just how well acquainted he was with the
Sōtō Zen sect. From then until their arrival back in Japan some
weeks later, Imamura never missed Zenkai’s early morning
recitations.
Not content with the role of passive listener, Imamura introduced
himself to Zenkai and was pleased to discover how approachable he
was, totally lacking in the stern demeanour he expected of a Zen
master. This in turn led Imamura to query Zenkai about a problem
that had bothered him for some time. Imamura was worried about
the demands for democracy and workers’ rights that had been
growing in Japan since the end of World War I.
According to Imamura, this new democratic way of thinking was
even finding its way into the military as evidenced by the fact that
lower-ranking soldiers had begun to question their superiors about
things they found unreasonable in military life and society as a
whole. What, Imamura wanted to know, would Zenkai say to soldiers
who asked why it was that some Japanese children were born into
rich families where they had plenty while “poor children don’t have
enough to eat and are unable to seek medical treatment when they
get sick”?14
Zenkai thought about this question for a moment and then recited
a verse from an unnamed Buddhist sūtra he felt contained the
answer:

The sun in the heavens has no self,

Flowers and branches have their order.15

In other words, natural phenomena like the sun play no favourites,

providing life-giving warmth to all without distinction. Despite this, not
all buds on a tree blossom at the same time. That is to say, the buds
on the branches on the south side of the tree blossom before those
on the north side. Should the branches on the north side of the tree
dislike having to wait their turn and all crowd onto the south side, the
tree would become unbalanced and crash to earth, destroying the
chance for the buds on any of the branches to bloom.
 Zenkai claimed the same can be said about human society. If
everyone will but wait and work diligently, good fortune will
eventually come their way. In fact, Zenkai claimed to have proof of
this. He recalled having once trained at a temple that had records on
its parishioners going back for some four hundred years. Looking
through these records he discovered that in cycles of approximately
one hundred years each, families that had been tenant farmers
became small landholders; small landholders became large
landowners; and large landholders fell into tenancy. Explain to your
soldiers, Zenkai said, that “adversity improves one’s character, while
a life of ease tends to make one negligent.”16
Imamura was quite taken with Zenkai’s explanation and
subsequently often used it in instructing his military subordinates.
For example, in 1926 Imamura, now a Lt. Colonel, was sent to
Korea, a Japanese colony, to serve with the 74th Regiment. While
there he became concerned about what he regarded as the
luxurious lifestyle led by some of his officers and senior enlisted
personnel. This lifestyle was made possible because, being
stationed outside of Japan proper, higher ranking personnel were
entitled to salary supplements. Using Zenkai’s words, Imamura
warned them that by using their money to purchase luxuries for
themselves, instead of saving it for such things as their children’s
education, they were denying their children “the chance to blossom.”
Imamura noted with satisfaction that a number of his
subordinates took his advice to heart and expressed their gratitude
to him for having shared Zenkai’s teaching. This led Imamura to
conclude: “I was overjoyed that the Buddhist virtue of Zen Master
Ōmori had reached from Japan all the way to a rural regiment
stationed in Korea.”17

Zen Master Shaku Sōen

At this point in his narrative Imamura related an anecdote that
Zenkai shared with him concerning Rinzai Zen Master Shaku Sōen
(1859-1919). Shaku Sōen was not only D. T. Suzuki’s Zen master
and abbot of the major Rinzai monastery of Engakuji in Kamakura
but was widely regarded as the greatest Rinzai Zen master of his
day.18 The anecdote in question had a significant impact on
Imamura’s thinking in that he claimed to have understood for the first
time the meaning of the Zen phrase “the ordinary and the Buddha
are one.”19
The incident Zenkai described happened to him when he was still
a young student priest studying in the USA. At the time Sōen was on
a short tour of the USA and needed an English-speaking guide.
Zenkai was a natural candidate for the job, and one of the sites they
visited was the Natural History Museum in Chicago. After touring the
museum for about two hours, they entered a large room containing
mounted specimens of various animals and reptiles. Zenkai
explained:

Zen Master Shaku Sōen immediately stopped and his whole

body started to shake. His face turned pale and perspiration
dripped from his forehead. He gave the appearance of being in
deep distress. “Are you feeling ill?” I asked as I reached to
steady him. “Yes, I am. Let’s go back to the hotel.”20

Only after they had returned to their hotel did Sōen reveal what was
wrong. It so happened that Sōen was petrified by snakes, and there
had been a giant snake, coiled lifelike, in a tree in the large room
they had entered. Sōen confessed:

No matter how small it is, I still get frightened when I see a

snake. I have been this way since childhood, and even though
I am now an adult and have practiced Zen for many years, I am
unable to get rid of this fear. I am truly ashamed.21

Adding to Sōen’s shame may well have been his awareness that
since the time of Śākyamuni Buddha there have been numerous
stories of accomplished monks converting such potentially
malevolent spirits as snakes and dragons (Skt. Nāga) to the Buddha
Dharma, thereby securing their protection in return.
As far as Zenkai was concerned, Sōen’s conduct was nothing to
be ashamed of. On the contrary, he regarded it as confirmation of
Zen Master Dōgen’s teaching that “one must continue to practice
Zen for one’s entire life.” More importantly, he was deeply impressed
with Sōen’s honesty in having openly confessed his fear of snakes to
a young monk like himself. “This was possible,” Zenkai claimed,
“because Sōen had reached an enlightened state…. It reveals the
ordinariness of the extraordinary.”22
For his part, Imamura readily agreed with Zenkai’s favourable
interpretation of Sōen. In fact, he thought something similar could be
said of Zenkai who had initially been ignored by his fellow first-class
passengers because he “looked just like a farmer.”23 More
importantly, Imamura believed the ordinariness of the extraordinary
could also be seen at work in the military, noting: “Among those
soldiers who are given to bragging in peacetime, few demonstrate
true bravery on the battlefield. On the other hand, among those who
are normally reserved and courteous there are many who are
brave.”24

Zen writings
Imamura departed from his conversations with Zenkai at this point to
record what had impressed him over the years in his readings on
Zen. The discussion that followed made it clear that Imamura had
not only read but given considerable thought to the teachings of
major Zen figures, starting with the semi-legendary Bodhidharma
and the early Chan (Zen) patriarchs in China and extending to Zen
Masters Dōgen and Hakuin (1685-1768) in Japan. Imamura claimed,
however, to have done no more than “untie the strings of a few Zen
writings and meditate just a little on my own without the benefit of a
master’s guidance.”25
Not surprising for a military man, many of Imamura’s Zen-related
comments had to do with how best to face death, including a
discussion of Ryōkan (1758-1831), a Sōtō Zen monk famous for his
poetry, eccentric lifestyle, and love of children. At the age of seventy
four, Ryōkan was approaching death, suffering from severe stomach
pains brought on by diarrhea. Finding him lying in pain in his
hermitage, one of the villagers thoughtlessly asked: “Ryōkan! Does
even a priest like you who has forsaken the world suffer so when he
dies?” Ryōkan opened his eyes and quietly repeated the following
seventeen syllable haiku:

Ura o mise Show me what is out in back,

Omote o mise Show me what is out in front,
Chiru momiji Falling maple leaves.

Imamura interpreted this poem to mean that Ryōkan had simply

resigned himself to die according to nature’s dictates. And Imamura
concluded: “I am deeply impressed with someone like Ryōkan who,
having totally identified himself with the oneness of the ordinary and
the Buddha, could demonstrate such a wonderful state of mental
preparedness.”26

Hakuin
While Imamura devoted less than a page to Ryōkan, he spent some
five pages discussing Hakuin, previously introduced in chapter 1.
Clearly, the vigorous nature of Hakuin’s Zen practice attracted
Imamura to this great seventeenth-century reformer of the Rinzai
Zen tradition. Needless to say, it was Hakuin’s own encounter with
life and death that made the deepest impression.
Imamura noted that Hakuin had his first enlightenment
experience at the age of twenty-four. Although Hakuin was confident,
even proud, of his enlightenment, he nevertheless went to visit Zen
Master Dōkyō Etan (aka Shōjū-rōjin, 1642-1721) to have his
enlightenment confirmed. In Etan’s eyes, however, Hakuin’s
understanding was still limited, not least of all by the latter’s pride. At
length, Hakuin was himself overcome by self-doubt, if not self-
loathing, leading to a famous episode that Imamura described as
follows:

One day Hakuin was out collecting alms in the castle village of
Iiyama [in present-day Nagano Prefecture]. As he made his
rounds, reciting Buddhist sūtras as he went, he stopped before
 the gate of a house. “Get out of here!” yelled a man who was
sweeping the garden inside the gate. Hakuin, however, was
lost in thought and, failing to hear the man shouting at him,
continued reciting sūtras. The man in the garden grew even
angrier and shouted at the top of his voice: “I told you to get out
of here, now go!”
Hakuin, still lost in thought, just stood there reciting sūtras.
The man, his anger now transformed into rage, came out of his
gate and, suddenly lifting up his bamboo broom, gave Hakuin a
big whack on the head. The young priest’s conical wicker hat
split in half, and he fell to the ground unconscious.
A passerby eventually found Hakuin and kindly looked after
him until he revived. At that point Hakuin, clearly recognizing
that he was still not fully enlightened, said: “Death is fine, and
life is still better. Life is fine, and death is still better.”27

Imamura records that Etan was overjoyed when Hakuin later

informed him of the day’s events and the realization he had come to.
For his part, Hakuin broke into tears, deeply grateful for Etan’s harsh
but loving guidance that had led to his breakthrough. Imamura
concluded his own examination of Hakuin’s life by noting: “Hakuin
had smashed the extraordinary and, for the first time, identified with
the oneness of the ordinary and the Buddha.”28
While Imamura’s overall discussion of Zen ends with the above
episode, Imamura’s relationship to Zenkai clearly went beyond a
simple shipboard acquaintanceship. Imamura’s biographer, Tsunoda
Fusako, records that Imamura arrived back in Japan in 1921 a
changed man. In her view, Zenkai had contributed significantly to this
change:

Following Imamura’s return from England, there was an abrupt

change in his character – he mellowed. There are various
reasons for this, first that he was approaching middle age and
second his meeting with Omori Zenkai. While it is true that
Imamura didn’t go on to practice Zen extensively after their
meeting, this Zen priest nevertheless exercised a big influence
on him for his entire life.29
As Zenkai’s daughter, Ume, later recorded: “General Imamura came
to visit father a number of times. These were always short visits, but
the two of them really seemed to enjoy their time together.”30
Whether directly related or not, Imamura also moved his ancestral
grave site to the major Sōtō Zen temple of Rinnōji in his hometown
of Sendai in 1938. The reader will recall, this is the same temple
where military assassin Lt. Col. Aizawa Saburō had first trained
under the guidance of Zen Master Fukusada Mugai.
Finally, when Imamura was allowed to return to Japan in 1949 to
complete his prison sentence, he immediately inquired about
Zenkai’s whereabouts only to learn that his old friend had died two
years earlier. Thereafter, whenever Imamura was asked for a piece
of his calligraphy, he typically inscribed the eight-character phrase
Zenkai first taught him:

The sun in the heavens has no self,

Flowers and branches have their order.

Having adopted Zenkai’s karmic viewpoint, Imamura remained

convinced that, despite the wartime deaths of millions upon millions,
many of which Imamura had been directly involved in, the world was
just as it “ought to be.”

Ōmori Zenkai and war

In the 1930s and 1940s, Zenkai went on to become one of the Sōtō
sect’s strongest supporters of Japanese militarism. For example, just
before the outbreak of full-scale war with China in July 1937, Zenkai,
then president of Komazawa University, addressed an assembly of
student-priests as follows: “In light of the crisis facing this nation, you
must rouse yourselves to defend and protect the state, solemnly
determined to do your very best!”31
On 15 January 1941, only seven days after the promulgation of
the Field Service Code, Zenkai, as administrative head of the entire
Sōtō sect, wrote:
 Today the most important mental attitude required of us is the
realization that our bodies have been consigned to us by His
Majesty [the emperor].… It is this realization that distinguishes
our national character from that of western nations with their
emphasis on individualism and liberalism.… It is only when we
proceed to give ourselves completely to the state in humble
service that we are able to practice the Way of a loyal subject.
…
The core of the Buddha Way is to turn away from self. In
other words, subjugation of self is its fundamental principle. It is
due to the existence of self that strife occurs. It is due to the
existence of self that self-interest and egoism exist. Zen Master
Dōgen, the founder of the Sōtō sect, kindly taught us: “To study
the Buddha Way is to study the self. To study the self is to
forget the self”.…
All of us have a very strong attachment to life. However, it is
not until we discard this attachment that we are able to acquire
the noble spirit of sacrificing our lives for the state.… The heart
of the practice of the Buddha Way is to forget self. It is in killing
the idea of the small self that we are reborn as a true citizen of
Japan.32

Zenkai went on to describe at length just how important Zen

selflessness had been to empowering Japanese warriors over the
centuries. He further noted that when one was willing to die selflessly
for the state, victory was assured. Like General Tōjō Hideki and D. T.
Suzuki, Zenkai also found in the Hagakure the embodiment of the
Bushido spirit, especially Jōchō’s famous words: “I have discovered
that Bushido means to die.” This led Zenkai to conclude: “Without
eliminating one’s attachment to life, it is impossible to acquire a truly
strong spirit.”33 As far as Zenkai was concerned, this was exactly
what Zen had to offer.

Conclusion
Zenkai’s ostensibly Buddhist justification for social inequality as
introduced above was certainly not unique to him but, on the
contrary, was quite typical of Buddhist leaders at the time.34 Zenkai
himself came from a family of wealthy landowners in Fukui
Prefecture who completely financed his many years of education
abroad. Applying Zenkai’s logic, this should have made him an
example of someone whose “life of ease” made him “negligent.”
Furthermore, one is left to speculate whether Zenkai would have
told a starving or indebted tenant farmer, forced to sell his daughter
into prostitution (as was then quite common), that everything would
be fine in a hundred years or so. And if he had, just how much
solace would father, mother or daughter have derived from that?
Despite General Imamura’s undoubted admiration for Zenkai,
there is nothing in Imamura’s memoirs to indicate that the latter
directly influenced the content of the Field Service Code. Nor does
Zenkai claim to have done so. At most, the evidence suggests that
Imamura’s relationship to Zenkai, coupled with his general interest
and knowledge of Zen, formed part of what might best be described
as the “spiritual background” of the Code.
Yet, based on his repeated use of the term, one critical insight
Imamura received from Zenkai in particular, and Zen in general, can
be identified, i.e. the oneness of the ordinary and the Buddha. In
other words, the fundamental identity of the unenlightened and
enlightened states. Failing to realize this fundamental identity, the
unenlightened mistakenly regard these as two separate states,
believing they must first discard or transcend the former in order to
achieve the latter. The Mahāyāna school of Buddhism, however,
centred as it is on Madhyamika philosophy, teaches that “there is not
even the subtlest something separating the two.”35
For Imamura, nowhere was this insight of greater significance
than in his view of the proper mental state needed to face death.
Ryōkan was admirable for his willingness to simply let nature take its
course. Hakuin, however, was even more admirable. The oneness
he achieved of the ordinary and the Buddha was best expressed
when he said: “Death is fine, and life is still better. Life is fine, and
death is still better.”
 In Hakuin, Imamura found a man who was totally “unattached” to
both life and death, a man who had transcended life and death in
that, for him, both states were equally desirable. Given that
Imamura, as a military officer, faced the ever-present possibility of
his own death on the battlefield, let alone responsibility for sending
large numbers of his soldiers to their deaths, what could be more
attractive than the acquisition of this mental state. This is not to
mention the acquisition of the “truly strong spirit” that Zenkai spoke
of.
As the second part of this chapter reveals, it is precisely in the
Zen view of life and death that the major Zen influence on the Field
Service Code is to be found. In fact, the evidence will show that the
Zen view of life and death, grounded in selflessness, lay at the very
heart of the military spirit the Code incorporated.

SECTION TWO: ZEN – THE FOUNDATION

OF MILITARY SPIRIT
In January 1941, the same month in which the Field Service Code
was promulgated, the Department of Military Education issued a set
of four thick booklets, under anonymous authorship, designed to
provide the officer corps with guidance for the implementation of the
Code. This guidance was crucial in that the primary responsibility for
so-called “spiritual education” (seishin kyōiku) in the Imperial Army
lay with company commanders. They were expected to gather the
roughly one hundred and fifty men in their units together on a weekly
basis for morale-building talks. The booklets would provide them with
the necessary background information on how to explain each
section of the Code.
The second of the four booklets contained an explanation of the
military’s view of life and death on the battlefield, corresponding to
Section Seven, chapter 2 of the Code. This section of the Code read
as follows:

That which penetrates life and death is the lofty spirit of self-
sacrifice for the public good. Transcending life and death,
 earnestly rush forward to accomplish your duty. Exhausting the
power of your body and mind, calmly find joy in living in eternal
duty.36

Appropriately, the accompanying booklet’s commentary was entitled

“Death and Life Are One” (Shisei Ichinyo), a Zen phrase closely
related to Imamura’s “the ordinary and the Buddha are one.” The
commentary begins by pointing out just how critical a proper
understanding of life and death is to the maintenance of military
discipline:

The view of life and death held by officers and enlisted

personnel is one of the roots of military discipline, the true
value of which is first demonstrated under a hail of bullets. It is
those who, having transcended life and death, maintain a
serene state of mind that are first able to perform their duties
well.… That is to say, what is to be esteemed is duty, not life.
One should take as one’s ideal the realization that even though
the body perish, one lives on in the eternal life of the nation
through the oneness of life and death.37

If the above represents the “ideal” to which all imperial soldiers were
expected to adhere, the question remains as to the origin(s) of this
ideal. In the nationalistic fervour of wartime Japan, it was not
sufficient to merely explain what the individual soldier ought to think
or believe. It was also necessary to demonstrate that the stated ideal
was truly “Japanese,” i.e. deeply rooted in traditional Japanese
culture and values. In this connection it is not surprising to learn that
the booklet’s authors insisted: “It is the Bushido of our country… that
is the core of the unique warrior spirit of the Japanese people.”38
This said, the question still remains, where did the values
incorporated in Bushido come from? The booklet’s authors were
convinced they knew:

It was the Zen sect that furnished the warrior spirit with its
ideological and spiritual foundation. The Zen sect overthrew
the earlier belief in rebirth in Amitābha Buddha’s western
 Paradise [as taught by the Pure Land school of Buddhism] and
replaced it with the teaching that one’s very mind is the
Buddha, coupled with a call to rely on one’s own efforts [to
achieve salvation]. It caused people who were vainly yearning
for rebirth in the innumerable lands of Amitābha’s western
Paradise to immediately focus on the here and now, to reflect
on the original nature of the self. That is to say, the Zen sect
emphasized the dignity and power of the self and concluded
that belief in gods, Buddhas, paradises, or hells outside of the
self was total delusion.
On the one hand it can be said that it was only natural for
warriors to be able to fearlessly and calmly enter the realm of
life and death based on their prior experience on the actual
battlefield. Nevertheless, it is also true that the teachings of the
Zen sect exerted a strong influence on the warrior spirit.…
It can therefore be said that the time-honoured, traditional
spirit of our country [as embodied in Shinto mythology] was
tempered by the belief in the oneness of life and death that had
been incorporated into the Zen training of the warriors of the
Kamakura period [1185-1333].… Thus becoming the deeply
and broadly-held view of life and death of the Japanese
people.…
It is this view of life and death that is one of the primary
factors in the maintenance of strict military discipline in the
midst of a rain of bullets. Coupled with this, of course, is the
sublime greatness of the imperial military’s mission, making it
possible to sacrifice one’s life without regret in the
accomplishment of that mission.39
Despite the preceding total identification of the Zen view of life and
death with the Japanese military spirit, it can still be claimed that this,
after all, represents the Japanese military’s understanding of Zen,
not Zen’s understanding of itself, or at least not the understanding of
Zen held by leading Zen figures. Wasn’t the Japanese military guilty
of having willfully distorted Zen teaching concerning life and death to
suit itself? For an initial answer to that question let us turn to no less
a Zen authority than D. T. Suzuki.
 D. T. Suzuki’s view
In light of the wide respect D. T. Suzuki continues to enjoy in the
West, some readers will be surprised to learn that he was one of the
first Zen leaders to address the question of the Zen view of life and
death in the period following the promulgation of the Field Service
Code. Suzuki had, furthermore, actively promoted the idea of a link
between Zen, Bushido, and the modern Japanese military from as
early as 1906, following Japan’s victory in the Russo-Japanese War
of 1904-5. It was then that Suzuki wrote:

The Lebensanschauung of Bushido is no more nor less than

that of Zen. The calmness and even joyfulness of heart at the
moment of death which is conspicuously observable in the
Japanese, the intrepidity which is generally shown by
Japanese soldiers in the face of an overwhelming enemy; and
the fairness of play to an opponent, so strongly taught by
Bushido – all these come from the spirit of Zen training, and
not from any such blind, fatalistic conception as is sometimes
thought to be a trait peculiar to Orientals.40

Despite Suzuki’s attempt to prevent Zen from being mistakenly

regarded as a form of Oriental fatalism, he was quite willing to
identify Zen with the warrior’s calmness and “joyfulness of heart” at
the moment of death. As readers familiar with Suzuki’s Zen and
Japanese Culture will recognize, he later went into great detail about
the Zen influence on the development of Bushido. Yet his previous
writings hardly prepare one for the contents of a wartime article
Suzuki published in 1942 entitled: “The Japanese People’s View of
Life and Death.”
Suzuki began his article by admitting that the Japanese people
had possessed a unique national character prior to the introduction
of Buddhism, something Shintoists called either the “spirit of Japan”
(Yamato-gokoro) or a “pure and clear spirit” (seimei-shin). While the
positive side of this national character was its “aesthetic simplicity,” in
Suzuki’s eyes it lacked such components as “ethical justice,”
“spiritual tenaciousness,” and “universal religious compassion.” More
importantly, it had not developed to the point of recognizing the
oneness of life and death as derived from the Buddhist teaching of
non-attachment.41
In Suzuki’s view, the arrival of Buddhism, especially Zen, in
Japan produced a profound change. That Zen exerted the greatest
influence was because it had integrated the unique sensitivities and
thought-patterns of both the Indian and Chinese peoples in such a
way that they could be readily assimilated and cultivated by the
Japanese. The result was that the Japanese people’s pre-Buddhist
recognition of “life” was deepened to include a recognition of
“death.”42 And it was none other than Japan’s warrior class that had
been responsible for this.
Suzuki waxed ecstatic in his description of the warrior class and
its close connection to Zen. Not only were warriors the “most
Japanese-like” of all classes, it was the superior character of their
culture that allowed them to play the leading role in Japan’s
development. This led Suzuki to the following breathtaking
conclusion:

It is the warrior spirit that can be rightly said to represent the

Japanese people. I believe that if the warrior spirit, in its purity,
were to be imbibed by all classes in Japan – whether
government officials, military men, industrialists, or intellectuals
– then most of the problems presently troubling us would be
swept away as if at the stroke of a sword.43

As for Zen’s contribution to the warrior spirit, Suzuki found this in the
need for warriors to act intuitively. While Suzuki admitted that this
intuitive mode was related to the pre-Buddhist “pure and clear spirit”
of the Japanese, he nevertheless maintained that it was only Zen
that incorporated it fully:

Once [the warrior] sets his goal, it is intuition that allows him to
rush towards it having transcended advantage and
disadvantage, profit and loss. This intuitive nature is a
pronounced characteristic of Zen. Zen is straightforward [lit. a
short sword thrust directly into]. If someone asks, “What is the
 Buddha?” the master answers, “What did you say, fool!” and
strikes them with a rod. If someone says, “I’m troubled by the
question of life and death,” the master answers, “You fool!
Where is there something called life and death?” Then he
grabs the questioner by the breast and throws him out of the
room.44

For Suzuki, then, action based on careful, rational and discriminating

thought is the very antithesis of Zen’s call for action based on
intuition alone. Furthermore, it was exactly this feature of Zen that
made it attractive to the warrior class. Not only that, Suzuki
maintained that Zen had a uniquely Japanese heritage because “no
matter where you go in the world, you will never come across
anything like it.”45 Yet, what was the connection between Zen’s
intuitive nature and the ever-present danger that the warrior might be
called upon to die at any moment? Suzuki explained this connection
as follows:

Warriors always exist in the interval between life and death.

When they step across their doorsills, or even if they don’t,
they always face the possibility of death. There is no time for
hesitation. That is why Zen is the ideal religion for warriors.46

Suzuki further insisted that while Zen may have started as the ideal
religion for Japan’s warriors, it was certainly no longer limited to them
alone. On the contrary, Zen thought had long since penetrated “into
every nook and cranny of Japanese culture.” This led Suzuki to
conclude: “A foreign scholar once said that Zen is the character of
the Japanese people. That is true, for the Zen view of life and death
is now that of the Japanese people as a whole.”47

Shinto and Confucianism

In comparing Suzuki’s views with those of the anonymous authors
explaining the military’s view of life and death, the similarity between
both is readily apparent. As one might expect from a Zen scholar,
Suzuki’s comments were more detailed than those of the military
authors, but Suzuki’s detail only elaborates, without contradicting,
their position. In fact, it is almost as if the military authors had based
their comments on one of Suzuki’s many discussions of this topic.
Further, for those readers who have been led to believe that Suzuki
opposed the Asia-Pacific War, or at least remained aloof from it, his
statement that the adoption of the warrior spirit by all classes in
Japan would instantly solve the country’s problems may come as
something of a shock.48
In acknowledging a Shinto role in developing the national
character of the Japanese people, especially their view of life and
death, Suzuki is once again in basic accord with the views of the
military authors who wrote:

The view of life and death observable in our country’s mythical

age contains within it praise of the phenomenal world and
belief in the immortality of the soul. Furthermore, it rejects the
position that physical death marks the end of everything. Thus
we can see the germ of the idea that life and death are one.49

No doubt Suzuki would have rejected the view that the “germ” of the
Zen view of the oneness of life and death was already present in
pre-Buddhist Japan in that it gives too much credit to the indigenous
Shinto tradition. Yet, Suzuki did recognize that the national
characteristics produced by these two religions were at least
“related.”
This said, there is one area in which Suzuki and the military
authors appear to have disagreed, for nowhere does Suzuki refer in
his article to a Confucian contribution to the development of the
Japanese view of life and death. The military authors, however, had
this to say:

In the Tokugawa period [1600-1867] Bushido was systematized

by Confucianism, leading warriors to ignore the question of life
and death and rush toward a place where they believed right
existed. Thus they sought to acquire life within the context of
the larger society even if that meant their death as individuals.
 That is to say, they took as their ideal a spirit in which they
discarded their small [egocentric] self and lived in their large
[true] self.50

Was Suzuki wrong to have ignored Confucianism’s contribution? In

his defense it can be said that while in the Tokugawa period
Japanese Confucianists successfully divorced themselves from
Buddhism, Buddhists, particularly those in the Zen school, never
even so much as contemplated divorcing themselves from
Confucianism. This is because such Confucian values as loyalty and
filial piety had long been part of Zen teachings, especially as directed
toward the laity.
Historically speaking, this is not surprising since it was the Zen
school that had first introduced and propagated neo-Confucian
thought in Japan in the Kamakura period (1185-1333). By the end of
the fourteenth century the famous neo-Confucian Ashikaga
Academy located at Shimozuke had several thousand students, all
of whom, like their teachers, were Zen priests.51
That the Zen school, first in China and then in Japan, had so
readily embraced neo-Confucianism is explained in part by the fact
that the latter, while identifying itself as the true form of a revitalized
Confucianism, had nevertheless been deeply influenced by Buddhist
metaphysics. For example, although the booklet’s military authors
introduced the terms “small self” and “large self” as belonging to
Confucianism, the Zen school had long employed these same terms,
holding the large self (daiga) to be the equivalent of the more
traditional Zen term of “non-self” (muga). The goal in either case was
to free oneself from attachment to the small, egocentric self.
Further, Suzuki’s failure to discuss Confucianism can be seen as
a reflection of his earlier assertion that the Zen school had been the
most successful of all Buddhist schools in integrating the thought-
patterns of the Chinese as well as Indian peoples. Thus, if Suzuki
failed to discuss Confucianism it may well have been because he
saw no need to separate out of Zen something that had for so long
been an integral part of its character.
 Something similar can be said for the integration of Shinto and
Shinto-inspired national chauvinism into Zen. For example, as early
as the Kamakura period it was possible for Rinzai Zen Master Ean
(1225-77) to proudly proclaim: “To the end of the end of the last
generation will this land of Ours surpass all other lands.”52 Similarly,
Rinzai Zen Master Hakuin, introduced above, asserted that “though
Our Land is situated out of the Way, everlasting is its Imperial Rule,
noble are its people. Thus Our Land surpasses others by far.… This
Land of Ours is pure and divine.” 53

General Wada
Returning to the Field Service Code, it will come as no surprise to
learn that the imperial military continued to promote the Code and its
values in its own writings. In August 1942, for example, Reserve Lt.
General Wada Kameji (1870–1945), former head of the Military Staff
College, published a 302-page book entitled The Spirit of the Army
(Rikugun-Damashii). That General Wada’s book represented the
military’s thinking is shown by the Army Ministry’s seal of approval on
its cover as well as the calligraphic endorsements of three serving
generals, including Tōjō Hideki in his capacity as Minister of the
Army.
The overall purpose of Wada’s book was to call on the Japanese
people, both soldiers and civilians, for ever greater dedication to the
war effort based on the “glorious fruits of battle” that Japan had
acquired up to that point. While admitting that Japan’s material
resources were limited, Wada explained that Japan had been
victorious in the “magnificent and great holy war” then underway
because of its “unlimited spiritual power.” 54 In the first instance this
power had its origins in the Field Service Code’s teaching that “faith
is power,” but he also made it clear that this power could be seen
throughout Japan’s long history in those innumerable warriors (and
their present-day soldier successors) who had “transcended life and
death” through their realization of the “unity of life and death.” 55
But what was at the core of this spiritual power? Just as with the
Code’s authors, Wada devoted a section of his book to an
explanation of what he called the “Pure View of Life and Death.” Like
Tōjō, Wada found the core of this power in the Bushido code as
expressed in the Hagakure. The famous phrase “I have discovered
that Bushido means to die,” according to Wada, “reveals the way in
which warriors can live for all eternity.” And he continued, “From
ancient times, warriors who were truly loyal possessed an
unshakable view of life and death.” 56
Yet, what was the ultimate source of this unshakable view of life
and death? Rather than answer this question himself, Wada turned
to an Army officer who by 1942 had been eulogized many times over
as a “god of war,” Lt. Colonel Sugimoto Gorō (1900-37). Readers of
Zen at War will recall that Sugimoto was a long-time lay disciple of
Rinzai Zen Master Yamazaki Ekijū (1882-1961), chief abbot of the
Buttsūji branch of the Rinzai sect and head of the entire sect by the
end of the war (1945-6).
Although Sugimoto had been killed in action in northern China in
September 1937, he left behind a collection of writings that was
published posthumously the following year as Great Duty (Taigi).
Sugimoto’s book sold more than 100,000 copies and was especially
popular among young officers. In addition, it was praised and
endorsed by not only high-ranking government officials and generals
like Wada but by leading Rinzai and Sōtō Zen figures as well.
Sugimoto described the importance of his Zen training as follows:

The reason that Zen is necessary for soldiers is that all

Japanese, especially soldiers, must live in the spirit of the unity
of sovereign and subjects, eliminating their ego and getting rid
of their self. It is exactly the awakening to the nothingness (mu)
of Zen that is the fundamental spirit of the unity of sovereign
and subjects. Through my practice of Zen I am able to get rid
of my self. In facilitating the accomplishment of this, Zen
becomes, as it is, the true spirit of the imperial military.57

Sugimoto then added: “Zen training clarifies life and death, thereby
making possible the elimination of life and death. Further, Zen
training makes it possible for me to become completely pure, thereby
fulfilling my wish to be a true military man [Italics mine].58
 What was of particular interest to Wada was Sugimoto’s claim to
have “eliminat[ed] life and death.” For this reason Wada inserted a
long quotation from Taigi that he felt expressed the essence of
Sugimoto’s view of life and death. Appropriately, the quotation began
with Sugimoto’s reference to the famous Rinzai Zen priest Kanzan
Egen (1277-1360), spiritual advisor to Emperor Hanazono (r. 1308-
18) and founder of the imperial-sponsored Myōshinji monastic
complex in Kyoto. Sugimoto wrote:

When National Teacher Kanzan was asked about his view of

life and death, it was his custom to roar: “From the outset I’ve
never had [anything that can be called] life and death!” For
those masters who have abandoned body and mind, it may
truly be said there is no life and death.
Life and death are not to be found in everyday affairs, nor
are they to be found in other activities. There is only “no life
and death.” However, the transformed view of life and death
held by those great masters who have undergone the
unparalleled Great Death, cannot be comprehended by those
of mediocre ability; for the living bodies of these masters,
having transcended life and death, are totally free.
Even should ordinary persons succeed in extinguishing their
body and mind and enter into the realm of non-attachment,
they will not become bodhisattvas, Buddhas or gods. The
reason for this is that they must have the strength to save all
sentient beings. If there are those who leave behind either acts
or writings that cause future generations to rouse themselves
on behalf of our imperial nation, it is they who will become
gods, bodhisattvas, and Buddhas.59

Needless to say, the Zen influence is clear and unmistakable in the

above, not least of all by Sugimoto’s reference to “Great Death”
(Daishi-ichiban), a term unique to Zen that appears in the forty-first
case of the famous kōan collection, Hekigan-roku (Blue Cliff
Record). The term refers to a Zen practitioner who, having emptied
the mind of all discriminating thought, has experienced a spiritual
rebirth, that is to say, realized enlightenment.
 Given Sugimoto’s preference for Zen, it is not surprising to learn
that he was critical of other religious orientations. In this connection,
the reader will recall the anonymous authors of the Department of
Military Education’s four booklets who provided the official
commentary on the Code. They praised the Zen sect for having
“overthrown the earlier belief in rebirth in Amitābha Buddha’s
western Paradise and replaced it with the teaching that one’s very
mind is the Buddha, coupled with a call to rely on one’s own efforts
[to achieve salvation].” As the following reveals, Sugimoto shared
these authors’ critique of the Pure Land tradition:

The true life of religion is to create people who have no

attachments, who have no life and death. Today, however,
there are religions that fail to encourage the abandonment of
body and mind and produce more and more people full of
attachments, more and more people for whom there is life and
death. These religions distinguish life from death and talk about
transmigration and cause people to become attached to [the
idea of] rebirth in Paradise. Such religions ruin the nation.60

The idea of gaining something through one’s practice has, of course,

long been anathema to the Zen ideal of complete non-attachment,
not least of all to life and death as well as to enlightenment itself.
However, Sugimoto’s Zen-inspired non-attachment was not an end
in itself, for it was meant to serve an even loftier ideal – absolute
loyalty to the emperor. Wada concluded his Sugimoto quotation with
the following:

In pure loyalty there is no life and death. Where there is life and
death there is no pure loyalty. Those who speak of life and
death are not yet pure in heart, for they have not yet
abandoned body and mind. In pure loyalty there is no life and
death. Therefore, simply live in pure loyalty No, it is too easy to
say, “lve in pure loyalty.” Pure loyalty is all there is; nothing lies
outside of it. This is truly [the meaning of] pure loyalty.61
Having shown how Sugimoto wed a Zen-inspired view of life and
death, based on total non-attachment and elimination of
discriminating thought, to the requirement for absolute loyalty to the
emperor, Wada was now ready to conclude his own discussion of life
and death. He did so with the following rousing exhortation:

Therefore, youth of Japan, take care to constantly cultivate

your body and mind, and, exerting yourself to the utmost, strive
to accomplish your duty and acquire an unshakable view of life
and death while not neglecting to train your spirit. Death itself is
truly the way to live for all eternity!62

Inasmuch as the war would continue for another three long years,
millions of Japanese youth, like Sugimoto Goro before them, would
yet be given the opportunity to “live for all eternity.”

Civilian influence
While the Field Service Code was required reading for all military
personnel, it is critically important to realize that its influence was not
limited to the military alone. In fact, Hata Ikuhito, one of Japan’s
leading military scholars, argues that the Code had an even greater
impact on civilians than it did on the military:

Although the Field Service Code was originally created with

combat personnel in mind, it was much talked about by both
civilians and quasi-military personnel, with the result that it
spread rapidly throughout the general populace. A related
phenomenon was an explosion of interest in the Hagakure,
well-known for its statement: “I have discovered that Bushido
means to die”.… Not only that, many commercial publishers
brought out books for the general public with such titles as:
Reader on the Field Service Code (Senjinkun Tokuhon);
Detailed Commentary on the Field Service Code (Senjinkun
Seikai); and True Meaning of the Field Service Code
(Senjinkun Hongi).63
In reviewing these books, one finds that they are primarily anecdotal
in nature, filled with war-related stories from various periods in
Japanese history designed to demonstrate the seamless connection
between Japan’s modern military spirit and Bushido. As one might
expect, there were not only anecdotes on particularly brave and loyal
samurai warriors, but even more stories on modern military figures
like General Nogi Maresuke, Zen-inspired hero of the Russo-
Japanese War.
Just how much influence these books and related articles had on
the civilian population is impossible to gage precisely. What can be
said, however, is that the authors of these materials fully intended
Japanese civilians to adopt the values underlying the Code. This is
demonstrated, for example, by the 1942 book, The Field Service
Code and the Spirit of Japan (Senjinkun to Nihon Seishin). The
book’s author, Okuda Kyūji, included the following in his introduction:

The Field Service Code is a ready wartime reference for the

people of this nation and, as such, is the most urgent and
important guiding principle for our daily life. It clearly expresses
the course we are to take from this point onwards. Those who
obey this Code and put it into practice are those who can truly
give their all to the state. The embodiment of the Field Service
Code by all the people of this country will bring victory to our
imperial land for all eternity.64

Tomomatsu Entai
Books like the above were not, however, composed entirely of
anecdotes, and there was still room for explanatory material, not
least of all concerning the Code’s view of life and death. This was
demonstrated by an essay that appeared in the preceding book
contributed by Tomomatsu Entai (1895-1973), one of Japan’s best-
known Buddhist scholar-priests and professor at Jōdo (Pure Land)
sect-affiliated Taishō University. Entai’s essay was entitled: “The
Japanese People’s Philosophy of Death” and began with a
statement designed to show just how different the Orient is from the
West:

There is a pronounced tendency in western civilization to

stubbornly affirm a strong sense of life. A natural result is that
strife runs rampant both within their societies and between
nations. While there are exceptions, western civilization is, first
and foremost, a civilization of strife, while oriental culture has a
peaceful feeling running through it. This is because Oriental
culture is conscious of death.65

In echoes of D. T. Suzuki, Entai describes Japan’s earliest

inhabitants as having had an optimistic and cheerful nature, yet very
warlike because they had “never directly faced the question of
death.” It was, of course, Buddhism’s introduction to Japan that
changed this, for it taught that “all living things must die.” This in turn
produced the Japanese people’s philosophy of death, the content of
which Entai explained as follows:

Our philosophy of death is definitely not a denial of life.

Instead, it urges rejection of a wrongful attachment to life in
order to grasp true life. While there may be differences in
degree, we have all received this Buddhist-influenced
education since childhood. Thus it can be said that we are well
prepared for death, having truly resigned ourselves to its
inevitability.
To say that we are well prepared for, or resigned to, death
sounds grim, but in reality it simply means that we Japanese
have developed a taste for death, or at least that we have been
trained for it. Thus, unlike westerners, we have little fear of
death. While death is certainly not desirable, we are resigned,
or should I say reconciled, to the fact that all living things must
die.66

One of the most significant aspects of Entai’s writing is his emphasis

on the Japanese as having been trained since childhood to accept
death. Here we have yet another indication that at least some of the
values espoused by Japanese militarism were not the instant
creations of a modern totalitarian ideology but did in fact resonate
with traditional Japanese cultural if not religious values. What army
would not welcome soldiers into its ranks who had resigned
themselves to death even before heading for the battlefield?
Similarly, although Entai was affiliated with the Jōdo (Pure Land)
sect, the similarity of his views with those of D. T. Suzuki suggests
that the latter was correct in asserting that the Zen view of life and
death had, as a result of its incorporation into the Bushido code,
become the commonly accepted view of the Japanese people
regardless of class or sectarian affiliation. Entai, perhaps aware of
the criticism of men like Sugimoto Gorō, makes no claim that his is a
uniquely Pure Land interpretation of death but instead emphasizes
that he is reiterating a universally-held Buddhist view. As chapter 9
will reveal, the same thing may be said for the Nichiren sect as well.
Entai is clearly concerned, even obsessed, with demonstrating
that the Japanese people’s view of life and death is quite different
from, and moreover superior to, that held by westerners. Thus he
ends his essay with an attempt to show just how “rational” and
“practical” the Japanese people’s view of death really is. In this
respect, at least, we see a certain divergence from Suzuki’s views:

It appears that westerners often marvel at the tradition of

“harakiri” [lit. cutting the stomach open]. This tradition stems
from the fact that the Japanese people know “there is
something more precious than life itself.” Thus they are
prepared to lay down their lives for that more precious
something. This, too, comes from the influence of Buddhism in
that “living” is not held to be all there is to “life.” That is to say,
in order to live truly one must be aware of a realm where there
is no reluctance to lay down one’s life. To think in this way has
nothing to do with superstition nor is it a denial of life. Rather, it
is a result of having properly reflected on life in a rational and
practical manner. That is to say, in order to truly live properly it
is necessary to accept death as well as life.67
In discussing the willingness to die for something more precious than
life itself, Entai’s thinking may be seen as validating the Code’s
requirement that a soldier choose death rather than endure the
shame of being taken prisoner. While this requirement may not seem
to apply to civilian non-combatants, it was soon interpreted as being
very relevant: it came to mean “Death with honour!” for all Japanese,
civilian and military alike, as it became increasingly clear that the
sacred land of Japan would itself endure the shame of invasion.

Zen at work
While the writings of Buddhist scholars like D. T. Suzuki and
Tomomatsu Entai undoubtedly had some influence on the Japanese
people’s readiness to die in the war effort, their scholarly influence
pales in comparison with the effect of a much larger group – the
200,000 Buddhist priests of all sects whose temples were located in
every rural community and city throughout Japan. Since they
collectively enjoyed a virtual monopoly on funerary rites, it was at
their temples, not Shinto shrines, where individual funerals were held
for the hundreds of thousands of Japanese war dead. More than any
other single group, it was they who valorized the deaths of Japan’s
soldiers on the battlefield, and, at the same time, rallied resistance to
an Allied invasion of Japan that appeared increasingly likely from
late 1943 onwards.
The Field Service Code became the text of choice for many of
these priests, for as has been seen, it offered ample opportunity to
reaffirm what had long been held to be the Buddhist view of life and
death. Not surprisingly, the Rinzai and Sōtō Zen sects took the lead
in promoting the Code among their adherents, recognizing as they
did that the Code, in its underlying ideology, was a child of their own
making.
To give but one example, the administrative headquarters of the
Sōtō sect printed the entire code in the 1 February 1941 issue of the
Sōtō Shūhō, the sect’s administrative organ. In introducing the
Code’s text, sect editors noted, like so many of their contemporaries,
that the Code was as applicable to civilians on the home front as it
was to soldiers on the battlefield. This was because the country was
engaged in total war in which all of the nation’s citizens, regardless
of position, must be of “one body and one mind” (ittai-isshin). The
introduction ended with these words: “The main text of the Code
follows with the hope that it will be used in evangelization efforts.”68
That the Sōtō sect was quite serious about this proposal is
demonstrated by the fact that by 15 March 1941 the sect’s
administrative headquarters had printed thousands of copies of the
Code including an additional section entitled: “Military Spirit and
Zen.” Advertisements for this sectarian version of the Code ran
month after month in the So’to Shūhō, including price discounts for
those temples that ordered in bulk. But just how could temples use a
military field code as evangelism material?

Kumazawa Taizen
The answer is provided by no less a Sōtō Zen representative than
Kumazawa Taizen (1873-1968), chief abbot of Eiheiji since the
beginning of 1944. As Eiheiji was founded by Zen Master Dōgen in
1246, its chief abbot has traditionally been considered to most fully
embody the enlightened mind of Dōgen himself. Thus, there is no
higher honour for a Sōtō Zen monastic than to serve as its head.
While Eiheiji was tucked away in relative physical isolation in
Fukui Prefecture near the Japan Sea coast, Taizen was anything but
a monastic recluse. On the contrary, few Zen masters have travelled
more than he did during the war years, visiting hundreds of the
14,244 Sōtō Zen temples (as of 1935) attended by some 20,000
priests. And just what did Taizen have to say about the Field Service
Code during his travels? We are fortunate to have a record of one of
his talks as recorded in the May 1944 issue of the pan-Buddhist
magazine Daihōrin (Great Dharma Wheel). Appropriately, the article
was entitled: “How to Avoid the Coming of Life and Death” (Shōji
Tōrai Ikan ga Kaihi-sen).

For some thirty-four years I served as abbot of Eigenji located

in Tsuruga [Fukui Prefecture]. There is a regiment stationed
 there, and I served as regimental chaplain for some fifteen
years. As a result, military men often came to my temple to
practice Zen meditation, and I gave them lectures on Zen as
well.
I often addressed the question of life and death, typically
using the following passage written on the very first page of the
Military Regulations for Internal Affairs: “Military barracks are a
soldier’s home. It is here he shares both hardships and life and
death with his fellow soldiers. It is here that he recognizes that
life and death are the same”
In the military the transcendence of life and death is
considered a matter of prime importance in a soldier’s
education. More recently, the writers of the Field Service Code
were kind enough to include the following view of life and death
in Section Seven, chapter 2 of the Code. This section reads as
follows: “That which penetrates life and death is the lofty spirit
of self-sacrifice for the public good. Transcending life and
death, earnestly rush forward to accomplish your duty.
Exhausting the power of your body and mind, calmly find joy in
living in eternal duty.”
We can see that the Code reveals not only how to promote
military spirit but how to transcend life and death as well.69
Taizen’s comments are quite revealing for a number of reasons, not
least because they show that he, like so many of his fellow Zen
masters, had been closely connected to the Japanese military for
many years. Equally, they reveal that long before the advent of the
Field Service Code, Zen masters like Kumazawa had identified
passages within military regulations that conformed to their own view
of life and death, e.g. the phrase “life and death are the same.” That
Kumazawa discovered this phrase in the Military Regulations for
Internal Affairs is significant because, as the reader will recall from
chapter 2, it was these same regulations that, following revision in
1907 (and promulgation in 1908), incorporated a distinct Zen
influence.
In light of this, it can be said that asking how influential the Field
Service Code was in and of itself is asking the wrong question, for
there was really nothing new in the Code’s underlying ideology,
especially concerning its view of life and death. Readers of Zen at
War will recall that as early as the Russo-Japanese War of 1904—5,
Buddhist chaplains like Shaku Sōen expressed a wish to: “… inspire,
if I could, our valiant soldiers with the ennobling thoughts of the
Buddha, so as to enable them to die on the battlefield with the
confidence that the task in which they are engaged is great and
noble.”70
The important question, then, is not the effectiveness of the Field
Service Code by itself, but rather, the overall effectiveness of the
Japanese military’s program of “spiritual education” that had roots
reaching back to the Sino-Japanese War of 1894-5 but really came
into its own after 1907. Before addressing this question, however,
there is yet another question that is of even greater importance. That
is to say, just what connection did any of this really have to do with
Zen?
Taizen was fully prepared to address this point, and he began,
like so many of his Sōtō Zen contemporaries, by noting that Dōgen
had placed the highest priority on the need for Buddhists to clarify
the meaning of life and death. And further, Dōgen taught that if the
Buddha existed within life and death, then there was no life and
death. Taizen then repeated a famous teaching by Dōgen included in
the Shūshōgi: “Simply be aware that life and death are identical with
Nirvāṇa, for then there is nothing to loathe in life and death nor
desire in Nirvāṇa. You will, for the first time, be able to free yourself
from life and death.”71
Yet, quoting Dōgen still doesn’t answer the question of the
connection between Zen and the military. Taizen continued:

The Japanese people, possessed of a radiant history, must do

their utmost to extinguish self and serve the public good,
thereby bringing no shame on their ancestors. Japanese boys
must not only serve their country but find a place to die. And
where does one find a place to die?
It doesn’t necessarily mean going to the battlefield. It may be
right where you are.… Expressed in different words, the place
where your mission in life is fulfilled is precisely your place of
 death. And equally, the place where you fulfil your mission in
death is precisely your place of life.
This is because life and death are most definitely not
separate entities. When water freezes it becomes ice, and
when it melts, it becomes water. Then it rises to become clouds
and falls as rain. Even though its form changes its essence
does not. Life and death are like this, for life and death are one
absolute reality (shōji ichi-shinnyo). Upon recognizing this, you
are able to transcend life and death, exercising great freedom
for the first time. Ordinary people, believing that life and death
are separate entities, view life from a relative point of view,
unable to progress to the realm of true freedom. This is not just
true for life and death. It is wrong to tie pleasure and pain, or
poverty and wealth to a relative viewpoint. Cut yourself off from
relative viewpoints in all things.72

Zen as death
In Taizen’s exhortation to “find a place to die” it is difficult not to be
reminded of the following passage in the Hagakure where another
Zen priest, Yamamoto Jōchō, described the purpose of Zen
meditation as follows:

Meditation on inevitable death should be performed daily.

Every day when one’s body and mind are at peace, one should
meditate upon being ripped apart by arrows, rifles, spears and
swords, being carried away by surging waves, being thrown
into the midst of a great fire, being struck by lightning, being
shaken to death by a great earthquake, falling from thousand-
foot cliffs, dying of disease or committing seppuku [ritual
disembowelment] at the death of one’s master. And every day
without fail one should consider himself as dead.
There is a saying of the elders that goes, “Step from under
the eaves and you’re a dead man. Leave the gate and the
enemy is waiting.” This is not a matter of being careful. It is to
consider oneself as dead beforehand [Italics mine].73
It is exactly here that the “practical outcome” of the Japanese
military’s Zen-derived view of life and death is to be found. Thanks to
Zen, the Japanese soldier (at least the well-indoctrinated soldier)
fully expected to die on the battlefield. The only question for the
soldier was where and under what circumstances he would die, i.e.
would he die with his honour and that of his family intact. In his 1943
book entitled Japan’s Military Masters — The Army in Japanese Life,
Hillis Lory describes spiritual training as “the religion of the Army.”74
He then went on to explain:

Many of the soldiers in the present [Asia-Pacific] War are so

determined to die on the battlefield that they conduct their own
public funerals before leaving for the front. This holds no
element of the ridiculous to the Japanese. Rather, it is admired
as the spirit of the true samurai who enters the battle with no
thought of return.75

In a similar vein, Thomas Allen and Norman Polmar noted the

following in their book, Code-Name Downfall: “The Japanese soldier,
fighting fiercely, dying willingly, confounded – and often frightened –
US troops. A dark, unfathomable acceptance of death drove the
Japanese fighting man [Italics mine].”76
If Allen and Polmar paint a rather sinister description of the
Japanese soldier’s acceptance of death, Meirion and Susie Harries
note in their book The Rise and Fall of the Imperial Japanese Army
that the Japanese soldier was an almost ideal prototype:

The Japanese soldier was required to display qualities that

every army covertly hopes for, even expects, but shrinks from
demanding directly. From the commander’s point of view, the
most useful practical property of the Japanese soldier was his
willingness to die, which removed all limits on what his leaders
could attempt. A legacy of the authentic samurai ethic, as the
war progressed acceptance of death became ever more
heavily stressed – just as it was ever more necessary.77
The Harries were not the only observers to point out the “freedom”
that the Japanese soldier’s readiness to die gave his commanders.
Noda Masaaki, a noted Japanese psychiatrist, described the same
phenomenon in his 1998 book, War and the Responsibility of the
Accused [Sensō to Zaiseki]

In the [Asia-Pacific] war the Japanese people had two

battlefields. One of them involved rational thinking based on
considerations of military power. The other consisted of an
irrational belief in spirit as supreme, making anything possible
as long as one were prepared to die.78

Nevertheless, it appears that on occasion it was possible to get too

much of a good thing. In what might almost be considered an
amusing episode had the consequences not been so tragic, Major
General Itō Takeo, commander of the 38th Infantry Corps, actually
lamented that the soldiers under his command were too willing to
die. In January 1943, General Itō wrote:

Given our situation, there are none calling themselves

Japanese soldiers who are attached to life. On the contrary,
they all want to die…. Thus, the problem is not death, but how
to accomplish our mission. What I am racking my brains about
is not teaching my soldiers how to die laughing or die with
peace of mind, but rather how to get them to stay alive even
one more day fighting to the last.79

Military historian Kawano Hitoshi notes that both Japanese and US

soldiers shared the same basic fear of death. The difference
between them was in the way they dealt with that fear. In general,
US soldiers consciously acknowledged their fear and sought to
control it as effectively as possible. Japanese soldiers, on the other
hand, sought to deny their fear even existed, or at least drive it from
their conscious minds. “By accepting death at the outset,” Kawano
asserted, “[Japanese soldiers] sought to eliminate their fear of
death.” 80
 As accurate as the preceding authors were in their descriptions,
what they failed to realize was that behind such things as “the
authentic samurai spirit” or “spirit as supreme” stood the Zen view of
life and death. It was this view that effectively removed all limits on
what Japan’s military leaders could attempt on the battlefield, no
matter how irrational. In reality, the Japanese soldier’s “unfathomable
acceptance of death” was not the least bit unfathomable, at least
when understood within the context of the doctrinal interpretations
long promoted by Zen masters like Kumazawa Taizen and his ilk.
And in this connection it should not be forgotten that in his 1938
book, Zen and Japanese Culture, D. T. Suzuki noted:

The spirit of the samurai deeply breathing Zen into itself

propagated its philosophy even among the masses. The latter,
even when they are not particularly trained in the way of the
warrior, have imbibed his spirit and are ready to sacrifice their
lives for any cause they think worthy. This has repeatedly been
proved in the wars Japan has so far had to go through.81

For Suzuki, the willingness of the Japanese people to sacrifice

themselves on behalf of “any cause they think worthy” without the
slightest hesitation or regret was the greatest contribution Zen had
made to not only the warrior but Japanese society as a whole. In the
same book, Suzuki quotes the following medieval Zen-influenced
poem to show that this self-sacrificial attitude was also the key to
victory:

Victory is for the one,

Even before combat,
Who has no thought of himself,
Abiding in the no-mind-ness of Great Origin.82

Given that Japan was still three years away from its attack on Pearl
Harbour when Suzuki wrote the above, his words seem almost
prophetic. Or, since these words were written in English for a
western audience, did he mean them more in the nature of a
warning?
 Soldiers speak
Up to this time we have listened primarily to the voices of observers,
both Japanese and western, outside of the Japanese military itself.
What were Japan’s military men thinking? Needless to say, most of
the voices remaining from the war period are those of “good soldiers”
and their remarks naturally reflect the values of their superiors. This,
however, does not lessen the fact that a very large number of
Japan’s fighting men had, as they were trained to do, “resigned
themselves to death.”
This resignation can be seen as early as the Russo-Japanese
War. In Human Bullets (Nikudan), one of the most famous books to
come out of that war, author Captain Sakurai Tadayoshi related the
following story concerning the assault on the Russian stronghold at
Port Arthur:

We left Japan fully determined to turn into dust, … saying,

“Here I stand ready to die!” Our hearts were impatient but the
opportunity was slow in coming. More than one hundred days
had passed since we had left for the front.… At night sleeping
on our arms or in the day exposed to the hail-storm of bullets,
we had never forgotten our desire to return the imperial favour
and beneficence with death and death only. Thousands of our
comrades had died without the joy of seeing the final success.
… We were eager to avenge them.…
How was it that we were still alive, after fighting one, two,
three, already four battles without having fallen … on the
battlefield! I had been fully resolved to die on Mt. Taku, but still
I was left behind by a great many friends. Surely this time, in
this general assault, I must have the honour and distinction of
offering my little self to our beloved country. With this idea, this
desire, this determination I started for the battle [Italics mine].83

As revealed above, there was a very close connection between

resignation to death and the idea of self-sacrifice, the “offering of my
little self.” Shortly before the Yamato, Japan’s greatest battleship, left
port in April 1945 on a one-way suicide mission to Okinawa, Second
Sub-Lieutenant Yoshida Mitsuru confided the following to his diary:
“With a few days’ rest, I will gain the mental strength to turn the tide
of war and will cultivate my fighting spirit for sure death in a state of
selflessness (muga).”84
Had he read Yoshida’s words, Lt. General Chō Isamu, second in
command of the ill-fated Japanese garrison on Okinawa, would
surely have nodded in approval. As will be detailed in chapter 9,
General Chō was himself a newly-ordained Buddhist priest who
wrote the following parting message to his own Buddhist master: “I
am filled with joy at having found the best place in all of Japan to
die!”85
Finally, the preceding comments would all have been warmly
welcomed by Imperial Army General Kawabe Masakazu (1886–
1965). In 1942 General Kawabe served as Chief of Staff of
Japanese forces in China and in 1943 became Commander-in-Chief
of the Burma Area Army. More importantly, Kawabe had been
Inspector General of Military Training from January 1939 to March
1940 when work on the Field Service Code was in its initial stages.
In postwar years Kawabe recorded that he had been very satisfied
with the Code’s final content, noting: “The Code clarified the way in
which the entire army and navy, being of one body and mind, could
enter into a state of selflessness (botsuga), transcending life and
death.”86

Zen selflessness
That “selflessness” is one of the cornerstones of Zen (and Buddhist)
teachings hardly bears repeating here. In Japanese it is variously
expressed as muga (non-self/selflessness), mushi (no “I”), daiga
(great-self), botsuga (disappeared-self), bōga (forgotten-self), and
messhi (extinguished-self). Just how Zen leaders employed these
terms to promote the supremacy of the state, most especially loyalty
to the emperor, is dramatically revealed in the following June 1935
article entitled: “The People’s Spirit and Non-Self” (Kokumin Seishin
to Muga):
 Zen Master Dōgen wrote: “To study the Buddha Dharma is to
study the self, to study the self is to forget the self.” Entering
into the “realm of the forgotten-self (bōga)” is a fundamental
teaching of Buddhism. Gaining peace of mind and acquiring
religious faith comes through having reverently taken refuge in
the Buddha, having forgotten the self and realized the non-self
(muga).
It goes without saying that Zen enlightenment consists in
moving away from the small self and emptying the self through
entering into the absolute truth of the large self (daiga).
Therefore, all of the saints and sages of this world have taught
that, having forgotten and emptied the self, the supreme good
consists of serving other individuals and society. Having
entered this realm of the forgotten-self and non-self, it then
becomes possible to render filial piety to one’s parents and
loyalty to one’s sovereign.87

This article was published in Sanshō, a periodical published by Sōtō

Zen head monastery Eiheiji a full two years before Japan entered
into war with China, i.e. long before the emergence of the patriotic
fervour (if not hysteria) that inevitably accompanies modern warfare.
In addition, it is readily understandable that the non-existence of the
self should lead to an acceptance of death; for if the self as we know
it does not exist, then death no more marks the end of life than birth
marks its beginning.
As early as the Tang dynasty (618–c.907), a Northern Chan
monk by the name of Yuangui (644-716) is recorded as having
demonstrated his fearlessness in the face of death. According to this
story, when Yuangui sought to convert the tutelary god of Mt. Song
to Buddhism, the god threatened to kill him for having failed to show
the proper respect. Responding to the god’s threat, Yuangui said:
“Since I am unborn, how could you kill me? My body is empty and I
see myself as no different from you: how could you destroy
emptiness, or destroy yourself?”88 In post-Meiji era Japan, this
interpretation of the non-existence of the self became the foundation
of not only absolute loyalty to the emperor but an unquestioning
willingness to die on his behalf.
 Japanese boys
The reader will recall that Zen Master Kumazawa Taizen urged
Japanese “boys” to find a place to die. This may seem strange until
one realizes that from late 1943 Japanese boys were literally the
only group of Japanese males left, apart from the elderly, who might
still be called up for military service. Draft deferments for students in
universities, technical colleges, and higher schools had ended in
September 1943, and there were even quotas established for 15–17-
year-old youth “volunteers” to take part in Manchuria–Mongolia
Development Youth Patriotic Units.
As the following comments reveal, Taizen was well aware of
these developments and more. He clearly understood that an
invasion of Japan’s home islands was no longer a question of “if” but
only “when.” What was the civilian population expected to do about
this?

Today we have arrived at a point where all of our people are

soldiers. Thus the Field Service Code is not just instruction for
soldiers alone, but for all one hundred million citizens.
Especially today when the factory is the battlefield and the
home is the battlefield, all of us must keep this fact in our
minds and in our hearts. The execution and practice of this
Code will result in the accomplishment of certain victory in the
Greater East Asia War now underway.
Section Seven, chapter 1 of the Code expresses this spirit as
follows:

Faith is power; he who has faith and fights resolutely will

always be victorious. Confidence in certain victory is the
result of thorough and realistic training. Utilizing every
moment, spare no effort in cultivating the power to achieve
certain victory over the enemy. On victory or defeat hangs
the future of the empire. Reflect on the glorious history of
the Army, remembering always your obligation to our
tradition of a hundred battles and a hundred victories. In
doing this you cannot fail but be victorious.
 In reflecting on these words, we see that all one hundred
million of us must truly become red-hot balls of fire in
anticipation of certain victory.… This is truly what it means to
find a place to die. All one hundred million of us must be of one
mind, sacrificing ourselves for the public good. This is the
manifestation of the true appearance of a Japanese. In the
present emergency, we must resolutely fight to the end. In this
effort Zen faith and practice are of great importance. We must
practice this Zen kōan in order to protect Japan and fulfil our
duty to bring prosperity to all of Greater East Asia.89

Here Taizen reveals himself to be in complete agreement with the

previously introduced authors who regarded the Field Service Code
as being as applicable to civilians as to the military. We also see that
Zen faith and practice were critical to Japan’s “certain victory.” Yet,
what exactly did Taizen expect his civilian readers to do?

When the invasion comes, all men and women must become
soldiers to ward off the enemy. Our slogan must be “one
person kills one person,” meaning that if one hundred thousand
of the enemy come, then we will kill all one hundred thousand,
each person killing one. I hear that military practice with
bamboo staves has already begun. This is exactly the spirit
and practice we need.… This is unquestionably the time that all
the people of this country must rouse themselves to action.
Now is the time to truly face the problem of death.90

In this connection, it should be noted that Taizen was not advocating

anything more than other leading Zen figures were advocating as
well. For example, Sōtō Zen Master Harada Daiun published the
following in July 1944 under the title: “Be Prepared, One Hundred
Million [Subjects], for Death with Honour!”:

It is necessary for all one hundred million subjects [of the

emperor] to be prepared to die with honour.… If you see the
enemy you must kill him; you must destroy the false and
establish the true – these are the cardinal points of Zen. It is
 said that if you kill someone it is fitting that you see their blood.
It is further said that if you are riding a powerful horse nothing
is beyond your reach. Isn’t the purpose of the zazen we have
done in the past to be of assistance in an emergency like this?
91

That Taizen and Harada’s thinking ran exactly parallel to that of

Japan’s military leaders is revealed by the following entry, made in
July 1944, in the then secret War Journal of Imperial Headquarters:
“We can no longer direct the war with any hope of success. The only
course left is for Japan’s one hundred million people to sacrifice their
lives by charging the enemy to make them lose the will to fight.”92
Suicidal strikes were, of course, nothing new to the imperial
military. As early as May 1944 Japan had employed the tactic of
purposely crashing manned aircraft, and later manned underwater
torpedoes, into Allied ships, thereby ushering in the era of the
infamous kamikaze attacks. One of those who rode a torpedo to his
death in an attack on Allied ships on 24 July 1945 was a naval
ensign by the name of Seki Toyoiki. Shortly before departing on his
suicide mission, Seki wrote: “At last I have reached the point where
death is unavoidable. Thus I will seek eternal life In the Bushido of
Japan, nothing is more important than cutting off attachment to life
and preparing for death.”93
These suicide attacks inspired Dr. Masunaga Reihō (1902-81), a
Sōtō Zen scholar-priest, to write a series of articles in the Buddhist
newspaper, Chūgai Nippō, from 25 May to 1 June 1945 entitled:
“The Source of the Spirit of the Special Attack Forces.” According to
Reihō:

The source of the spirit of the Special Attack Forces lies in the
denial of the individual self and the rebirth of the soul which
takes upon itself the burden of history. From ancient times Zen
has described this conversion of mind as the achievement of
complete enlightenment [Italics mine].94

In a similar vein, Lt. Colonel Inokuchi Rikihei, a staff officer in a

Special Attack Force Unit said the following to a postwar American
Board of Inquiry on Wartime Bombing: “Originally, the Kamikaze
Suicide Units were possessed of a spiritual character. As far as
technical skill was concerned, a member could achieve the aims if
he had the skill of an ordinary pilot.”95
Just how important developing the “spiritual character” of its
suicide units was to the Japanese military is demonstrated by the
fact that it was common practice to send unit members for training to
nearby Zen temples. In his 1983 book Everything is Emptiness (Issai
wa Kū), Hirata Seikō (b. 1924), current head of the Tenryūji branch of
the Rinzai Zen sect, provided the following account:

At the time, Tenryūji, too, had its share of those who had to hurl
themselves into enemy ships in a month’s time. They practiced
meditation with the novice monks and chose a posthumous
Buddhist name (kaimyō) for themselves. Then, leaving behind
a mortuary tablet with their name engraved upon it, they
plunged to their deaths. Lots of these mortuary tablets remain
at Tenryūji today.

And what were unit members taught while training at Tenryūji? Seikō
continued:

You must not think that the gracious life of the Buddha is a
cycle of living and then dying. That is to say, “life-and-death” is
not a question of water in a river flowing from higher to lower. It
is not a question of something alive turning into something
dead. The gracious life of the Buddha knows neither life nor
death; it is only a matter of [the unity of] life-and-death.96

If suicide unit members received training and instruction of this kind

at Zen temples, it is important to remember that from 1943, if not
before, all of the Japanese people were exhorted to demonstrate the
same suicidal “spiritual character” that the young members of the
Special Attack (i.e. Kamikaze) Forces possessed and, in fact, that
the entire Japanese military had always been expected to possess.
In this effort, Zen leaders and the Buddhist clergy as a whole played
a leading role, for the time was fast approaching when literally the
entire Japanese nation was expected to find a “place to die.”

Decisive battle
The anticipated Allied invasion of Japan was referred to in Japanese
as hondo kessen or the “decisive battle for the mainland.” As seen
above, preparations, both practical and “spiritual,” had already begun
in 1943. These preparations involved the mobilization of virtually the
entire adult population and led, in early 1945, to the formation of
civilian militia units composed of all males from the ages of fifteen to
sixty and females from the ages of seventeen to forty-five. The
“weapons” supplied to these units often consisted of no more than
sharpened bamboo spears or even merely awls. One mobilized high
school girl, Kasai Yukiko, was given an awl and told: “Killing even
just one American soldier will do. You must prepare to use the awls
for self-defense. You must aim at the enemy’s abdomen.”97
In his 1953 book, The Psychology of the Japanese (Nihonjin no
Shinri), Minami Hiroshi explained the rationale behind these
preparations as follows:

When defeat drew near, the shocking idea of complete

annihilation resting upon “spirit as supreme” (seishin-shugi)
was discussed among the leaders of the arm for the defense of
Japan proper, who took a crushing defeat of all the armies and
the sacrifice of a whole people for granted – “Even if we were
to be wiped out on each battlefield, a ‘spiritual charge’ would
be further carried out on a nationwide scale.” In this logic of a
“spiritual charge,” a bamboo spear resistance could never be
considered reckless [Italics mine].98

Saipan
Just how seriously Japanese civilians took these preparations was
first demonstrated at the time of the Allied invasion of the
strategically important island of Saipan in the Marianas on 15 June
1944. Saipan was defended by nearly 30,000 Japanese troops of
whom 97 per cent had fought to the death by 9 July, leaving only 921
survivors. This was, incidentally, very similar to the earlier 98.8 per
cent Japanese casualty rate at Attu in the Aleutians, the 99.7 per
cent casualty rate at Tarawa in the Gilbert Islands, and the 98.5 per
cent casualty rate at Roi-Namur in the Marshalls.
What made Saipan different from previous battles was the
significant population of Japanese civilians living there, numbering at
least 20,000. Of this number upwards of 1,000 chose suicide over
surrender. In his book Downfall, Richard Frank described what
happened at Marpi Point on. 11 July 1944, two days after the fighting
officially ended:

Hundreds of civilians spurned invitations to surrender from

Marines and even pleas from fellow Japanese, who described
the good treatment they experienced by surrendering. In a
carnival of death that shocked even battle-hardened Marines,
whole families waded into the sea to drown together or huddled
to blow themselves up with grenades; parents tossed their
children off cliffs before leaping to join them in death.99

Those civilians who did survive talked of having received lectures on

the spirit of the Field Service Code as part of the Japanese
garrison’s preparation for the Allied invasion.

Okinawa
What transpired on Saipan was, at least in terms of scale, only a
dress rehearsal for the invasion of Okinawa starting 26 March 1945.
There the Allies faced a total Japanese force in excess of 100,000
men of whom 76,000 were trained soldiers and the remainder
poorly-trained and armed Okinawan militia units. Utilizing tunnels
and caves in the southern part of the island, the Japanese military
fought a war of attrition in an attempt to forestall the Allied invasion
of the mainland for as long as possible. By late June, however,
organized resistance came to an end leaving more than 92,000
dead. Total US casualties, including both dead and wounded, came
to 72,358 on Okinawa proper, not to mention additional losses on
offshore Allied ships subjected to wave after wave of suicidal
kamikaze attacks. In addition, somewhere between 62,000 to as
many as 150,000 Okinawan civilians perished.100
Historian, and postwar Okinawa prefectural governor (1990-98),
Ota Masahide points out that the Field Service Code even influenced
the strategy selected for the island’s defense. This was because,
tactically speaking, it would have made sense to place at least some
troops in defensive positions in the mountainous region in the north.
The military strategist for the defending Japanese 32nd Army,
Colonel Yahara Hiromichi, later admitted that he would have had no
hesitation in doing so had the Code “not contained the article on
death in battle as honourable and life after defeat as shameful.”101
Ota went on to note it was the samurai tradition that prevented
military leaders from making rational decisions. In his eyes, “the
price that Okinawan civilians were forced to pay for the sake of
‘samurai honour’ was simply too great.”102 Ota’s reference to
civilians comes from the fact that many Okinawans were still hoping
to be protected by the Japanese military. Military leaders, on the
other hand, not only demanded the deaths of their military
subordinates but Okinawan civilians as well, ordering both groups to
commit suicide rather than surrender. “In short, the civilians (the
government and the people) were regarded as partners of the
military, destined to carry out a final ‘honourable suicide’ (gyokusai)
and were never regarded as subjects of military protection.”103

Allied attitudes
Based on what happened on both Saipan and Okinawa, as well as
what the Allies knew of the ongoing formation of civilian militia on
Japan’s main islands, the US Joint Chiefs of Staff published, on 25
May 1945, the outline of a plan to invade Japan, tentatively
scheduled to begin on 1 November 1945. One vital assumption of
the plan read as follows: “The enemy will continue the war to the
utmost extent of their capabilities, and the invaders will confront not
only Japan’s armed forces but also a fanatically hostile
population.”104 By 21 July 1945, one 5th Air Force intelligence
officer, cognizant of Japan’s publicly broadcast word to mobilize the
entire population, declared: “The entire population of Japan is a
proper Military Target.… THERE ARE NO CIVILIANS IN JAPAN.”105
It was exactly this massive military mobilization that led historian
Herbert Bix to declare: “… the whole nation had become enveloped
in the imagery of national salvation through mass suicide.”106 Writing
more concretely, military historian Richard Frank notes:

By mustering millions of erstwhile civilians into the area swept

by bombs, artillery, and small-arms fire, Japan’s military
masters willfully consigned hundreds of thousands of their
countrymen to death. Moreover, by deliberately eliminating any
distinction between combatants and non-combatants, they
would compel Americans to treat all Japanese as combatants
or fail to do so at their peril. It was a recipe for extinction.107

If there is the slightest doubt that this suicidal mobilization of the

entire Japanese people was exactly what the Japanese military had
in mind, it is dispelled by the carefully researched 1995 book, The
Decisive Battle for the Mainland – It Was No Phantom (Hondo
Kessen – Maboroshi dewa nakatta). The book’s Japanese authors
pointed out that the civilian militia units, known in Japanese as
giyūhei (loyal and courageous soldiers), were organized on a
national scale in June 1945. Two months earlier, imperial military
headquarters issued orders that all units involved in the defense of
the mainland were forbidden to retreat, no matter what the
circumstances. Similarly, not only was it forbidden to send injured
soldiers to the rear for medical treatment, all medical treatment was
to be held in abeyance for as long as the fighting continued.
In light of these factors, not to mention the lack of weapons,
training, etc. the authors identified the military’s plan as a “structure
for the annihilation of the Japanese people” (kokumin mina-goroshi
no taisei).108 Yet, they did note that one group would have definitely
survived the Allied invasion, no matter how severe. This group was
the emperor and his immediate entourage together with the military
staff of the Imperial headquarters. Their survival was guaranteed
because of a massive series of bombproof tunnels that had been
built for them in mountainous Nagano Prefecture using the forced
labour of some 6-7,000 Koreans, an unknown number of whom died
in the process.
The existence of these tunnels, ready for occupancy from June
1945, led Ohinata Etsuo, one of the book’s authors, to comment that
from its very inception the plan to relocate Imperial military
headquarters to Matsushiro in Nagano Prefecture contained within it
the egoism of the political elite albeit under the guise of a “national
objective.” This small group was “willing to sacrifice the
overwhelming majority of the Japanese people to achieve their
goals.”109 In the tunnels of Nagano Prefecture, had they been used,
there would have been no “selflessness.”
On 11 August 1945, only four days before the emperor officially
announced Japan’s surrender, and after the atomic bombing of both
Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japanese newspapers carried the
following statement by Army Minister Anami Korechika (1887-1945):
“Even though we may have to eat grass, swallow dirt, and lie in the
fields, we shall fight on to the bitter end, ever firm in our faith that we
shall find life in death. [Italics mine].110 Literally to the last few days
of what had been fourteen years of nearly constant warfare for
Japan (1931–45), the Zen identification of life and death found
expression at the highest levels of the Japanese military.
It was this unwavering attitude on the part of Japan’s military
leaders that led Rinzai Zen Master Nakajima Genjō, introduced in
chapter 1, to confide the following during a second visit I paid to his
temple in January 2000: “The atomic bombs were a good thing.
Imperial military headquarters would never have ended the war
without them.” While this statement is only speculation on the part of
a naval petty officer, Genjō was certainly better qualified than most to
understand exactly what the Zen-inspired Japanese military spirit
was all about, and what it would take to stop it.
Equally important, there is ample testimony from civilians that
they, too, were prepared to follow the military into death. One
example is provided by Kurosawa Akira, then a young propaganda
filmmaker who would become one of Japan’s best known directors in
the postwar era. Kurosawa wrote that had the emperor so directed:

[Japanese] people probably would have done as they were

told, and died. And probably I would have done likewise. The
Japanese see self-assertion as immoral and self-sacrifice as
the sensible course to take in life. We were accustomed to this
teaching and had never thought to question it.111

In light of everything we have seen above, it is difficult to deny the

truth of Genjō and Kurosawa’s assertions.112

Plate 8 Female student corps at Meiji University undergoing bayonet training. Courtesy
Mainichi Shimbun-sha.

Conclusion
At this point the question must be raised as to the moral
responsibility of Japanese Zen leaders for what actually occurred
and what likely would have occurred if “technology,” in the form of
two atomic bombs, had not altered the course of history.
 To answer this, let us look at what appears on the surface to be a
totally different phenomenon – the practice on death row in American
prisons for a guard to call out: “Dead man walking!” when
condemned prisoners make their last walk down the corridor to the
execution chamber. Based on the evidence presented above, it is
clear that Japan’s wartime Zen leaders did everything in their power
to turn not only Japanese soldiers, but nearly the entire civilian
population, into a mass collection of “walking dead.” They did so by
interpreting the Buddhist doctrine of the non-existence of the self,
coupled with the oneness of life and death, in such a way as to
produce an unquestioning willingness to die on behalf of the emperor
and the state.
In infusing the suicidal Japanese military spirit, especially when
extended to civilians, with the power of religious belief, Japan’s
wartime Zen leaders revealed themselves to be thoroughly and
completely morally bankrupt. That the Allied invasion never took
place, and therefore the mass “spiritual charges” never occurred,
does not fundamentally alter the question of moral responsibility, for
Zen leaders did everything they could to ensure a suicidal response
on the part of both the military and most especially the civilian
population.
To be sure, Japan’s political and military leaders bear an even
greater moral responsibility for having initiated and prosecuted the
war in the first place. Further, advocates of State Shinto also share
responsibility for having promoted national chauvinism and the
worship of a divine emperor as a descendant of the Sun Goddess.
This said, it must not be forgotten that Japanese Zen had long since
embraced both Shinto national chauvinism and Confucian social
ethics, especially the latter’s insistence on loyalty to one’s superiors
within a social hierarchy. Furthermore, none of these other groups
ever claimed that what they said or did represented the “true Buddha
Dharma.”

D. T. Suzuki
For those readers who suspect that I may have exaggerated the
ideological role played by Zen within Japanese militarism, and/or that
my condemnation of Zen’s wartime conduct is too severe, I note,
somewhat ironically, that my comments are supported by no less a
figure than D. T. Suzuki. In 1946 Suzuki wrote a short yet lucid essay
entitled “Reform of the Zen World” (Zenkai Sasshin) in which he
claimed that because “today’s Zen priests lack intelligence,” he
wanted “to increasingly develop their power to think about things
independently.”113
As to why such reform was necessary, Suzuki pointed to the
wartime words and deeds of Zen leaders who, he claimed, justified
their war support as follows:

It will be sufficient if we [Zen priests] simply follow the dictates

of our political leaders, for in doing so we will be aiding Japan.
If we are told to say that a horse is a deer, then all we need say
is, “Fine, a horse is a deer,” for in that way we will be able to
continue eating. It’s not the responsibility of Zen priests to
comment about what’s going on in the world.”114

Suzuki was, of course, highly critical of the above rationalization. He

went so far as to assert that those Zen priests who claimed to be
enlightened, yet who were unable to think for themselves, “should
have their enlightenment taken to the middle of the Pacific ocean
and sent straight to the bottom!” But what really upset Suzuki was
the call by Zen leaders for what amounted to national suicide:

It was they [i.e. Zen leaders] who went around urging the
people to face tanks with bamboo spears. Claiming to speak
the truth, they even went so far as to say that once the
Americans landed, every woman would be dishonoured and
every man castrated. As a result I’m told that a large number of
women fled to the countryside.
It is of course possible to defend these Zen leaders using the
excuse that they spread their tales as a result of having been
ordered to say that a horse is a deer. But should not Zen
priests like these be ousted from Zen circles? Should we not
 be astounded by the level of intelligence displayed by these
Zen priests who claimed to be specialists in “enlightenment”?
115

No doubt many readers, myself included, would share Suzuki’s

dismay, if not anger, at the profound ignorance displayed by wartime
Zen leaders. Yet, as revealed earlier in this chapter, it was Suzuki
who wrote in 1942 that Japan’s problems could be solved instantly if
only all social classes would simply embrace a pure warrior spirit.
While Suzuki’s wartime writings were notably free of the demagogic
emperor-worship of his contemporaries, it was nevertheless the Zen
view of life and death he promoted that served as a foundational
element of the Japanese military spirit. As a postwar advocate of
Zen “reform,” someone should have reminded Suzuki of the old
adage, “Physician heal thyself!”

War atrocities
Finally, the question must at least be raised as to a possible
relationship between the Japanese military’s Zen-inspired embrace
of death and the barbarity and cruelty visited on Japan’s prisoners of
war. To give but one example, of the 254,473 US and UK prisoners
reported captured by Germany and Italy together, only 4 per cent
(9,348) died in the hands of their captors. This compares with 27 per
cent of Japan’s Anglo-American POWs (35,756 of 132,134) who did
not survive.116 Given figures like these, the question must be asked
as to whether Japanese soldiers, having resigned themselves to
their own deaths, could respect or care about the lives of Allied
POWs who wanted to live?
Gavan Daws addressed this question in his 1994 book, Prisoners
of the Japanese. After interviewing hundreds of former Allied POWs,
Daws came to the following conclusion: “In the eyes of the
Japanese, white men who allowed themselves to be captured in war
were despicable. They deserved to die.”117 Given the well-
documented brutality of Japanese troops directed toward other Asian
soldiers, especially Chinese, Daws was mistaken in having singled
out “white men” only. Japanese contempt and maltreatment of
prisoners was not so much a question of skin colour as it was the
latters’ failure to have died “honourably” on the battlefield, just as
they themselves were prepared to do.
In the postwar era, a number of former imperial soldiers,
especially in the lower ranks, have come forward to reveal that they
never “joyfully” embraced death in the first place. Instead, they were
coerced, often brutally so, into accepting death by their military
superiors. Private First Class Matsubara Kazuo, for example, was
one of the few survivors of the 1942-3 battle for Guadalcanal. In a
postwar interview, Matsubara explained that he had never expected
to return alive from military service, “all I wanted was to go into battle
with a full stomach and die!”118
More importantly, in explaining why he and his fellow soldiers
raped and pillaged in Nanjing, Azuma Shirō, the Japanese soldier
first introduced in chapter 1, noted that the highest honour an
imperial soldier could achieve was to come home dead. That is to
say, dying for the emperor was a soldier’s greatest glory while being
taken prisoner alive was his greatest shame. Azuma continued: “If
my life was not important, an enemy’s life became inevitably much
less important This philosophy led us to look down on the enemy
and eventually to the mass murder and ill treatment of captives
[Italics mine].119
No doubt there were many other Japanese soldiers like
Matsubara and Azuma, especially as training and morale
deteriorated in the latter stages of the war. Given this, it is hardly
surprising (though none the less tragic) that such soldiers would rape
and murder those weaker than themselves, utterly convinced their
own turn would come soon. There is a crude yet accurate Anglo-
Saxon aphorism that states: “Shit rolls down hill.” To this might well
be added: “… and so does the Zen view of life and death as
expounded by Japan’s wartime Zen leaders.” Is this not the very stuff
out of which “fanaticism” is made?
Buddhist collaboration with Japanese militarism was, of course,
far broader and deeper than merely the Zen school. As Part II will
reveal, while Zen may have been the leading player in this
collaboration, especially in having promoted a selfless resignation to
death, it had no shortage of company among its fellow Buddhists.
Part II
 8

BUDDHIST WAR BEREAVEMENT

From a theoretical or doctrinal point of view, Buddhist bereavement

for the families of fallen soldiers is an oxymoron. That is to say,
Buddhist ethical values are based on universal love and compassion
for all living beings. No fewer than three categories of the Noble
Eightfold Path, namely Right Speech, Right Action and Right
Livelihood, give concrete expression to those values by proscribing
the types of action from which all wars are born.
Moreover, when it comes to the specific precepts Buddhists are
expected to follow in their daily lives, the very first of them is the
prohibition against killing. This precept applies to all Buddhists, lay or
cleric, and regardless of sectarian affiliation. The Mahāyāna school
in particular has long made non-killing a critical element of the
conduct expected of its ideal – the self-sacrificing bodhisattva.
Buddhist scholar Har Dayal described the traditional Indian view of a
bodhisattva as follows:

A bodhisattva does not use weapons of any kind. He does not

hate any being, and cannot kill a living creature even in
thought. He understands that all things originate in causes, and
cultivates pity and compassion.… He also condemns and
shuns the barbarous custom of war among states and kings of
the world. War has its origin in hatred, avarice, cruelty and
selfishness, and the glory of victorious kings is stained with
blood. It is better for a king to abdicate than to wage war.1

If the meaning of these words is taken at face value, there can be no

doubt that the Zen and other Buddhist leaders introduced in this
book were in grievous breach of the bodhisattva ideal. Yet, the case
is not as simple as it might seem, for Dayal goes on to point out:
“[Mahāyānists] have rather stultified themselves by teaching the
strange doctrine that a bodhisattva may violate any or all of the
precepts… if he is moved by compassion for others. This view has
led to much subtle casuistry.”2
The Buddhist leaders and scholars introduced below were firmly
convinced that their words and actions flowed from their deep
compassion for those of their fellow citizens who had lost their loved
ones on the battlefield. What is more debatable, however, is just how
“subtle” the casuistry they displayed was. This question, however, is
best left for the reader to decide.
The historical reality is that, its bodhisattva ideal notwithstanding,
the Mahāyāna school has often found itself deeply and directly
involved in the wars fought by its secular rulers. While it is beyond
the scope of this book to examine this development in detail, suffice
it to say that Buddhist bereavement in modern Japan was not some
uniquely Japanese aberration or invention, but one that had a long
history within the Buddhist tradition of both pre-modern Japan and
other Asian countries. What follows is therefore more in the nature of
a classic case study of the way in which certain Buddhist doctrines
were recast so as to offer consolation to the bereaved families of
soldiers who had fallen on Japan’s modern battlefields.

Early attempts
In post-Meiji Japan, Buddhist chaplains accompanied troops to the
battlefield as early as the Sino-Japanese war of 1894–5. Their job
was not only to give “morale-building” talks to the soldiers, but to
conduct funerals for those who fell in battle as well as notify the
relatives of the deceased in Japan itself. Even in times of peace, the
need for chaplains was recognized, with the Nishi (West) Honganji
branch of the True Pure Land sect (Jōdo-Shinshū), for example,
despatching forty-six priests to more than forty military bases
throughout Japan as early as 1902.3
 In the same year Nishi Honganji produced a booklet entitled
Bushidō as part of a series called “Lectures on Spirit” (Seishin
Kōwa). The connection between the two events is clear in that it was
Ōtani Kōen (1850–1903), an aristocrat and the branch’s
administrative head, who both despatched the military chaplains and
contributed a foreword to the booklet. Kōen explained that the
booklet’s purpose was “to clarify the spirit of military evangelization.”4
As its title suggests, Nishi Honganji intended this booklet to
provide the doctrinal basis for its outreach to the military. That this
outreach had a broader focus than the soldiers themselves can be
seen from the inclusion of a concluding chapter entitled “To the
Parents and Family of Military Men.” Although in 1902 Japan was at
peace, there was an increasing awareness of the possibility of war
with Russia. Thus, sectarian leaders like Kōen realized that soldiers’
parents and family members would be concerned that their loved
ones might die in battle. However, before pursuing this issue further,
let us first see how this branch of the True Pure Land sect defined
itself so as to be relevant to the military profession.

War-related doctrines
The booklet’s author was Satō Gan’ei (1847–1905), a military
chaplain as well as clerical head of a Nishi Honganji-affiliated
laymen’s association known as the Yuima-kai (Skt. Vimalakîrti). The
military character of this association is clear in that three high-
ranking Imperial Army officers were members, each contributing a
calligraphic endorsement to the booklet. One of the three, Lt.
General Oshima Ken’ichi (1858–1947), later served as Minister of
War in two cabinets and Privy Counselor during the Asia-Pacific War.
In his introduction, Gan’ei explained that the purpose of religion in
Japan was “to be an instrument of the state and an instrument of the
Imperial Household.” More specifically, the government had granted
Buddhism permission to propagate itself in order “to ensure that
citizens fulfill their duties [to the state] while at the same time
preserving social order and stability.” Gan’ei claimed that it was
religionists like himself who had been charged with making sure this
important task was accomplished.5
Yet, what did all this have to do with the military? In a section
entitled “The Way of the Martial Arts and the Way of the Buddha,”
Gan’ei explained:

The bodhisattva of the Way of the Buddha is the warrior of the

Way of the martial arts; the warrior of the Way of the martial
arts is the bodhisattva of the Way of the Buddha. This is due to
a mysterious convergence between bodhisattva and warrior.
That is to say, the warrior in the Way of the martial arts is made
knowledgeable of life and death through duty and loyalty, while
the bodhisattva in the Way of the Buddha is able to destroy
evil, know the future, and exist freely within the realm of life
and death. Therefore, if a warrior believes in the Way of the
Buddha, he will be doubly advantaged, with the courage
derived from his sense of loyalty and duty further strengthened
even as he loses his fear of death.6

These words may surprise some readers in that they would seem
more appropriate coming from the mouth of a Zen master. After all,
wasn’t it Zen, not the True Pure Land sect, that had nurtured the
warrior spirit over the centuries?
Gan’ei was in fact quite aware of this contradiction and readily
admitted that Zen had a special relationship to the warrior class,
noting that such Zen luminaries as Eisai, Dōgen and Hakuin had all
contributed to this relationship. He further acknowledged that many
medieval warriors had ridden into battle holding a banner of the
Nichiren sect inscribed with the words “Namu Myōhō Renge-kyō
(Homage to the Lotus Sūtra). The numbers of these Nichiren
warriors, however, “were never a match for those affiliated with the
Zen sect.”7
Gan’ei emphasized that despite the popularity of Zen among the
warrior class, many medieval warriors, including the great
seventeenth-century unifier of Japan, Tokugawa Ieyasu (1542–
1616), had been Pure Land adherents. For him it was not a question
of ‘either-or’ but ‘both-and.’ Gan’ei explained this seeming paradox
as follows:

I think that for military men of today who wish to calm their
minds … only the Zen and True Pure Land sects can meet
their needs. In looking at these two sects, when asked if it isn’t
best to limit oneself to one or the other of them, I would say
that is true. This said, for those persons who are
straightforward, full of life and refined, Zen is best. On the other
hand, for those who take things one step at a time and harbour
a great deal of ambition, then the True Pure Land sect is best.
Although both of these sects have a practical focus, the Zen
sect is on the extreme end of relying on one’s own power [to
realize enlightenment] while the True Pure Land sect is on the
extreme end of relying on another’s power [i.e. Amitābha
Buddha]. These two teachings appear to be exact opposites,
but the strange thing is that these two extremes are actually
identical with one another.8

For Gan’ei, the critical feature of both sects is their “practical” (jissai-
teki) nature. In addition, he noted that both of them had the ability to
“conform to the times.” But what exactly was it about the True Pure
Land sect that made it so practical? How did faith in Amitābha
Buddha translate into martial prowess on the battlefield? Gan’ei
explained:

By virtue of believing in the compassion of the Buddha, your

person has already become one that will inevitably realize
Buddhahood in the future. With both body and mind residing
peacefully in the precious mind of the Tathāgata [Buddha], your
person as a bodhisattva lacks for nothing in its quest to realize
Buddhahood; for everything you do becomes the practice of a
bodhisattva.
As a living bodhisattva filled with the Buddha’s compassion,
you pitch camp; take up a sword overflowing with compassion
in your compassionate hand; and together with Amitābha
 Buddha, thrust your sword home, dispatching both friend and
foe to the Pure Land in the West.9

Gan’ei concluded the chapter by offering his military readers this

parting advice:

Soldiers, first find a spiritual home in the great matter of life and
death. Then, when facing battle, realize that yours is the
religious practice of a bodhisattva. In so doing you will naturally
come to realize the meaning of the unity of the Way of the
Buddha and the Way of the martial arts.10

With this background in mind, let us next turn to the chief focus of
this chapter – the manner in which Buddhist doctrine was made
relevant to soldiers’ families, especially to the war bereaved.

Family members
Overall, it must be said that Gan’ei’s comments directed toward
soldiers’ families were somewhat superficial in nature, more in the
nature of an afterthought as revealed in their shortness (eleven
pages) as well as their location at the booklet’s very end. This is
understandable in that, with Japan at peace, the possibility of death
in battle was more theoretical than real though this would soon
change with the outbreak of the Russo-Japanese War in 1904. In
any event, Gan’ei’s comments marked an early attempt to find
Buddhist doctrines that would console the living as well as the dead
in the coming age of total war.
Unsurprisingly, the primary Buddhist doctrine Gan’ei invoked was
that of karma. Karma, of course, is the moral law of causality which
states that one’s thoughts, words and actions have consequences
that affect the doer, for better or worse, in both this life and future
lives. Gan’ei explained the military relevance of this doctrine as
follows:

Everything depends on karma. There are those who, victorious

in battle, return home strong and fit only to die soon afterwards.
 On the other hand, there are those who are scheduled to enter
the military yet die before they do so. If it is their karmic destiny,
bullets will not strike them, and they will not die. Conversely,
should it be their karmic destiny, then even if they are not in the
military, they may still die from gunfire. Therefore there is
definitely no point in worrying about this. Or expressed
differently, even if you do worry about it, nothing will change.11

As the preceding quotation reveals, there can be no question here of

soldiers dying because of mistaken decisions made by their political
or military leader(s). As Gan’ei tirelessly pointed out, the Imperial
military was under the direct control of its commander-in-chief, His
Majesty, the Emperor, whose “bountiful benevolence cannot fail but
bring tears of gratitude to the eyes of all parents and family
members.”12 Thus, a soldier’s death is attributable solely to the past
karma of that particular soldier. In short, he had it coming.
If this explanation seems rather harsh to western ears, it should
be noted that Buddhist compassion also had its role to play in
allaying family fears. The concern here, however, was not so much
the possibility of dying on the battlefield as it was the possible
mistreatment of soldiers, especially recruits, within the Japanese
military itself. Gan’ei maintained that there was no longer anything to
worry about, for as he explained:

The existence of some cruel elements in the military is a thing

of the past. The belief then was that if you kicked [a soldier] his
slovenliness would be cured; or if you struck him, his
willfulness would disappear. Those soldiers who were unable
to endure this rough treatment fled or hid themselves, ending
up as deserters. For some, the pain was so great that they
became dazed and lost control of themselves.
Today, however, in step with pedagogical progress,
educational methods have been thoroughly revamped. We
have reached a point where the treatment of soldiers may be
thought of as being even too compassionate.13
In reading of an Imperial military that was “even too compassionate,”
readers of Zen at War may recall the words of Sōtō scholar-priest
Kurebayashi Kōdō (1893–1988) who in 1937 claimed: “Wherever the
Imperial military advances there is only charity and love.… In other
words, brutality itself no longer exists in the officers and men of the
Imperial military who have been schooled in the spirit of
Buddhism.”14
Gan’ei, endeavouring to convince the families of soldiers that
their loved ones were safe, would surely have welcomed Kōdō’s
comments. How could a family member possibly object to a loved
one serving in a military engulfed by compassion; where a soldier’s
life or death was, thanks to the doctrine of karma, solely the just
dessert of that soldier’s past deeds?

Shaku Sōen
During the subsequent Russo-Japanese War of 1904–5 we also find
Zen voices seeking to assuage the grief of those left behind. One of
these voices belonged to Rinzai Zen Master Shaku Sōen, previously
introduced as the abbot of Kamakura’s Engakuji monastery and D. T.
Suzuki’s master. Sōen was better acquainted with the realities of war
than most; for he had personally gone to the battlefield as a chaplain
attached to the headquarters of the 1 st Army Division commanded
by His Imperial Highness Prince (and General) Fushiminomiya
Sadanaru (1858–1925). In a book published in 1906 entitled
Sermons of a Buddhist Abbot, Sōen explained his motivation for
having become a chaplain as follows:

I wished to have my faith tested by going through the greatest

horrors of life, but I also wished to inspire, if I could, our valiant
soldiers with the ennobling thoughts of the Buddha, so as to
enable them to die on the battlefield with the confidence that
the task in which they are engaged is great and noble. I wished
to convince them of the truths that this war is not a mere
slaughter of their fellow-beings, but that they are combating an
evil, and that, at the same time, corporeal annihilation really
 means a rebirth of [the] soul, not in heaven, indeed, but here
among ourselves.15

While these words were clearly meant for soldiers, not their families,
we find here yet another invocation of karma to assuage the fear of
death. Sōen found a positive element in this doctrine that Gan’ei had
overlooked, i.e. the certainty that death would lead to subsequent
rebirth in human form, not as punishment for past misconduct, but as
a reward for the soldier’s sacrifice in combating evil. Sōen explained
the significance of this process as follows:

There is but one great spirit and we individuals are its temporal
manifestations. We are eternal when we do the will of the great
spirit; we are doomed when we protest against it in our egotism
and ignorance. We obey, and we live. We defy, and we are
thrown into the fire that quencheth not. Our bodily existences
are like the sheaths of the bamboo sprout. For the growth of
the plant it is necessary to cast off one sheath after another. It
is not that the body-sheath is negligible, but that the spirit-plant
is more essential and its wholesome growth of paramount
importance. Let us, therefore, not absolutely cling to the bodily
existence, but when necessary, sacrifice it for a better thing.
For this is the way in which the spirituality of our being asserts
itself.16

In promising soldiers the possibility of life “eternal,” Sōen sounds

almost Christian in his approach. However, Sōen did not place the
war dead in a Christian heaven; but asserted, true to the doctrine of
karma, that “what we actually see around us is that the departed
spirits are abiding right among ourselves.”17 Needless to say, this
was an attractive possibility not only to soldiers facing death on the
battlefield but to their family members as well. Yet, Sōen was clearly
not overly concerned about consoling the war bereaved, for he
concludes his discussion by noting:

As for us who are left behind, no superfluous words are in

place, only we must not disgrace the honor and spirit of the
 dead who have solemnly bequeathed to us their work to
perfect. Mere lamentation not only bears no fruit, it is a product
of egoism, and has to be shunned by every enlightened mind
and heart.18

In describing lamentation at the time of death of a loved one as “a

product of egoism,” Sōen is taking an impeccably Buddhist position.
Yet, one cannot help but wonder if he would really have dared direct
those remarks to the families of soldiers who had just received
notification of their loved one’s death. After all, as Sōen would be the
first to admit, not all Japanese were possessed of an “enlightened
mind and heart.” Who would address the spiritual needs of the
“unenlightened”?

Yamada Reirin
In Sōtō Zen scholar-priest Yamada Reirin (1889–1979), we find a
somewhat “softer” Zen voice addressing the question of war
bereavement. In postwar years, Reirin served as the abbot of
Zenshuji temple in Los Angeles, president of Komazawa University,
and the seventy-fifth head of Eiheiji monastery. Reirin’s wartime
comments are included in a 1942 book entitled Evening Talks on Zen
Studies (Zengaku Yawa). Together with his praise for the imperial
military’s “wonderful fruits of battle,” Reirin, like both Gan’ei and
Sōen before him, found the key to Buddhist consolation in the
doctrine of karma.
As the following passage reveals, Reirin sought to offer karmic
hope not so much to soldiers on the battlefield as to the families they
left behind:

The true form of the heroic spirits [of the dead] is the good
karmic power that has resulted from their loyalty, bravery, and
nobility of character. This will never perish.… The body and
mind produced by this karmic power cannot be other than what
has existed up to the present.… The loyal, brave, noble, and
heroic spirits of those officers and men who have died
 shouting, “May the emperor live for ten thousand years!” will be
reborn right here in this country. It is only natural that this
should occur.19

Whereas Sōen had gone to the battlefield to inspire soldiers to

willingly sacrifice their lives in a cause that was “great and noble,”
Reirin, writing for a home audience, hoped to console grieving family
members with the thought that every baby born in Japan was
potentially their lost loved one. He did deny, however, that the
bereaved would ever recognize which particular child was theirs.
Nevertheless, there could be no doubt that the “good karmic power”
(zengōriki) the heroic spirit had acquired through his death on the
battlefield would result in his rebirth in Japan. That much was
“absolutely certain” (hitsujō). Given this, what need was there for
grief?

Tomomatsu Entai
Perhaps the most ambitious Buddhist attempt to console grieving
survivors was provided by Tomomatsu Entai, the Pure Land sect
scholar-priest whose views on life and death were previously
introduced in chapter 7. Entai’s comments are contained in an 82-
page booklet published on 25 December 1941, only days after
Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbour. Entitled A Reader for Bereaved
Families (Izoku Tokuhon), the booklet was published by the army’s
“Military Relief Department” (Juppei-bu).
The Buddhist influence on the booklet is clear even from its
subtitle: “Turning Illusion into Enlightenment (Tenmei Kaigo). Section
headings reveal a similar influence, e.g. “Turning the Mind,”
“Nirvāṇa,” and, of course, “Karma.” This does not mean, however,
there was no Shinto influence, for according to Entai: “Following their
death in battle, your children or husbands are no longer ordinary
human beings but have, at a single bound, become [Shinto] gods
and Buddhas …”20 Similarly, there were the inevitable references to
Japan’s divine emperor.
 In employing Buddhist terminology, Entai did not necessarily limit
himself to the traditional meaning of these terms. One of the best
examples of this was his use of the Zen-related term tenshin (lit.
turning the mind). As noted above, this was also the title of one of
the booklet’s sections. The initial aim of this section was to help the
war bereaved overcome their grief by recognizing its futility, i.e. no
amount of crying would bring their loved ones back. Once the war
bereaved realized this, Entai explained what happened next as
follows:

At this point you will come to understand that it was you

yourself who chose to make your life gloomy. The term tenshin
is definitely not limited to what Zen practitioners so stringently
refer to as “enlightenment” (satori). Instead it means that you
are capable of returning to your natural self; capable of
discarding your former ill-natured self and need no longer
needlessly worry about the future. Becoming aware of your
true self is what tenshin really means. That is to say, it is no
more than simple “self-discovery”; no more than discovering
your true self; no more than becoming normal; no more than
becoming ordinary; no more than returning to your original
self.21

Needless to say, from a traditional Buddhist point of view, returning

to one’s original self in the absence of an enlightenment experience
is to return to the illusory self, not one’s “true self.” For Entai,
however, this distinction was of little or no importance, for his goal
was to get the war bereaved back to normality whether enlightened
or not. It is interesting to note, however, that Entai did not entirely
dismiss the idea of enlightenment as a goal toward which the war
bereaved should be striving, at least in the long run. In fact, Entai
believed that the war bereaved were, thanks to their bereavement, in
a better position than most to realize enlightenment.
In a section entitled “Seeking Solitude,” Entai explained that there
comes a time in the grieving process where the bereaved simply
wish to be left alone, even from close relatives and friends. This,
Entai asserted, was “the first step on the road toward
enlightenment.”22 As to why this was so, Entai called on no less a
personage than Śākyamuni Buddha for an explanation:

Buddhism’s founder, Śākyamuni, repeatedly emphasized the

virtue of the “world of solitude.” Human beings must of
necessity be alone with themselves. One day, Śākyamuni
emphasized to his disciples: “No two of you should take the
same road.” This means that if, little by little, you follow a
particular path, you will find that the road will open up before
you as you proceed.
The genuine article is never to be found residing in “a mind
that depends on others.” The bereaved will never be saved as
long as they take too strong an interest in the outside world,
thinking “I wonder if someone is going to come to visit me.”
Instead, you must realize that in the final analysis you are on
your own.… You must become a light unto yourself.23

In admonishing the bereaved to become “a light unto yourself,” Entai

is once again impeccably Buddhist. The Pali Maha-parinibbana Sutta
(Skt. sūtra) records Śākyamuni Buddha as having said the following
to Ananda, one of his chief disciples, shortly before his death:
“Therefore, Ananda, you must all be lamps unto yourselves. You
must rely on yourselves and on no one else. You must make the
Dharma your light and your support and rely on nothing else.”24
The significance Entai gave to Śākyamuni’s admonition to his
disciples to take separate roads, however, cannot be upheld: the
reason Śākyamuni directed his disciples to do this was to ensure
that the Dharma was spread far and wide during India’s dry season.
It was not meant as a directive to seek solitude.25 Entai, however,
was ever ready to sacrifice context in his ongoing quest to comfort
the bereaved by attributing spiritual significance to death on the
battlefield.

Persimmons
In addition to invoking Buddha Śākyamuni, Entai was quite capable
of calling on his own experiences to promote his didactic goals. One
such experience involved three old persimmon trees on the grounds
of Hōzenji temple where Entai spent his youth. Old though they
were, these trees were particularly fruitful, and Entai always eagerly
awaited the coming of fall when they would ripen and turn sweet.
Nevertheless, Entai was puzzled by one fact. As he cleaned the
temple garden every day, he always found a number of small, unripe
persimmons laying on the ground. “What a waste!” he thought. Yet,
by the end of October he noted that every branch would have two or
three bright red pieces of fruit left hanging from it. Given the weight
of the fruit he realized that had all the fruit come to maturity the tree’s
branches would have snapped under the weight and none of the fruit
would have ripened. “The persimmons that had fallen from the tree
had, through their very act of falling, accomplished their purpose. By
negating themselves they had preserved the tree and allowed the
remaining persimmons to ripen.”26
And what was the connection of fallen persimmons to the war
bereaved? No doubt the reader can already guess the connection,
but this is how Entai explained it:

It is thanks to those who have fallen in battle that Japan is

secure, making it possible for our young men to return safely.…
The war bereaved have a heavy burden to bear; they have
sacrificed a great deal. That is fine, for in so doing they have
brought happiness to many. If through their suffering, they are
able to bring happiness to even one more household, what
could be more gratifying? This magnanimous spirit is what is
meant by the mind of a bodhisattva.
The fallen persimmon already lies on the broad earth. It
doesn’t seek to have more of its fellow persimmons join it.
Rather it merely looks up at the beautiful, ripe fruit still left on
the tree branches, delighting in their bright red colour. When
you are able to do likewise, then you will have realized a
superb enlightenment.27
 Karma
Like his predecessors, Entai could not avoid a discussion of karma.
While he had little to say that was new, he did reinforce conclusions
that had a profound effect on the way the Japanese people viewed
the war at the time and even today:

There are those who say that it is no more than chance that
someone dies on the battlefield, or becomes a widow early in
life, or becomes an orphan without having seen their father’s
face. However, there is not so much as a single bullet flying
from the enemy that happens by chance. It is definitely the
work of karma, for it is karma that makes it strike home.…
Your husband died because of his karma.… It was the
inevitability of karma that caused your husband’s death. In
other words, your husband was only meant to live for as long
as he did. In those bereaved who have recovered their
composure, one sees the realization that their husband’s death
was due to the consistent working of karma. No one was to
blame [for his death] nor was anyone in the wrong. No one
bears responsibility for what happened, for it was simply his
karma to die.28
As early as 1906 D. T. Suzuki, in his English writings, had strongly
opposed the idea that Buddhists, especially Zen Buddhists, were
infected with any kind of “blind, fatalistic conceptions as is
sometimes thought to be a trait peculiar to orientals.”29 Nevertheless,
Entai employed his own brand of “oriental fatalism” to cover not only
those who had died on the battlefield but those left behind as well.
He explained: “The fact that you became a widow at twenty-six is
due to your karma.”30 As the following reveals, this was the same
rigidly deterministic interpretation of karma held by Suzuki’s own
master, Shaku Sōen:

We are born in a world of variety; some are poor and

unfortunate, others are wealthy and happy. This state of variety
will be repeated again and again in our future lives. But to
 whom shall we complain of our misery? To none but
ourselves!31

Even today the world struggles to understand why the Japanese

people as a whole, unlike the Germans, have had such enormous
difficulty in coming to grips with their war responsibility. At least part
of the explanation is to be found in the doctrine of karma as
formulated by the likes of Entai who asserted that “no one was to
blame nor was anyone in the wrong.” On the one hand, karma
appears to place a premium on the moral behaviour of the individual.
Yet, when it comes to evaluating the behaviour of a society’s leaders
who decide on war or peace, it has almost nothing to say. Instead,
individuals in society get no more nor no less than what they
deserve. How could the war responsibility of Japanese leaders be
determined in the face of the “consistent working of karma”?

Nirvāṇa
Finally, given its pre-eminent position within Buddhism, a word needs
to be said about the connection Entai saw between Nirvāṇa and the
war bereaved. That is to say, was Entai ready to give the war
bereaved special entry to Buddhism’s ultimate goal?
The answer is that Entai was, for he entitled the final chapter of
his booklet “A Life of Tranquility.” The Japanese word Entai used for
tranquility, i.e. seijaku, is a traditional alternative designation for
Nirvāṇa (Nehan). According to Entai, those who have entered this
realm could be characterized as follows:

They neither make a pretense of being courageous nor do they

refuse to admit defeat. They neither seek sympathy nor look
upon the world with prejudiced eyes. Instead they display a
calm, natural countenance that defies description just as if
nothing special had occurred in their households.32

Needless to say, the preceding is not a traditional Buddhist

description of enlightened persons. Rather, Entai used it with
reference to a special group of war bereaved that he had recently
encountered. They were special because not only had they
“graduated from complaining” about their misfortune but were now
filled with a spirit of gratitude for everything that had happened to
them. Most especially, they appeared in Entai’s eyes to be overcome
with “reverence for the gracious benevolence of the emperor.”33
This special group of bereaved was composed of those who had
lost their loved ones in August 1937 when Japanese troops made a
costly landing in Shanghai one month after the outbreak of full-scale
war with China. While, like all bereaved, this group had initially been
consumed by grief, with the passage of time, i.e. by September
1941, Entai found they had transcended their grief. Now their
demeanor exuded a kind of “indescribable brilliance” characterized
by “unassailable majesty.”34
Entai did not seek to deny the difficulties this group of bereaved
had encountered along the way to their new state of awareness. It
had come, he claimed, only as “the fruit of three years of tears and
constant anguish.” In particular, parents had come to realize that
their sons had not died recently on the battlefield but had “been
among the war dead from the very beginning.” The bereaved, having
trained themselves to the utmost, no longer had “the least sign of
attachment.”35
Entai concluded his final chapter with the following admonition to
the ever-increasing numbers of war bereaved:

I have only been talking about one group of war bereaved

here, but I am confident that throughout this country there are
those whose loved ones died two or three years ago who have
reached the same state of mind. I see in them a superb model
for those who have only recently lost their loved ones.
Moreover, they provide a silent lesson to all the people of this
nation. I pray that all bereaved will reach this final stage just as
soon as possible.36

Ultimately the family and friends of some three million Japanese war
dead would be given the opportunity to achieve, in Entai’s words, a
“life of tranquility” as well as express their “reverence for the
graciousness of the emperor.” Given the parallels Entai saw between
war bereavement and the realization of enlightenment, Entai should
have been pleased.

Conclusion
In reading the preceding attempts to validate if not valourize the
deaths of millions on the battlefield, it is difficult not to be
overwhelmed by the ability of the human mind to twist words like
“Nirvāṇa,” “compassion,” “karma” etc. until they fit a predetermined
outcome – the justification if not glorification of death on the
battlefield. Nevertheless, it is important to realize that these wartime
Japanese Buddhist leaders were neither the first nor the last to have
done so. In China, for example, similar efforts can be traced back at
least 1500 years.
One example is Emperor Wen (r. 581–604) of the Sui Dynasty
(c.581–618 CE) who enlisted the spiritual aid of Buddhist monks in
his military campaigns by constructing temples at sites where he and
his father had won important battles. He ordered priests residing in
these temples to hold memorial services for the souls of his fallen
soldiers in order to assure his still-living followers that were they to
fall on some future battlefield, their souls, too, would be looked
after.37
Emperor Wen was also determined to use Buddhism as a
method of unifying all of China. Like his earlier counterpart in India,
the famous King Aśoka (270–230 BCE), Wen built numerous stupas
enshrining sacred relics of the Buddha throughout his empire in
order “to propagate Buddhism as an instrument of state policy”38 In
turn, Wen’s efforts served as a model for Prince Shōtoku (574–622
CE), Japan’s first great patron of Buddhism, to employ Buddhism in
his own campaign to unify Japan. The inevitable price of such
patronage, however, was Buddhism’s subservience to the state and
its rulers.
Convinced of his righteousness, Wen went on to promote himself
as a Cakravartin or “Universal Monarch,” claiming that “the Buddha
had entrusted the true Dharma to the ruler of the realm.”39 Soon
after establishing the Sui dynasty in 581 CE, Wen declared:

With the armed might of a Cakravartin King, We spread the

ideals of the ultimately benevolent one [the Buddha]. With a
hundred victories and a hundred battles, We promote the
practice of the ten Buddhist virtues. Therefore, We regard
weapons of war as having become like incense and flowers
[presented as offerings to the Buddha] and the fields of this
visible world as becoming forever identical with the Buddha
land [Italics mine].40

Significantly, even today Buddhist leaders in various Asian countries

continue to use Buddhism to justify warfare. David Little, for
example, points out in his book Sri Lanka – The Invention of Enmity
that Buddhist leaders of the Sinhalese majority condone the use of
violence directed against the rebellious non-Buddhist Tamil minority
in order “to protect the Saṃgha and Buddhist teachings …
rationaliz[ing] the use of violence against the ‘other,’ even though it
contravenes the basic tenets of Buddhism.”41
Given this background, questions related to the use of Buddhist
doctrine to console both the living and the dead in wartime Japan
cannot be dismissed as nothing more than a momentary aberration
within the Buddhist tradition. If indeed Buddhist doctrine as
described above was “twisted,” then that twisting is but one of many
such examples in Buddhist history and remains as alive today as it
was more than a thousand years ago. To deny this is to deny the
unsettling reality that Buddhism, like other of the world’s religions,
has often justified, if not encouraged, the slaughter of human beings.
Commenting on the universal aspect of this all-too-prevalent
religious phenomenon, Martin Marty of the University of Chicago
wrote:

Positive thinkers and public relations officers for the faiths

would repudiate this notion or evade the fact. They want
religion to be nothing but godspel, or good news. Apologists for
the faiths usually minimize the distress that can come with
 religion or that religion can produce. You will not read about the
destructive element in religious impulses in the advertisements
for the church of your choice. Yet if the pursuit of truth is still to
be cherished as a foundational theme in the academy, one
must note the feature of religion that keeps it on the front page
and on prime time: it kills. Or, if, as the gun lobbies say of
weapons – that they do not kill; people do – one must say of
religion that if it does not kill, many of its forms and expressions
motivate people to kill.42

As much as Buddhists, this author among them, would like to deny

the applicability of Marty’s words to their faith, as this and other
chapters reveal, at least in Japan’s modern history if not long before,
large numbers of Buddhist leaders did everything in their power to
prove him right.
 9

CONFESSIONS OF A BUDDHIST
CHAPLAIN

Introduction
As revealed in the previous chapter, Buddhist priests, from as early
as the Sino-Japanese War of 1894–5, were deeply involved on the
home front in comforting the war bereaved through valorizing the
deaths of those who fell in battle. Their role, however, was not limited
to Japan’s home islands alone as demonstrated by priests like
Shaku Sōen, abbot of the Rinzai Zen monastery of Engakuji in
Kamakura. The reader will recall that during the Russo-Japanese
war of 1904–5, Sōen went to the battlefield “to inspire, if I could, our
valiant soldiers with the ennobling thoughts of the Buddha, so as to
enable them to die on the battlefield with the confidence that the task
in which they are engaged is great and noble.”1
Sōen was, of course, far from the first Japanese Buddhist priest
to minister directly on the battlefield. In fact, this custom can be
traced back at least as far as the fourteenth century, when loyalists
revolted against the military government in Kamakura from 1331–33.
It was then that itinerant Buddhist chaplains belonging to the Pure
Land tradition were assigned to warriors in the field. Their role was to
ensure that their warrior patrons recited the name of Amitābha
Buddha ten times at the time of death, thereby ensuring rebirth in the
Pure Land.
As historian Sybil Thornton points out, the activities of these
chaplains quickly expanded beyond a purely religious function, and
they ended up not only burning, burying and praying for the dead,
but caring for the sick and wounded as well. When their warrior
patrons were not engaged in battle, the chaplains amused them with
poetry and assumed a role close to that of a personal servant. Given
that chaplains appear to have been beholden to their patrons for
food, clothing, and shelter, this latter role is hardly surprising.2
Eventually, these chaplains came to play what might best be
described as a “paramilitary” role, i.e. actively aiding and protecting
their warrior patrons when needed. This, however, provoked a
reaction from ecclesiastical superiors who, in one letter written in
1399, admonished their chaplains to “never touch things like bows
and arrows and weapons … because they are used to kill.” On the
other hand, chaplains were allowed to hold their master’s body
armour and helmet “because they are things that protect the body.”3
Should the chaplains violate these prohibitions, or their warrior
patrons force them to, the ecclesiastical authorities warned they
were quite prepared to cancel the rebirth of the offending party in the
Pure Land. Whatever one might think of these prohibitions,
standards of conduct for all parties did exist.
By the sixteenth century, things had changed. On the one hand,
the battlefield neutrality of priests affiliated with the earlier Itinerant
branch (Yugyō-ha) of Pure Land Buddhism continued to be
recognized by the authorities. On the other hand, historian Sybil
Thorton notes that priests in other sects were forced to provide
warlords with “camp-priests who acted as couriers, bodyguards, and
body servants to warriors in the field.”4 As the following material
reveals, this latter development was but a precursor to the role of
Japan’s modern Buddhist chaplains. No longer were there any
standards of conduct based on combatant versus non-combatant
status. The demand for service to one’s country, sovereign, and his
designated military representatives was absolute and recognized no
exceptions whatsoever.
It is perhaps for this very reason that few, if any, Buddhist
chaplains have come forward to recount their experiences during the
Asia-Pacific War. This is compounded by the postwar efforts of
Japan’s Buddhist leaders to hide, or at least ignore, their own sect’s
fervent war support while projecting a positive image of themselves
as advocates of world peace. No doubt it is also due to feelings of
shame connected with what the Buddhist chaplains themselves
either saw or did on the battlefield. In the following story, which was
not published until 1988, the last of these reasons is probably the
most important, though all of them are closely connected.
The following comments are those of Nichiren sect priest,
Fukushima Nichi’i (1909–1987), late abbot of Renjōji temple in Mito
city, Ibaragi Prefecture. Brief as these comments are, they are all the
more valuable because there is so little else like them. I would like to
express my gratitude to Nichi’i’s successor, Sekitō Keiun, for allowing
this story, originally published in The Japanese People’s War
(Nihonjin no Sensō), to appear here in slightly altered translation.

The Lotus Sūtra on the battlefield

On 26 October 1937 I was directed by the administrative head of the
NIchiren sect to become a military chaplain for the North China
Expeditionary Army and assigned to the headquarters of the 26th
Division stationed in Dadong. I served in this capacity for some
seven years until I myself was drafted into the army as a member of
the Division’s Takahashi unit.
Although I was a chaplain, I was occasionally ordered by a major
in the artillery to assist in the operational planning for positioning
artillery pieces. Within the headquarters unit itself, I was assigned to
the adjutant’s office. Lieutenant Colonel Suzuki served as the senior
adjutant with Major Sumibe as his assistant. Colonel Chō Isamu
[1895–1945] was chief of staff.
Colonel Chō received permission from the division commander to
postpone his lunch for one hour everyday in order to devote himself
to the religious practice of reading the Lotus Sūtra under my
guidance. It was only then that he had lunch. It was this karmic
relationship that led to the chief of staff becoming my disciple and
entering the priesthood of the Nichiren sect. Chō delighted in this
because, having truly understood the significance of reciting the holy
title of the Lotus Sūtra, he entered the priesthood for the sake of the
nation, the emperor, the people of Japan, and the future of our
country’s military. I therefore gave him the Buddhist name of “Jikōin
Nichiyū” (Courageous Sun [residing in] the temple of Abundant
Compassion).5
Not long thereafter, Chō was promoted to Major General and
attached to the headquarters of the Guandong (Kwantung) Army [in
Manchuria]. From there he was ordered to the General Staff Office
[in Tokyo]. In July 1944, Cho, now a Lt. General, was sent to become
chief of staff of the 32nd Army in Okinawa, commanded by Lt.
General Ushijima Mitsuru [1887–1945]. Facing defeat, both Generals
Ushijima and Chō committed suicide by ritual disembowelment early
on the morning of 23 June 1945 at the entrance to [their
headquarters in] Mabuni cave. The last message I received from
Chief of Staff Chō ended with: “I am filled with joy at having found
the best place in all of Japan to die!”
In 1978, on the thirty-third anniversary of my disciple’s death, I
went to Mabuni to pray for the repose of his soul. At that time I also
erected a stone monument directly below the hillside cave in which
he died. Using Chō’s own handwriting as a model, the monument
was inscribed with the words: “Adoration to the Wonderful Dharma
Lotus Sūtra.” In addition, I had a poem written by Chō to his second
son inscribed on this monument in large letters. Just as I was
conducting the solemn service for the repose of both Cho’s soul and
those of the other Okinawan war victims, a rain squall hit and my
newly purchased robes got drenched. For me it was a once in a
lifetime experience that I shall never forget.
Returning to the chaplaincy, whenever a unit attached to our
headquarters was despatched on a military operation, the
commander of that unit almost always had me sit immediately to his
left as we headed for the battlefield. I got the impression that my
presence made the commanders feel secure.
Those soldiers who fell on the battlefield may well have been
fated to do so. Confucius, for example, survived life-or-death crises
on three separate occasions and lived to complete his mission in life,
dying at age seventy-three. Nichiren was nearly executed at
Tatsunokuchi and then banned to Sado island for three years. After
being pardoned, Nichiren founded a temple on Mt. Minobu and lived
on for nine more years.
Major Sumibe, the assistant adjutant who cared deeply for me,
was saddened to learn that his entire family in Tokyo had died as
martyrs [due to Allied bombing raids] in our country’s darkest hour.
Every time there was a battle there were casualties, and we had to
cremate our fallen comrades among the wooded hills of the north.
Prior to burning their bodies we set up camp, using four heavy
machine guns to protect us.
On one occasion an enemy bullet pierced a soldier’s thigh and a
second went through his steel helmet before coming to rest in his
head. I picked up his blood-soaked corpse and took it to the rear, my
own military uniform getting smeared with blood in the process.
At the front we reduced villages to ashes as we searched for
spies. There were always prisoners. It made no difference whether
they were young or old, we first had them dig their own graves and
then forced them to kneel down beside them. Following this, soldiers
were selected who were skilled swordsmen.
Initially the soldiers struck the nape of the victim’s neck with a
pop, using the back of their military sword to dislocate the bone joint.
Then they lopped off the head. If they did their work well, the head
fell forward and blood forcefully spurted out of the carotid artery like
two fountains. When all the blood from the heart was exhausted, the
victim expired and fell down into the open grave. We then continued
marching without even covering the corpses. On the battlefield it was
always a question of kill or be killed – there was no other way.
After heavy rains we frequently encountered scenes in which
either the heads or the bodies of our victims had been carried along
by the current and half buried further down the river. The war was
like a medieval picture scroll depicting [a Buddhist view of] hell. The
battlefront consisted of the three evil realms of: 1) hell, 2) hungry
ghosts, and 3) beasts. There were times when our soldiers even
ended up fighting each other. While it was called a “holy war” fought
by an “Imperial Army,” terms like these turned out to be totally
meaningless.
 Author’s response
The preceding remembrances of Fukushima Nichi’i mark the last of
the “blood and guts” depictions of war in this book. This is not,
however, the last time the reader will be forced to confront the
question of how it was possible that men professing the Buddhist
faith, based as it is on compassion and nonviolence, could have
been so monumentally blind to the morality of their actions. How was
it possible that General Chō, despite reciting the greatest of the
Mahāyāna scriptures, the Lotus Sūtra, day after day, did not
experience any pangs of conscience as he oversaw the destruction
of village after village of Chinese peasants and the beheading of
countless “spies”? How was it possible that Nichi’i, his Buddhist
master, could have given his disciple the name “abundant
compassion” and not recognized any moral conflict with his disciple’s
(or his own) military duties?
To be sure, there are no easy answers to these questions. One of
the mechanisms Nichi’i used to legitimate death on the battlefield
was his belief in the Buddhist-derived concept of “fate” (shukumei).6
In other words, those who died on the battlefield were fated to do so.
We have previously seen this idea, closely connected with the
popular Buddhist understanding of karma and karmic retribution, at
work in Ōmori Zenkai’s justification of social inequality in chapter 7. It
was even more strongly present in the previous chapter. What it
does so well is erase any thought of individual, let alone group,
responsibility for society’s myriad shortcomings, not least of all the
mass slaughter that inevitably accompanies modern warfare.
“Shikatta ga nai” (it can’t be helped) has long been a “culturally
correct” reaction in Japanese society to various forms of injustice
that appear beyond the power of the individual to change.
Given this, it is more than a little ironic to read that unit
commanders always wanted Nichi’i to ride close to them when they
went on field operations. As Nichi’i notes, “I got the impression that
my presence made the commanders feel secure.” The reader will
recall from chapter 1 that Yamamoto Gempō told his disciple not to
worry because “even if a bullet comes your way, it will swerve around
you.” These are only two examples of the popular Japanese belief in
Buddhism’s magical powers, popularly portrayed as superhuman in
nature. In peacetime, these powers are invoked for such purposes
as curing illnesses, locating suitable marriage partners, or securing
entrance into prestigious schools. In wartime, however, they were
thought to protect the believer from harm, no matter how much harm
the believer may be doing to others! Needless to say, Buddhism is
far from the only world religion to foster such notions.

General Chō Isamu

The reader will recall that Lt. General Chō was first introduced in
chapter 7. Chō was known for his quick, inquiring mind and
boundless energy. Yet, while widely admired for his brilliance, he
also had a reputation as a fiery, hard-driving man who placed heavy
demands on his subordinates. Nichi’i captured both sides of his
disciple’s personality in a description he wrote in 1980:

General Chō was a career staff officer of acute intellect. He

had such excellent powers of observation that the Devil himself
would have been scared out of his wits had their paths
crossed. Not only that, he also possessed a superior ability to
foresee the outcome of events.
Chō had mastered German and loved to read detective
stories and science fiction. In reading these books he
attempted to anticipate the author’s intent and reach the
conclusion on his own. It was exactly because he had such a
fine mind and outstanding temperament that he would not
tolerate anything that was unreasonable.7

Interestingly, in light of his brilliant and fiery nature it can be argued

that Cho’s personality was not unlike that of Nichiren, the thirteenth-
century founder of the sect in which he became a priest.
Nevertheless, the fiery part of his nature might well be considered a
character defect in a high-ranking officer like Chō. Okinawan
historian Ota Masahide notes, however, that as far as the Battle of
Okinawa is concerned, this was not the case; for Chō was “the
perfect foil for General Ushijima’s calm and competent dignity.”8
 General Chō was clearly one of those many, many “true
believers” in the Imperial Army who, despite his priestly status, saw
not the least contradiction between the Buddhist faith and his
statement: “I am filled with joy at having found the best place in all of
Japan to die!” In fact, it was his acceptance of what was regarded as
the Buddhist view of life and death that enabled the general to so
confidently address his master as he did.
It is noteworthy that Chō first revealed his ultranationalist
leanings while still a major attached to the Army Ministry in Tokyo. It
was there that, as a member of a clandestine group of middle-
ranking officers known as the “Cherry Blossom Society” (Sakura-kai),
Chō helped plan a major military-led coup d’etat later known as the
“October Incident” (Jūgatsu Jiken) of 1931. Chō was set to command
a unit assigned to attack a Cabinet meeting, killing everyone from
the prime minister on down.
However, as was so often the case in the 1930s, the plot was
uncovered shortly prior to its execution, not by the police but by
senior Army leaders, including General Araki Sadao. Although the
coup leaders, Chō included, were momentarily arrested by military
police, the whole incident was quickly hushed up with the coup
plotters receiving no more than reprimands. Chō’s “punishment”
consisted of no more than reassignment to duty on the continent.
Chō was first stationed in Beijing and then in Hangkou, followed
by service as an infantry battalion commander on Taiwan. His
subsequent military career progressed until, with the outbreak of full-
scale war with China, he became an intelligence staff officer with the
Shanghai Expeditionary Force. Chō would later claim that it was he
who issued the orders to “kill all captives” at the December 1937
Rape of Nanjing.9 In claiming this we are once again forced to
consider a possible link between the acceptance of one’s own death
on the battlefield and the total indifference displayed by Japanese
military leaders like Chō towards the heartless massacre of tens of
thousands of their captives.
Moreover, Chō’s callousness was by no means limited to his
enemies, be they foreign or domestic. Prior to the Allied invasion of
Okinawa in the spring of 1945, Chō, as chief of staff, was asked by a
newspaper reporter what civilian residents should do when enemy
troops landed. Chō replied: “It is too late to say this, but all civilians
should accept military instructions like soldiers. In other words, each
civilian ought to have a fighting spirit to kill ten enemy soldiers and
destroy our enemy.” And he added:

When the enemy lands and our food supply gets cut off, the
military is not in a position to provide civilians with food even if
you plead with us that civilians will starve to death. The
military’s important mission is to win the war. We are not
allowed to lose the war in order to save civilians.10

As on the Japanese mainland itself, everyone, soldiers and civilians,

men and women, young and old, were expected to die. If this
statement sounds too extreme, consider the following orders
adopted by the 32nd Army on Okinawa in January 1945. Entitled
“Outline of the Plan of Operations for the Imperial Army and Navy,”
the orders clearly state that Okinawa was to be sacrificed “in order to
buy time for the protection of the national polity.… Everything up to
and including a single tree or blade of grass is to be turned into
military power. Military, public officials and civilians are to be united,
living and dying together [Italics mine].11
It was orders like the above, showing such total disregard for the
safety of civilians that later prompted Okinawan poet Shimabukuro
Tetsu to write the following poem entitled “The Battle of Okinawa and
Consoling the Spirits”:

The 32nd Division was the “sacrifice” offered by Imperial

headquarters
and the Emperor.
It was just as in Saipan and Iōjima.
They were the “sacrifices” placed into the hands of the US
military as a means of biding time, in the face of imminent
defeat.
Soldiers who killed the defenseless in China now, in Okinawa,
were themselves killed by overwhelming forces, embroiling
Okinawan civilians into the battle, even more defenseless.
 It was just as in the Philippines.…
The irresponsibility, recklessness, terrorism, stupidity,
debauchery, amorality, and cruelty of the Imperial Army had no
confines.
Do not tell lies to those fallen.
If you want to console their spirits, speak to them of the true
rationale for their deaths.12

Conclusion
It is my heartfelt prayer that this book will contribute to explaining
“the true rationale for their deaths.” This said, I cannot help but ask
once again how it was possible for a Buddhist priest like Nichi’i to
witness daily what were so clearly war atrocities committed against
Chinese civilians, “young and old,” without having confronted the
moral implications of his acquiescence to this mindless brutality.
Needless to say, there is no question here of the Japanese Army
having executed spies convicted by a military court or any other
court. To be “suspected” of spying was all the proof needed for
execution. In the face of a foreign invasion, who would not become
“spies” for their country?
To be sure, in his earlier 1980 memoirs, Nichi’i did attempt to
explain his actions, especially after he had been turned into an
infantry soldier in 1943, forced to abandon his previous position as a
Buddhist chaplain:

When war finally comes, and you find yourself exposed to

enemy fire in the midst of battle, there is not an ounce of
human kindness to be found. In the face of fierce fighting, it is a
choice of killing or being killed, striking or being struck. There
are no other choices. It is a world in which ideas, philosophy,
ideals, religion, ethics and morality no longer exist.13

On the one hand, it is difficult to argue with Nichi’i’s description of the

brutal reality of the battlefield. Nevertheless, the question must be
asked as to whether religion, ethics, etc. truly no longer exist on the
battlefield. Is it not more likely that Nichi’i consciously chose to
believe, even prior to going into battle, that such things no longer
existed so as to justify, if only to himself, the carnage of which he
was a part? If there is a shred of Buddhist morality present in
Nichi’i’s writings, it is the fact that he did at least recognize the
battlefield as being the very incarnation of the traditional East Asian
Buddhist view of hell. But here, too, one suspects that the traditional
depictions of multi-layered Buddhist hell(s) provide almost a
justification for his acceptance of a hellish world rather than any
moral imperative to actively work to end the suffering of the sentient
beings trapped within it.
Taking this question to the extreme, had Nichi’i been assigned as
a chaplain to a German SS unit stationed at Auschwitz, is there any
reason to suspect he would have acted differently than he did in
China, or his disciple General Chō Isamu, for all his “abundant
compassion,” acted in both China and on Okinawa?
 10

BUDDHISM – THE LAST REFUGE

OF WAR CRIMINALS

Many readers will immediately recognize that the title of this chapter
is a remake of the old aphorism: “Patriotism is the last refuge of
scoundrels.” In addition, the title alludes to ‘taking refuge’ in the
Buddha, Dharma, and Saṃgha, something recognized in all schools
of Buddhism as the fundamental act required to become a Buddhist.
This chapter, however, is not primarily about Japanese war criminals
who converted to Buddhism. Rather, it focuses on the uses to which
Buddhism was put to in the immediate postwar years including
everything from hiding suspected war criminals to providing
convicted war criminals with a means of “transcending life and
death” even as they faced the hangman’s noose.
In one sense it can be argued that for suspected or convicted war
criminals to seek refuge in Buddhism was nothing new. The history
of Buddhism in China and Japan is full of examples of men and
women who entered Buddhist monasteries not because they were
seeking enlightenment but rather to escape secular troubles,
including imprisonment and execution. There is, for example, the
famous Rinzai Zen nunnery of Tōkeiji in Kamakura, popularly known
as kakekomi-dera (lit. temple for taking refuge), which offered
married women in medieval Japan one of the few possibilities of
leaving their husbands. The price of freedom from their marital ties,
however, was a willingness to live the celibate life of a Buddhist nun.
As for men, the most dramatic example in medieval Japan was
the Zen sect-related komusō. Komusō were, at least in the
beginning, itinerant Zen monks who played a Japanese bamboo flute
known as a shakuhachi as part of their religious practice. However,
because they wore a conical wicket basket over their head, it was
possible to completely disguise their identity, a fact that gradually
attracted an assortment of shady characters who found it
advantageous to disguise themselves. This latter practice became
so widespread during the Edo period (1600–1867) that the
government outlawed komusō altogether.
Finally, in both China and Japan, it has long been a practice for
poverty-stricken parents to place one or more of their children, both
boys and girls, in monasteries and nunneries at a young age due to
their own inability to provide for them. This was also the case if, for
whatever reason, the children became orphaned. On the other end
of the scale, during the middle ages, Japanese emperors found it
convenient, under a system known as Insei, to ostensibly retire to a
Buddhist monastery while actually continuing to conduct affairs of
state from behind monastic walls.
The first part of this chapter deals with none of the classical uses
(or abuses) of Buddhist monastic life. Instead it focuses on the use
to which a number of Buddhist temples were put following Japan’s
surrender on 15 August 1945. The fighting may have ceased, but the
question of the apprehension and prosecution of war criminals had
only just begun. As the following story reveals, not all of the alleged
war criminals were willing to entrust their fate to what appeared to
them as “victor’s justice.” The relative anonymity provided by the
Buddhist Saṃgha, i.e. the community of monks and nuns, might yet
have its uses.

SECTION ONE: COLONEL TSUJI MASANOBU

GOES UNDERGROUND
Colonel Tsuji Masanobu (1902–68?) was one of the Japanese
Army’s most brilliant strategists, having played a key role in planning
the successful attack on British forces in Singapore in February
1942. In his own eyes, he was a champion of Asian unity and a
resolute anti-Communist, the latter trait proving key to his postwar
survival. Nevertheless, as Meirion and Susie Harries have pointed
out, he was also consumed by “megalomaniac ambition, violent
prejudices, and a ruthless disregard for human life.”1 Among other
things, it was Tsuji who supervised the infamous Bataan Death
March of Allied captives in the Philippines in April 1942. Of the
70,000 POWs who began this march only 54,000 arrived safely in
Japanese custody at Camp O’Donnell.2
August 1945 found Tsuji attached as a staff officer to the Bangkok
headquarters of the 18th Army Corps in ostensibly neutral Thailand.
After first getting word, on 10 August 1945, that Japan was preparing
to surrender, Tsuji, like other staff officers, pondered his options. By
the morning of 14 August, Tsuji put together the following rather
surprising plan which he presented to his commander, Lt. General
Nakamura Aketo (1889–1966):

Although there has not yet been a formal announcement, we

have no choice but to admit that the Japanese government has
accepted the Potsdam Declaration [of 26 July 1945]. If Japan
surrenders unconditionally, there can be no doubt that the
imperial military will be forced to lay down its arms. Although
this is truly heartbreaking, I don’t think it means the end of
Japan. Therefore, in preparation for the day when our nation
rises again, please allow me to go underground here in
Bangkok!3

Responding to General Nakamura’s query for more details, Tsuji

explained that he intended to go “underground” by disguising himself
as a Buddhist priest. To assist him, he had selected seven young
“special attack,” i.e. kamikaze, pilots who had been unable to carry
out their suicide missions because there were no aircraft left for them
to fly in the southern command. As a result, these seven were
trained for a new mission – infiltrating behind enemy lines to act as
spies and saboteurs. Some readers may recall the famous case of
Second Lt. Onoda Hiroo who had been given a similar mission.
Onoda managed to hold out on Lubang Island in the Philippines until
March 1974.
Tsuji did not select his subordinates by chance, for they had one
additional crucial attribute – they were all Buddhist priests. Four of
them were affiliated with the Zen sect (three Sōtō and one Rinzai),
with one each from the Pure Land, True Pure Land, and Nichiren
sects. Inasmuch as they were scheduled to “disguise” themselves as
monks in the southern Theravāda school, their sectarian differences
within the northern Mahāyāna school could be put aside. Ironically,
not only would their newfound ecumenism have been difficult to
duplicate in Japan itself, it was directed toward a military goal, that of
spying and sabotage, not to mention aiding a suspected war criminal
to escape prosecution.

Underground in Bangkok
On the evening of 15 August, following the emperor’s surrender
speech broadcast that afternoon, Tsuji and his companions gathered
at the Thailand Hotel for a final banquet. Following their meal, they
all changed into the saffron-coloured robes of a Theravādan monk;
discarding their shoes in favour of a monk’s bare feet and, excepting
Tsuji, shaving their eyebrows in accordance with Thai Buddhist
custom. Conveniently, there was a power failure in Bangkok that
night, and in the darkness they headed, reciting sūtras as they
walked, for Wat Ratchaburana temple located on the banks of the
Chao Phraya river. Tsuji had selected this temple because a small
two storied Japanese-style funerary hall had been built on its
grounds to hold the cremated remains of Japanese nationals who
died while in Thailand.
Interestingly, though dressed in Theravādan robes, Tsuji and his
companions had no intention of hiding their Japanese identity. They
would claim to have travelled first to Burma and then, as the war
situation worsened, to Bangkok in order to study the Theravādan
tradition. Initially at least, both Thai immigration officials and police,
not to mention temple officials, accepted their story. Nevertheless, it
soon became clear that their collective presence in the small
Japanese funerary hall was attracting too much outside attention.
Tsuji therefore ordered six of the monks to move to the much larger
Wat Mahathat temple while he remained in the funerary hall with only
one attendant, Sōtō Zen priest Fukuzawa Ekō.
 Much to the surprise of his priestly companions, Tsuji succeeded
in memorizing in only three days both the short Heart Sūtra (Hannya
Shingyō) and the much longer “Revelation of the [Eternal] Life of the
Tathāgata” (Nyorai Juryōhon) chapter of the Lotus Sūtra. These were
the sūtras that they had agreed to recite in common despite their
sectarian differences. These were not, however, the only sūtras that
Tsuji knew, for he had been raised in a devout True Pure Land sect
family and had memorized the main sūtras of that sect at his
mother’s side. In addition, as a young officer he had studied
Buddhism under the guidance of Akegarasu Haya, abbot of the True
Pure Land temple of Myōdatsuji in Matsutō city, Ishikawa Prefecture.

Plate 9 The Japanese funerary hall located in the grounds of the Wat Ratchaburana
temple in Bangkok, Thailand. Colonel Tsuji Masanobu and his priestly
subordinates went into hiding here at the time of Japan’s surrender on 15
August 1945. Photograph courtesy of Michael Drummond.

In September 1945 British troops finally arrived in Bangkok under

the command of Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten (1900–79),
Supreme Allied Commander in the South East. Their primary
mission was to disarm Japanese troops remaining in Thailand, but
they were also responsible for the apprehension of suspected war
criminals, Tsuji being at the top of their list. Although Japanese
military commanders told the British that Tsuji had died in battle, the
British refused to believe them. For his part, Tsuji feared that Ekō
might be arrested if he stayed with him and therefore ordered his
remaining attendant to move to Mahathat temple with the others,
leaving him alone in the funerary hall. Tsuji was, however, not totally
defenceless, for he had hidden his officer’s sword, hilt just visible,
behind the hall’s Buddha altar.

Escape from Bangkok

On the evening of 28 October 1945 Tsuji received the news he had
gradually come to expect: “The British and Thai military police will
arrive early tomorrow morning to arrest you.”4 Hearing this, Tsuji
immediately boarded a train for Laos with the aid of another
underground organization operating in Bangkok, the Nationalist
Chinese secret police. Once in Laos he took a boat down the
Mekong River and then made his way to Hanoi. From there he
crossed into China and travelled to Zhongjing (Chungking), China’s
wartime capital.
Given Tsuji’s long involvement in Japan’s invasion of China,
including his direct responsibility for the massacre of some 5–7,000
overseas Chinese civilians in Singapore in March 1942, one might
expect that the Chinese authorities would have immediately
imprisoned, if not executed, Tsuji themselves. However, by this time
Generalissimo and Nationalist leader Jiang Jieshi (Chiang Kai-shek)
was embroiled in a rekindled, bitter civil war with China’s
Communists led by Mao Zedong (Mao Tse-tung). Thus, not only did
Tsuji escape arrest, but, thanks to his staunch anti-Communist
credentials, he was quickly recruited by Jiang to serve as one of his
military advisers. Thus did Tsuji undergo yet another transformation
– from monk to mercenary.
In the meantime, the British had discovered the true identity of
Tsuji’s seven accomplices in Bangkok. They were arrested and
repeatedly questioned as to Tsuji’s whereabouts though, true to their
original mission, they all feigned ignorance. Finally, unable to prove
anything to the contrary, the British repatriated them to Japan in
August 1946 where they returned to their priestly duties. Their
relationship with Tsuji, however, was by no means at an end.
 Back in Japan
Tsuji initially endeared himself to Jiang Jieshi by sharing a decade’s
worth of Japanese strategic planning against communism in
Manchuria and north China. At Tsuji’s urging, Jiang released a
number of imprisoned Japanese war criminal suspects and invited
them, too, to serve as his military advisors, capitalizing on their
knowledge of the hated Communist enemy.5 Nevertheless, by the
beginning of 1948 it was clear that the Nationalists would ultimately
lose, and Tsuji decided to gamble yet again by returning to Japan.
Claiming to have been a Japanese university professor of ancient
Chinese cultural history at Beijing (Peking) University, Tsuji joined
some 800 former Japanese soldiers and civilians in Shanghai
awaiting repatriation to Japan.
Once again his gamble paid off, and Tsuji successfully fooled the
American military police who questioned him when he stepped off
the boat in Sasebo. But where could he hide in Japan? As he quickly
discovered, even his distant relatives were under constant
surveillance by Japanese police acting on the orders of the
Occupation authorities. Thus, on the evening of 4 June 1948 Tsuji
once again looked to Buddhism for refuge – specifically, the Sōtō
Zen-affiliated Hōshōji temple in Tokyo, headed by his former
attendant, Fukuzawa Eikō.
Without the slightest hesitation, Eikō offered to assist his former
commander, convinced this was an excellent way “to oppose the
Allied occupiers of his country.”6 Thus began an odyssey lasting
more than two years in which Tsuji was moved from one remote
country temple to another, assisted by one or another of his seven
former subordinates. While in hiding, Tsuji continued his pretence of
being a university professor though now he claimed to be teaching at
Sōtō Zen sect-affiliated Komazawa University in Tokyo.
Because so many of Komazawa’s teachers were also priests,
temple parishioners often assumed that Tsuji must be a “scholar-
priest” (gakusō) himself, especially when he stayed at remote
mountain temples that no longer had their own resident priests. Tsuji,
for his part, did not attempt to correct the parishioners’ false
assumption if for no other reason than that it produced increased
donations of food to the temple. In poverty-stricken postwar Japan,
and without any other source of income, these donations were most
welcome additions to Tsuji’s own gardening efforts.
The parishioners of Seiryūji in the mountains of Hyōgo Prefecture
were especially glad to have Tsuji in residence. Passing by the
temple, they heard Tsuji loudly reciting the sūtras he had learned in
Bangkok. In gratitude they brought donations of rice, fermented soy
bean paste, and sweet potatoes to the temple saying, “It’s been a
long time since we’ve heard sūtras being recited in this empty
temple.” As he placed their donations on the temple’s Buddha altar,
Tsuji replied, “Your donations represent the broad and unlimited
grace of the Buddha.”7

Post-occupation Japan
Even before the formal end of the Occupation in 1952, Tsuji had
been able to show himself in public without fear of arrest; for in 1949
the Allied attempt to apprehend and punish suspected war criminals
came to an abrupt end for reasons of Cold War-induced political
expediency. Being cautious, Tsuji initially elected to remain in hiding,
but by June 1950 he felt safe enough to publish a book entitled
Underground for Three Thousand Leagues (Senkō Sanzen-ri)
detailing his many adventures since first disguising himself as a
monk in Bangkok. Needless to say, this book had been written while
staying in one or another of his temple hideouts.
Not only did Tsuji’s book become a best seller, but the fame it
brought its author served as a springboard for still another career
change – from wanted fugitive to national politician. In 1952,
following restoration of Japan’s sovereignty, Tsuji successfully ran for
a seat in the Lower House of the Diet where he was reelected every
two years until 1959 when he switched to the Upper House. If it
seems strange that a suspected war criminal like Tsuji could so
readily emerge as a political leader in postwar Japan, it should be
remembered that Kishi Nobusuke (1896–1987), also suspected of
being a war criminal, was not only elected to the Lower House in
1952 but served as prime minister for three years from 1957. Like
Tsuji, Kishi had first distinguished himself in colonized Manchuria
where his economic policies were rated so highly that Prime Minister
Tōjō Hideki selected him to serve as his minister of commerce from
1941 onwards.
While postwar Germany made a clear and conscious break with
its Nazi past, as men like Tsuji and Kishi (let alone the emperor)
reveal, Japan’s wartime and postwar periods remained closely
connected. Which is not to say that all of Japan’s suspected war
criminals escaped prosecution; for, as will be seen below, a handful
of Japan’s top military and civilian leaders did stand trial for their
wartime actions. While Tsuji successfully used Buddhism, at least
organizationally, to escape all responsibility for his wartime barbarity,
what of these other leaders? Did they, too, seek refuge in
Buddhism?

SECTION TWO: FINDING RELIGION ON DEATH

ROW
The Tokyo War Crimes Tribunal, officially known as the International
Military Tribunal for the Far East (IMTFE), opened on 3 May 1946
and remained in session for some two-and-a-half years, completing
its work on 12 November 1948. This trial, however, represented only
a small part of the overall Allied effort to bring suspected Japanese
war criminals to justice throughout the Asia-Pacific region. In all,
some 5,700 Japanese were put on trial in such places as the
Philippines, China, Indonesia, and Russia, not to mention Japan,
resulting in death sentences for 984 convicted war criminals and
imprisonment of varying lengths for another 3,500.
In Tokyo, eighty persons suspected of being Class A war
criminals were detained in Sugamo prison beginning in 1945. Of
these, twenty-eight were eventually brought to trial, including nine
civilians and nineteen professional military men. The indictment
accused the defendants of promoting a scheme of conquest that
 contemplated and carried out … murdering, maiming and ill-
treating prisoners of war [and] civilian internees … forcing them
to labour under inhumane conditions … plundering public and
private property, wantonly destroying cities, towns and villages
beyond any justification of military necessity; [perpetrating]
mass murder, rape, pillage, brigandage, torture and other
barbaric cruelties upon the helpless civilian population of the
overrun countries.”8

Of the original twenty-eight defendants, two died of natural causes

during the trial while one defendant appeared to suffer a mental
breakdown on the trial’s very first day. This defendant, civilian
ultranationalist leader Ōkawa Shūmei (1886–1957), was
subsequently transferred to a psychiatric ward only to be
pronounced cured and released in 1948. The remaining twenty-five,
however, were all found guilty, many on multiple counts. Of the
convicted, seven were sentenced to death by hanging, sixteen to life
imprisonment, and two to lesser terms. All seven of those sentenced
to death were found guilty of having incited, or otherwise been part
of, massive atrocities. Significantly, while three of the sixteen
sentenced to life imprisonment died between 1949 and 1950 in
prison, the remaining thirteen were paroled between 1954 and 1956,
having served less than eight years of their life sentences.

Hanayama Shinshō
With this background in mind, we turn to an examination of the
seven condemned men’s relationship to Buddhism, especially in the
intervening weeks between their convictions in mid-November and
the day of their execution by hanging in the first few minutes of 23
December 1948. One reason for this focus is because of the leading
role these seven men played in wartime Japan. Secondarily, of all
those imprisoned, only these seven left a record, partial though it be,
of their spiritual life prior to execution.
The existence of this partial record is due to the efforts of True
Pure Land sect-affiliated scholar-priest, Hanayama Shinshō (1898–
1995). Hanayama’s sectarian affiliation was no accident for this sect
had long provided the great majority of prison chaplains since the
formal establishment of a chaplaincy system in September 1881. In
1939, for example, 159 out of a total of 163 chaplains came from one
or the other of the two branches of the True Pure Land sect. As a
result, statues of Amitābha Buddha were enshrined in almost every
prison in Japan.9
Hanayama’s scholarly credentials derive from the fact that he
was a European-educated, widely published professor of Buddhist
Studies at Tokyo University. He accepted the additional duty of
Buddhist chaplain in Sugamo prison in February 1946. As such, he
was the only Japanese to have direct contact with all Japanese war
criminals condemned to death who were awaiting execution. Much of
the following account is based on Hanayama’s prison recollections
contained in The Road to Eternity – My Eighty-Two Years of Life
(Eien e no Michi – Waga Hachijū-nen no Shōgai), first published in
1982.

Hirota Kōki
Baron Hirota Kōki (1878–1948) began his adult career as a diplomat,
eventually rising to the post of ambassador to the Soviet Union from
1928–31 and then Japan’s foreign minister from 1933–6. In 1936 he
left diplomatic service to become the nation’s prime minister.
Although his cabinet lasted less than a year, Hirota was in office long
enough to treble the military’s budget and make secret arrangements
for increasing the army’s size from seventeen to twenty-four
divisions, a 41 per cent increase. He also took the initial steps to
place the economy on a wartime footing, employing deficit financing
to fund the military’s expansion. In short, it was Hirota who made it
militarily and financially possible for Japan to launch its full-scale
invasion of China in July 1937.
The collapse of his cabinet did not bring an end to Hirota’s
government service. On the contrary, he went on to become Japan’s
foreign minister once again, only this time the army was in the midst
of committing the Nanjing massacre and other atrocities. More than
anything else, it was Hirota’s connection to these atrocities that later
resulted in his becoming the only wartime civilian leader to be
sentenced to death as a war criminal. This said, one of the eleven
Allied judges, B. V. A. Roeling of the Netherlands, opposed his
conviction on the basis that Hirota could neither have known of the
atrocities nor prevented them.
Be that as it may, one further feature unique to Hirota was that, in
name at least, he was a Rinzai Zen priest. That is to say, while
Hirota’s childhood name was “Jōtarō,” he received the name ‘Kōki’
(lit. broad strength) upon entering the Zen priesthood while yet in
primary school. Significantly, even after leaving the Rinzai Zen
temple of Shōrinji in Gifu Prefecture where he trained, Hirota
retained both his priestly name and his Zen affiliation for the rest of
his life. Thus, formally at least, Hirota lived and died as a Zen priest.
It would, however, be mistaken to read too much into Hirota’s
priestly status, for he left Shōrinji during his middle school years and
eventually became a protégé of Tōyama Mitsuru, the notorious
ultranationalist leader previously introduced in chapter 4. It was
Tōyama’s connections to Japan’s political leaders that first enabled
Hirota to enter the diplomatic service and then move on to a political
career.
In prison, Hirota’s Zen affiliation was well-known to Hanayama
Shinshō who made no attempt to dissuade him from his faith. The
two men did, however, have the following exchange during their third
private meeting held on Friday afternoon, 26 November 1948:

Shinshō: Have you composed any poetry or put your thoughts down
on paper?
Hirota: Inasmuch as my record as a public official is there for all to
see, I have nothing to add at this point.… I simply want to die
naturally.… returning to nothingness (mu). Since I have already
said what had to be said and done what had to be done, I have
nothing more to say. Living naturally and dying naturally – that is
my creed.
Shinshō: I understand that you practiced Zen?
Hirota: Yes, I did as a youth, but from middle school onwards I
studied the teachings of Wang Yangming.
Shinshō: Well, his teachings are pretty close to Zen, aren’t they?
Hirota: Yes, they are.10

As tantalizing as the above exchange is, it offers little on which to

base an assessment of Zen’s influence on Hirota. Nevertheless,
Hirota’s hope to “die naturally … returning to nothingness” does
suggest that Zen was once again being used to overcome the fear of
death. Though no definitive answer is possible, the question must be
asked as to whether Hirota’s own acceptance of “nothingness” made
it easier for him to initiate policies that led to the deaths (i.e. the
return to nothingness) of millions.
To be sure, Hirota does mention that following his childhood
practice of Zen he studied the neo-Confucian philosophy of Wang
Yangming (1472–1529). As Shinshō noted, however, Wang
Yangming’s teachings share a deep affinity with Zen, not least of all
because Wang emphasized the importance of having a personal and
intuitive experience of the identity of self with all things. A book on
Wang entitled Life Chronology (Nian-pu) contains the following
description of his personal realization: “He [Wang] had already given
up and put behind him all thought of personal success or failure,
honour or disgrace, and only the question of life and death remained
to be overcome. Thus day and night he stayed in silent, solitary
meditation.…11 Shortly thereafter, Wang experienced “great
enlightenment,” leading him literally to jump for joy and give a shout,
awakening his amazed companions in the process. Wang claimed to
have realized that “the way to sagehood lies within one’s own
nature.”12
It was experiences like these that led contemporary scholar of
neo-Confucian thought Wing-tsit Chan to comment that the
philosophy of Wang and his predecessors “has often been called
Zen in Confucian disguise” though Chan added that Wang also
stressed “active involvement in human affairs and a dynamic
approach to the mind.”13 For Wang, however, mind meant essentially
the will, with sincerity of will being the critical element necessary to
all human endeavour. Believing this, Wang demanded of his
followers the utmost in determination, firm purpose, self-examination
and self-mastery, all grounded in personal experience and
expressed in “forthright, direct, and spontaneous action.”14
In this connection it may be well to recall the words of D. T.
Suzuki as he described the connection between Zen and Japan’s
warrior class:

Zen discipline is simple, direct, self-reliant, self-denying; its

ascetic tendency goes well with the fighting spirit. The fighter is
to be always single-minded with one object in view: to fight
looking neither forward nor sidewise. To go straight forward in
order to crush the enemy is all that is necessary for him…. Zen
is a religion of will-power, and will-power is what is urgently
needed of warriors, though it ought to be enlightened by
intuition.15

For his part, Wang Yangming claimed, albeit metaphorically, that he

had realized his own doctrines only after undergoing “a hundred
deaths and a thousand sufferings.”16
If, as appears to be the case, Zen and the Zen-influenced Wang
Yangming school were the two main spiritual influences on Hirota’s
formative years, we are faced yet again with the question of what
influence, if any, these “Siamese twins” exerted on his subsequent
embrace of militarism. Was Hirota, for example, able to apply such
things as “will-power,” “firm purpose,” and “forthright, direct, and
spontaneous action” to his militarist goals? Or did he, perhaps,
merely utilize intuitive insight, short-circuiting as it does the need for
rational thought, let alone concern for the moral consequences of
one’s acts. In the postwar era, Nakamura Hajime, one of Japan’s
greatest postwar scholars of Buddhism, described the danger
stemming from this latter way of thinking as follows:

The Japanese inclination to lay too much emphasis upon

particular facts or specific phases amounts to an anti-
intellectual standpoint of no theory or anti-theory. It ends up
with the contempt of rational thinking and the worship of
 uncontrolled intuitionism and activism. Herein lies the
intellectual cause of the failure of Japan in the past, and the
danger still lies in this direction today. In order not to repeat the
same failure, we ought from now on to learn to seek universal
“reason” through specific “facts.”17

There is, of course, no way of knowing how Hirota would have

responded to Nakamura’s words had he heard them. Yet, if the old
aphorism “where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” contains an element of
truth, then there may well be a deeper connection between Hirota
Kōki the militarist and Hirota Kōki the Zen priest than merely his
priestly name and childhood training. Leaving further exploration of
this question to the future, one must, at the very least, question
Hirota’s claim that dying on the gallows, let alone on the battlefield,
can legitimately be described as “dying naturally.”

Doihara Kenji
A second of the seven who had a clear Zen connection was General
Doihara Kenji, Commander of the Guandong (Kwantung) Army in
Manchuria from 1938–40. Doihara (1883–1948) was also a member
of the Supreme War Council from 1940–43 and army commander in
Singapore between 1944–5. Deeply involved in the army’s drug
trafficking in Manchuria, Doihara later ran brutal POW and internee
camps in Malaya, Sumatra, Java and Borneo.
In a meeting with Hanayama Shinshō held on Monday afternoon,
22 November 1948, Doihara described his interest in Zen as follows:

I started my practice of Zen in the Rinzai tradition as a youth

even though my family was Shinto. I both practiced zazen and
read Zen-related books.
On the one hand, I can say that I had a theoretical grasp of
such teachings as the unity of mind and matter, great
compassion, and “all is emptiness.” On the other hand, these
were not things that I had personally experienced.
 Recently, however, I have had the opportunity to read
repeatedly such materials as the biography of [True Pure Land
sect founder] St. Shinran [1173–1262], the three Pure Land
sūtras, and the Song of True Faith (Shōshinge). Further, having
devoured the biographies of [True Pure Land sect patriarch]
Rennyo [1415–99] and [Pure Land sect founder] Hōnen [1133–
1212], I have come to deeply realize that for people like me
there is no other method of salvation. As a result I have
fervently recited the name of Amitābha Buddha (nembutsu)
with the result that the more I did so the more grateful I
became.
Nevertheless, I think my practice was still incomplete. No
doubt this was because I was still attached to “life.” But when
my [death] sentence was announced, everything cleared up;
and I was able to devote myself completely to reciting the
name of Amitābha Buddha. The result is that I am now
overcome with the joy of the Dharma (hōetsu).18
Interestingly, Doihara was not content to gain assurance of his own
salvation. Rather, he urged his entire family to place their faith in the
Pure Land school. In explaining why this was so important to him, he
once again made use of his inability to gain salvation through Zen
and requested that a letter containing the following passage be given
to his family:

I think my children are well-suited for faith in the Pure Land.

Given that even I failed at Zen, there can be no doubt that my
children would fail as well. Further, reciting the name of
Amitābha Buddha creates peace within the family. Thus, if
family members will devote themselves to their occupations
based on the spirit of reciting the name of Amitābha Buddha,
the resulting spirit of gratitude will create in them a desire to
serve society. Within the home, this spirit will serve as the
foundation for all their acts bringing with it true happiness. For
this reason I ask my family to discard their present [Zen]
affiliation and embrace faith [in the Pure Land], seeking true
happiness for themselves.19
In reflecting on the above quote, one cannot help but be impressed
by Doihara’s deep, if newly found, faith in the Pure Land school. As
Doihara himself later admits, “Had I not been sentenced to death, I
probably would have never experienced the joy [of the Dharma].
Rather, I would have died without experiencing the true value of
life.”20
Given that Doihara was awaiting execution, few if any would
begrudge him the right to climb the gallows’ steps with peace of mind
however acquired. Yet, one searches in vain for the slightest
recognition on Doihara’s part that he had been part of a monstrous
military machine that had denied the right of millions of human
beings, both friend and foe, to face death with any “peace of mind”
whatsoever. That is to say, there is nothing in Doihara’s comments to
indicate that he felt personally responsible for Japan’s aggression, or
even that he recognized that Japan had been an aggressor. He did,
however, indicate his concern for the future when he noted that both
Japan and the Far East as a whole were then embroiled in the midst
of some “troublesome thoughts.”21
While Doihara did not elaborate on what these troublesome
thoughts might be, he was likely referring to the postwar spread of
left-wing thought in Japan and especially China, not to mention
Korea. “I sincerely pray,” Doihara wrote, “for the appearance of a
great man who can save us at this critical juncture.” Just who this
“great man” might be, Doihara did not say, but he nevertheless
finished his letter to his family with the all too familiar words, “May
the emperor live for ten thousand years!”22

Tōjō Hideki
Doihara was not alone in turning to faith in Pure Land Buddhism
while in prison. General Tōjō Hideki (1884–1948), no doubt the best
known of the seven, provides a second example of the influence of
this Buddhist school. Tōjō had first risen to prominence as
commander of Japan’s notoriously brutal military police (kempeitai)
in Manchuria in 1935. He went on to become a councillor in the
Manchurian Affairs Bureau in 1936; chief of staff of the Guandong
Army from 1937–8; vice minister of war in 1938; army minister from
1940–44 and, concurrently, prime minister from 1941–4. As far as
the Allies were concerned, Tōjō was the arch-instigator of the Asia-
Pacific War and, as such, his conviction and death sentence were
foregone conclusions.
On Thursday afternoon, 2 December 1948, Hanayama Shinshō
met Tōjō for the fourth time. In the course of their conversation,
Shinshō noted that Hirota was the only one of the seven facing death
to maintain his Zen affiliation. Hearing this, Tōjō replied:

I could never practice Zen, for I’m just an ordinary person.

Even such a distinguished [Sōtō Zen] monk as Ryōkan [1758–
1831] wrote:

I am happy knowing the salvation of Amitābha Buddha is

available to those as foolish as me.

Given this, it is unthinkable that I might realize enlightenment

through my own efforts (jiriki). I am deeply attached to
Ryōkan’s poem and repeat it frequently.23

Tōjō went on to explain why it was impossible for someone like him
to realize enlightenment on his own. He claimed it was because
“People like me are the stupidest of the stupid, the vilest of the
vile…. In the eyes of the Buddha I am an ‘extremely evil person’
(gokujū-akunin).”24 But just what had Tōjō done to make him so
“evil”? Tōjō explained:

For example, we human beings eat such things as meat and

rice, not realizing that they, too, have life. We need look no
further than food to realize that since we have to eat something
in order to live we are all “extremely evil persons.” If we fail to
realize this then we cannot understand the meaning of
“extremely evil persons” [as taught in the Pure Land sūtras]. In
reality it is our puny intelligence that is the source of the
problem. It is for this reason that intellectuals find it so difficult
to have faith.25
As far as Tōjō was concerned, his evil acts were none other than an
inevitable part of the human condition, i.e. the need to consume
other forms of life to survive. Thus, by virtue of being human, we are
all equally guilty. Tōjō did not, however, seek to deny all personal
responsibility for the war. On the contrary, at their very first meeting
on the afternoon of 18 November, Tōjō told Shinshō:

I feel relieved now that the trial is over and the question of
responsibility [for the war] has been decided. As far as my own
punishment is concerned, I feel it is appropriate. However, I do
regret that I was unable to shoulder the entire burden myself,
thereby making trouble for my colleagues. This is truly
regrettable. Yet, I take some comfort in the fact that during the
trial I was able to prevent His Majesty from becoming
implicated in the proceedings.26

Tōjō’s sense of war responsibility clearly extended no further than

his fellow colleagues in the government and the military, including of
course the emperor himself. It had nothing to do with a feeling of
remorse for the many millions who had died as a result of his orders.
In accordance with the traditional Japanese concept of duty, Tōjō
was doing no more than accepting responsibility for Japan’s defeat,
not for having launched the war in the first place. That he saw no
problem with the war itself is evident from his remark that “there will
come a time when, thanks to the level-headed comments of
informed people, the true meaning of Japan’s actions will finally
come to be appreciated. [Italics mine].27
While Tōjō did not acknowledge any pangs of conscience relating
to the war itself, he did identify one area of moral failing on his part,
i.e. the atrocities committed against prisoners of war. In his view, this
conduct was “extremely regrettable.” It was, furthermore, entirely his
fault, for he had “failed to drive home in the military both the ancient
Japanese spirit of benevolence as well as the emperor’s
graciousness.” Tōjō expressed the hope that the people of the world
would recognize that these atrocities stemmed from the erroneous
actions of only a portion of the military and were not representative
of the military as a whole, let alone the entire Japanese people.28
 No doubt there is much truth in Tōjō’s claim that neither the entire
Japanese military nor the Japanese people as a whole were brutal
rapists, sadistic torturers, and cold-blooded murderers of unarmed
civilians and prisoners of war. Equally, Tōjō himself cannot be held
solely responsible for the horror that was Japanese militarism, if for
no other reason than that, even during the war, he was not the
ultimate authority in Japan. This is demonstrated, among other
things, by his removal as both chief of the general staff and prime
minister in July 1944, more than a year before the war’s end. Clearly
this could not have occurred unless there were person(s) more
powerful than Tōjō acting behind the scenes.
Tōjō hinted at who at least one of these persons might have been
when he noted his satisfaction in having prevented questions related
to the emperor’s war responsibility from surfacing during the course
of his trial. Postponing the question of the emperor’s actual role for
later discussion, Tōjō’s acceptance of total responsibility for Japan’s
wartime actions can readily be seen as a way of shielding the
emperor from scrutiny even at the cost of his own life.
Inasmuch as Tōjō’s protection of the emperor was no more (or
less) than what was expected of a loyal subject, one might think that
Tōjō had been determined to do so from the day of Japan’s
surrender. This, however, was not the case, for Tōjō shot himself in
an attempted suicide on 11 September 1945 just as US military
police arrived at his home to arrest him. Tōjō explained the rationale
behind his act as follows: “Inasmuch as I had, in the Field Service
Code, directed my subordinates to choose death rather than become
a prisoner of war, I simply followed suit.”29
Ironically, it was only after having been nursed back to health in a
US military hospital that Tōjō became seriously interested in
Buddhism. Tōjō did, however, admit to having been nominally a
Buddhist since childhood, for his mother had been affiliated with the
True Pure Land sect even though his father identified with Shinto.
For Tōjō, Shinto was not a religion since it consisted in nothing more
than “showing respect for one’s ancestors.”30 On the other hand,
Tōjō had come to realize that “Buddhism was everything.”31 It even
held the key to world peace:
 Buddhist faith deals with the fundamental nature of human life.
It is only after resolving this fundamental nature that various
surface problems in society can be resolved.… Contemporary
politicians ought to read the Longer Amitābha Sūtra
(Daimuryōjū-kyō) in attempting to rejuvenate politics, for it is
this sūtra that explains the fundamental nature of life. People
talk of the “United Nations” and “world peace” but these things
will only be possible when human beings eliminate desire. It is
this that will create “peace” in society.
Desire is the true nature of human beings. Thus, the
establishment of the state is also a product of desire. When
such attractive words as the “existence of one’s country” or
“self-defense” are spoken, these too are an expression of the
state’s “desire.” In the final analysis this is what causes war.32

As interesting as Tōjō’s analysis is, if societal and world peace can

only be achieved following the elimination of human, let alone state,
“desire,” then the human race faces a very bleak future indeed. This
said, Tōjō’s words certainly indicate a dramatic change in a man who
only a few years previously had presided over the single largest and
most brutal (in terms of numbers killed) empire the peoples of Asia
have ever known. As for Tōjō’s newfound faith in Buddhism, it is
hard to escape the conclusion that it was “too little, and much too
late.”
Tōjō’s interest in Buddhism was not, however, primarily dictated
by his concern for establishing world peace. On the contrary, his
interest was essentially no different than that which had driven such
imperial soldiers as “god of war” (gunshin) Lt. Colonel Sugimoto
Gorō to practice Zen, namely as a method of overcoming the fear of
death. After noting that at the moment of execution there was no
need for sūtras of any kind, Tōjō added:

The only thing necessary is [the recitation of] “Namu Amida-

Butsu” (Homage to Amitābha Buddha). When you’ve reached
the end of the road, there is nothing other than “Namu Amida-
Butsu.” Human beings must transcend life and death [Italics
mine].33
When the time for his execution came, Shinshō reports that Tōjō first
shouted: “May His Majesty, the Emperor, live for ten thousand
years!” He then walked to the execution chamber where he climbed
the gallows’ steps at one minute past midnight on 23 December
1948. His last audible words were “Namu Amida-Butsu.”34

Matsui Iwane
The last of the seven to have a Zen connection, albeit a tenuous
one, was General Matsui Iwane (1878–1948). Matsui had been a
personal appointee of the emperor to the Geneva Disarmament
Conference of 1932–7 and then commander of the China
Expeditionary Force in 1937–8. It was troops under Matsui’s overall
command who committed the infamous Rape of Nanjing in
December 1937 and related atrocities. Although Matsui no longer
took an active role in military affairs after his retirement in 1938, he
was nevertheless held responsible by the War Crimes Tribunal for
his troops’ earlier actions.
Matsui’s Zen connection stemmed from the fact that he came
from a traditional samurai family. Like so many other warriors,
Matsui’s forebearers had been affiliated with the Zen school during
the Middle Ages. At the beginning of the Meiji period, however,
Matsui’s father consciously rejected his family’s Zen affiliation and
switched to Shinto exclusively. This switch was not untypical of an
era in which institutional Buddhism as a whole was severely
repressed by local and national government officials sympathetic to
Shinto. Though this repression was short-lived, it had some long-
lasting effects.35
Matsui himself drew closer to Buddhism in 1939 when he
personally ordered the construction of the Kōa Kannon temple on a
hillside outside of the city of Atami in Shizuoka Prefecture. The
temple’s connection to Japan’s wartime effort was apparent in its
name: “Avalokiteśvara for the Development of Asia.” On 24 February
1940 Matsui said the following at the temple’s formal dedication:
 The China Incident [of 1937 onwards] has resulted in massive
loss of life through the mutual killing of neighbouring friends.
This is the greatest tragedy of the last one thousand years.
Nevertheless this is a holy war to save the peoples of East
Asia.… Invoking the power of Avalokiteśvara, I pray for the
bright future of East Asia.36

Matsui also had a second and much larger ceramic statue of

Avalokiteśvara placed on the temple grounds next to the main
worship hall. This latter statue was approximately six feet tall and
made out of the blood-soaked earth the general had brought back
from his battlefields in China. He regarded it as a memorial to
“console the spirits” of both Japanese and Chinese war dead.
Having previously mourned the war dead of both countries,
Matsui was perhaps the best prepared of the seven to admit his own
war guilt. In the fourth conversation Matsui had with Shinshō on the
afternoon of 9 December 1948 he spoke at length about the events
at Nanjing:

I am deeply ashamed of the Nanjing Incident. After we entered

Nanjing, at the time of the memorial service for those who had
fallen in battle, I gave orders for the Chinese victims to be
included as well. However, from my chief of staff on down no
one understood what I was talking about, claiming that to do so
would have a disheartening effect on the morale of the
Japanese troops. Thus, the division commanders and their
subordinates did what they did.
In the Russo-Japanese war I served as a captain. The
division commanders then were incomparably better than
those at Nanjing. At that time we took good care of not only our
Chinese prisoners but our Russian prisoners as well. This time,
however, things didn’t happen that way.
Although I don’t think the government authorities planned it,
from the point of view of Bushido or simply humanity,
everything was totally different. Immediately after the memorial
service, I gathered my staff together and, as supreme
commander, shed tears of anger. Prince Asaka was there as
 well as theatre commander General Yanagawa. In any event, I
told them that the enhancement of imperial prestige we had
accomplished had been debased in a single stroke by the
riotous conduct of the troops.
Nevertheless, after I finished speaking they all laughed at
me. One of the division commanders even went so far as to
say, “It’s only to be expected!”
In light of this, I can only say that I am very pleased with
what is about to happen to me in the hope that it will cause
some soul-searching among just as many of those military men
present then as possible. In any event, things have ended up
as they have, and I can only say that I just want to die and be
reborn in the Pure Land.37

For those many Japanese political leaders and historians who even
today deny that anything like a rape of Nanjing ever occurred,
Matsui’s admission should make sober reading (assuming, of
course, these leaders were interested in the truth). This said, Matsui
clearly sought to distance himself from any personal responsibility for
what took place even though, as the senior military officer, he could
have always resigned his commission in protest. Instead, Matsui
returned to Japan in triumph and on 26 February 1938 was
summoned to the imperial summer villa in Hayama. There, in the
company of Hirohito’s granduncle, Prince Asaka Yasuhiko (1887–
1981), and General Yanagawa Heisuke [1879–1945], the emperor
personally awarded him a pair of silver vases embossed with the
imperial chrysanthemum. Matsui would later repay this imperial
beneficence when, in a pretrial deposition, he shifted blame for
events at Nanjing to lower ranking division commanders, thereby
protecting a prince of royal blood.38
None of this means, however, that Matsui’s faith in Avalokiteśvara
was any less sincere. In fact, his parting words to Shinshō on 9
December were: “I recently told my wife that the reason I am able to
be reborn in the Pure Land is due entirely to the compassion of
Avalokiteśvara, something for which I must be grateful.”39 Matsui
also mentioned that he had told his wife to return the family to the
Buddhist faith from Shinto, conducting all funerary rites accordingly.
Moreover, once his wife had died, his house was to be donated to
the temple he had established to provide for its upkeep.
It is interesting to note that Matsui was not the only one of the
seven who felt a special affinity to Avalokiteśvara. While perhaps not
with the same intensity, Tōjō Hideki also expressed his faith in this
bodhisattva though in a most unusual way. After having told Shinshō
yet again just how evil he was, Tōjō removed a handkerchief from
his pocket given to him by one of his American jailers and said:

Avalokiteśvara came to visit me unexpectedly in the form of

this handkerchief that was recently given to me. Avalokiteśvara
kindly changed herself into this form though I must admit I find
the whole thing very strange. I don’t mean to be superstitious,
and it may only be an accident, yet from the Buddha’s point of
view nothing is an accident.
You see, the brand name for this handkerchief is “Cannon,”
signifying an artillery weapon in English. However, pronounced
in Japanese, the same sounds properly stand for “Kannon”
[Avalokiteśvara]. It is for this reason that I say that
Avalokiteśvara kindly changed herself into this form.40

If in these words Tōjō appears to be literally grasping at straws, it

must not be forgotten that he was, after all, facing imminent death.
Thus, any signs of supernatural intervention, real or otherwise, could
not help but have been welcome. In addition, as incongruous as his
identification of artillery weapons with Avalokiteśvara, the Mahāyāna
personification of boundless compassion, may have been, it should
be remembered that during the war years, the Rinzai Zen sect had
done likewise. It revived a medieval sectarian practice of bestowing
the traditional military title of Shogun, i.e. Generalissimo, on this
same bodhisattva.41 Thus, Tōjō was by no means alone in his
identification of the personification of compassion with war.
Finally, for those readers who may find it strange that Matsui
looked to Avalokiteśvara rather than Amitābha Buddha for rebirth in
the Pure Land, Shinshō described a letter that had been sent to
Matsui in prison by Mitsunaga Taiyū, abbot of Zenkōji temple in
Nagano Prefecture. After pledging to worship Avalokiteśvara for as
long as he lived, Taiyū wrote: ‘Avalokiteśvara is identical with
Amitābha Buddha; Amitābha Buddha is identical with
Avalokiteśvara.” Upon hearing of Taiyū’s words from Shinshō, Matsui
replied, “Please tell that priest that it’s just as he said.”42

Itagaki Seishirō
The reader will recall from chapter 7 that as a young officer, Itagaki
Seishiro (1885–1948) had been interested in Zen. Nevertheless, in
later life General Itagaki changed allegiance to the Nichiren school,
the most overtly nationalist of Japan’s traditional Buddhist sects.
Itagaki had a long military career that included service as chief of
staff of the Guandong Army in 1636–7; army minister in 1938–9;
chief of the army general staff in 1939; commander in Korea in 1941;
membership on the Supreme War Council in 1943; and commander
in Singapore in 1945. Itagaki was also responsible for prison camps
in Java, Sumatra, Malaya, and Borneo where troops under his
command terrorized both military and civilian prisoners.
Itagaki’s switch to the Nichiren school was connected to his
acceptance of the apocalyptic world view advocated by another
famous Nichiren-affiliated military leader, General Ishiwara Kanji
(1889–1949). From May 1929 Itagaki assisted Ishiwara in drawing
up plans for the 1931–2 seizure of Manchuria and the establishment
of Japan’s puppet state of Manzhouguo (Manchukuo). According to
General Araki Sadao, then chief of the Operations Division of the
General Staff, Itagaki and Ishiwara were an ideal combination:
“Itagaki was a straightforward, uncomplicated fellow; Ishiwara was a
man of lightning intellect, but both got on well together.”43
In Ishiwara’s mind the establishment of Manzhouguo was the first
step in preparing for Japan’s inevitable confrontation with the USA,
inevitable because the USA was the chief source of the democratic
ideology threatening to undermine Japan’s founding principles
centred on the emperor. War with the USA would, he claimed, lead
to an unprecedented global world conflict, or “final war,” the
successful resolution of which would usher in a reign of universal
and eternal peace.
 Ishiwara had first developed these views after joining the National
Pillar Society (Kokuchū-kai) in 1920. Readers will recall from chapter
5 that this Buddhist lay society had been established by former
Nichiren sect priest Tanaka Chigaku in 1914. Tanaka propagated a
doctrine he called “Nichirenism” (Nichiren-shugi), a virulent mix of
Japanese nationalism (including anti-Semitism) and absolute faith in
the Lotus Sūtra. However, despite the centrality of the Lotus Sūtra,
Tanaka also preached the supremacy of the emperor and asserted
that Japan was the centre of the universe. This latter assertion led
Tanaka to proclaim: “Japan is the Truth of the World, Foundation of
Human Salvation, and Finality of the World.”44
With this background in mind, it possible to understand what
Itagaki meant when he shared his own “world-view” with Shinshō
during their fourth interview held on the afternoon of 9 December
1948:

Prior to the occurrence of the recent war, there were those who
claimed this would be the world’s final war, and I was one of
those who supported this idea, or better said, I was one of
those who believed it. We thought the world’s final war would
occur within twenty years. Japan had to prepare for that as well
as be ready for the final “peace” that would follow.
We did our very best to prepare for this. But, contrary to our
hopes, the China Incident occurred [in July 1937]. Recognizing
its seriousness, we sought to conclude this incident just as
soon as possible. At the time I was serving in the War Ministry
and tried my best [to resolve it] but failed. In the end it led to
World War II, and Japan lost its fighting power as far as the
“final war” is concerned.
If, as the prophets have foretold, a final world war does
occur, this will put Japan at a disadvantage now that it has
renounced war. On the other hand, if such a war makes it
possible for Japan to achieve its ideal of “true peace,” I think
we may have to endure it for a while.… In this event Japanese
Buddhism will have an extremely important role to play.45
The “prophets” Itagaki referred to are, of course, Nichiren in the first
instance as well as Tanaka Chikaku and Ishiwara Kanji among
others. Nichiren believed that as of the year 1050 CE the world had
entered a period of turmoil and degeneracy known as the “latter
Dharma” (mappō). In his Senjishō (Selection of the Time) Nichiren
predicted this would eventually lead to “a great struggle, unheard-of
in times past” (zendai mimon no dai-tōsō). This was the source of
Itagaki’s belief in a “final war” though the idea that it would occur
“within twenty years” can be traced to Ishiwara.
Nichiren also predicted that this great struggle would be followed
by a period of universal and eternal peace where the Lotus Sūtra
would reign supreme. Since, however, Nichiren believed that only he
had properly understood the Lotus Sūtra in the age of the latter
Dharma, Japan was destined to become the wellspring of true faith
for the entire world. Japan would become the wellspring of a new
“golden age” in which government and the Lotus Sūtra, as
interpreted by Nichiren, would unite as one to preside over world
regeneration, peace, and harmony.46 Here is the origin of Itagaki’s
claim that Japanese Buddhism would have a special role to play in
the coming era of true peace.
Given the fact that Itagaki was one of those primarily responsible
for conducting a war that had caused the deaths of upwards of ten
million Chinese, his claim to have sought to end Japan’s full-scale
invasion of China proper as quickly as he could rings hollow indeed.
Yet, it is true that his mentor, Ishiwara Kanji, did actively oppose war
with China to the point that, on 1 March 1941, then War Minister Tōjō
Hideki forced Ishiwara to retire from active duty despite Itagaki’s
attempts to protect his old friend and mentor.
It must be stressed, however, that neither Ishiwara nor Itagaki
were opposed to war itself, only a protracted war with China which
they feared would divert Japan’s attention and limited resources
away from its true enemies. Japan should, they argued, seek to
make China its ally in preparation for a possible war with the Soviet
Union over control of Manchuria. Manchurian resources had to be
retained in Japanese hands if Japan were to have any chance of
defeating it’s ultimate enemy, the United States. The war with China
simply didn’t fit in with Ishiwara and Itagaki’s Nichiren-based,
apocalyptic ideology of war and peace.
The American historian Mark Peattie sees a close connection
between Ishiwara’s fate and that of Kita Ikki, the Nichiren-affiliated
ultranationalist civilian ideologue who, the reader will recall, was
executed for his role in the Young Officers’ Uprising of February
1936. Peattie writes: “In their shared apocalyptic vision, their militant
sense of righteousness, their willingness to confront authority, their
disdain of consensus, and their ultimate banishment for their views,
they paid the price for their convictions.”47
Needless to say, in their intolerance of others these men were
doing no more than following the example of Nichiren himself. And
herein lies the ultimate irony of Nichiren-based nationalism, for as
“nation-centred” as it may be, it has never been wholeheartedly
embraced by the state due to its claim to be in exclusive possession
of religious truth. Down through the ages, Nichiren adherents have
put forth various social and religious views which they demanded the
state adopt en toto. While the modern Japanese state, at least
initially, welcomed Nichiren-inspired nationalism, it was ultimately no
more willing than its predecessors to subordinate itself to the dictates
of Nichiren leaders of whatever stripe. In short, the very doctrinal
support Nichiren adherents offered for assigning Japan a privileged
role in spreading the one and only “true faith” led to its repeated
rejection by the state.
Unlike Ishiwara, Itagaki did not pursue his faith in “Nichirenism” to
the point of being removed from active duty. Although he was given
lesser military commands due to his closeness to Ishiwara, he
nevertheless faithfully executed the orders of his military superiors to
the end of the war (hence he, rather than Ishiwara, was sentenced to
die as a war criminal). One thing Itagaki did retain from his previous
interest in Zen was the Zen-inspired view of life and death. During
his second interview with Shinshō on the afternoon of 22 November
1948, Itagaki explained his view as follows:

First of all, even though I die I will continue to live through my

descendants. Second, even though my outer form disappears,
I will become one with all of nature. That is to say, when the
 desires attached to this despicable body disappear, I will
become a god and a Buddha, one with eternal truth, one with
nature itself. Third, I have no doubt that history will vindicate
me, and thus I will not die. Therefore I believe my life and those
of the others [who are to die with me] to be eternal.48

Itagaki continued by explaining that even after death he was

determined to become a “nation-protecting spirit.” When Shinshō
asked him what he meant by the word “spirit” (tamashii), Itagaki
replied:

Out of trepidation I chose the word “spirit” instead of “god.”

When I spoke to my children I told them that when they are at
work on behalf of their country I will most certainly be there
beside them. By discarding my outer shell I will acquire
supernatural powers that can be used at any time. This is not a
claim I make myself. Rather, Śākyamuni Buddha said, “Be
diligent and acquire true awakening [enlightenment]. Don’t be
slothful!” His words may be a little different than mine, but that
is what he said nonetheless.49

When Shinshō next informed Itagaki that the execution date for
himself and the others had been postponed, Itagaki replied:

The postponement is annoying, for I would prefer that they kill

me as soon as possible. On the other hand, it does give me an
opportunity to come to a deeper appreciation of the debt of
gratitude I owe the Buddha. When life and death have been
transcended, one reaches this state of mind.50

And finally Itagaki handed a piece of calligraphy to Shinshō on which

he had written in Sino-Japanese: “The secular world is empty and
vain. The Buddha alone is Truth.”51

Mutō Akira
General Mutō Akira (1892–1948) was vice chief of staff of the China
Expeditionary Force in 1937; director of the Military Affairs Bureau in
1939–42; army commander in Sumatra in 1942–3; and army chief of
staff in the Philippines in 1944–5. Troops directly under his command
participated in both the Rape of Nanjing and the final Rape of Manila
at the time of the Allied counter-invasion in February and March of
1945.
Both of Mutō’s parents had been devoted adherents of the True
Pure Land sect of Buddhism, and as a child he had taken part in the
local temple’s annual spring festival celebrating the birth of
Śākyamuni Buddha. As a young officer, Mutō studied a number of
religious traditions on his own, starting with Pure Land, but including
Zen, Nichiren, and Christianity as well. Of these, Christianity
attracted him the least, but he made no formal commitment to any of
them.
Following his imprisonment, Mutō came to regret not only his own
personal indifference to religion but the indifference of society as a
whole. At his fourth meeting with Shinshō on the afternoon of 2
December 1948 he said: “Although the state concerns itself with
such things as politics and the economy, were it to take ‘religion’
more seriously, I think it would undergo a complete transformation.
Up to this point I have to admit that people like me have lived
thoughtlessly without paying much attention to men of religion,
heedlessly dismissing what they had to say.”52
Nevertheless, Mutō did admit to having resumed his childhood
practice of reciting the name of Amitābha Buddha. He did not claim,
however, to have “transcended life and death” like so many of the
others. On the contrary, he employed Zen imagery to show just how
attached he remained to life, saying:

For we human beings I think [attachment to life] is instinctive.

For those who are enlightened, it may well be [as sixteenth-
century Rinzai Zen master Kaisen Jōki said] that if you
extinguish the discriminating mind even fire is cool. Those of us
who are not enlightened, however, retain an instinctive
attachment to life no matter what. While we may overcome this
[attachment] intellectually, it is important to admit we have
 these feelings even though we be called unmanly or
cowardly.53

Despite his ongoing attachment to life, Mutō was ultimately able to

find a larger purpose to his death while, at the same time, reconciling
himself to its inevitability. He expressed his feelings in the following
poem:

To become a pillar of peace is an extreme honor

for someone as insignificant as me.
Inasmuch as I should have died on the islands to the South,
how can I be reluctant to lose my life?54

True to his somewhat ambivalent attitude toward religion, Mutō

shared the following at his last individual meeting with Shinshō on
the morning of 22 December 1948, less than twenty-four hours
before he and his six companions were scheduled to be hung. Mutō
said: “I don’t know whether the Buddha exists or not, but without
really meaning to do so I have been repeating “Namu Amida-Butsu.”
You know, without really meaning to do so.”55

Kimura Heitarō
General Kimura Heitarō (18881948) was chief of staff of the
Guandong Army in 1940–1; vice minister of war in 1941–3; a
member of the Supreme War Council in 1943; and army commander
in Burma in 1944–5. Kimura helped plan the China and Pacific wars,
including the numerous surprise attacks which played such a
prominent role in it. Involved in the brutalization of Allied POWs,
Kimura was the field commander in Burma when civilian and POW
slave labour died in the construction of the Siam-Burma Railway
including, of course, the infamous “Bridge on the River Kwai.”
Of the seven, Kimura was the closest to being a Christian. This
was, due more to the influence of his family members, however, than
his own inclinations. His mother, younger sister, and daughter either
had been or were Roman Catholics, and his wife was also
sympathetic to this faith. One manifestation of this was that his family
members asked a German priest to visit Kimura in prison in hopes
that he would agree to be baptized prior to his execution. Kimura,
however, refused to do so, and he later explained why to Shinshō at
their first meeting on 19 November 1948. “I do have faith,” Kimura
said, “but I haven’t chosen any particular religion, be it ‘Buddhism’ or
‘Christianity.’“56
Because Kimura, at the age of sixty-one, was hearing-impaired,
Shinshō found it difficult to communicate with him. Hence, nearly all
of their relatively short conversations were concerned either with his
family or events related to his impending execution. Perhaps the
person who was most concerned with Kimura’s religious faith was
his 20-year-old Christian daughter, Yuriko. On 10 December 1948,
Yuriko was waiting for Shinshō’s arrival at the entrance to Sugamo
Prison. She told him: “I’m concerned that because I believe in
Christianity and my father is following Buddhism, he may feel
constrained about leaving any words behind for his family. Please tell
him not to fail to leave behind his teachings for us.”57
Shinshō agreed to do so, and Kimura left behind a number of
letters for his family including this parting poem:

I pray that this mortal frame

may be reborn seven times,
as a pillar of peace to repay
the debt of gratitude I owe my country.58

Emperor Hirohito
Needless to say, Emperor Hirohito was never indicted, much less
convicted, as a war criminal at the Tokyo War Crimes Tribunal. In
fact, his wartime role was never examined by the Allies in any public
forum. Nevertheless, as American historian Herbert Bix has
convincingly demonstrated in his recent book Hirohito and the
Making of Modern Japan: “From the very start of the Asia-Pacific
war, the emperor was a major protagonist of the events going on
around him.”59
 In reaching this conclusion, Bix dispels the postwar myth that the
emperor was a helpless puppet in the hands of the military and
suggests that the real reason Hirohito’s wartime role escaped
scrutiny was, once again, due to Cold War-induced political
expediency on the part of the USA and its western allies.60 This
parallels Tōjō’s previous testimony that he took satisfaction in
“having not implicated the emperor during the course of the trial.”
While, thanks to Bix’s book, the question of Hirohito’s war
responsibility has been established at last, there was a related,
almost unbelievable, plan that is far less known, a plan that would
have seen Hirohito become a Buddhist priest in postwar years. It is
unbelievable because wartime Shinto-based mythology portrayed
Hirohito as a “living god” (arahito-gami), the latest in Japan’s
allegedly “unbroken line” of divine emperors extending back for
some 2,600 years. Given this, it seems preposterous to think that
either Emperor Hirohito or his advisers would ever have entertained
the idea that a living god might transmute into a mortal Buddhist
priest. Yet, preposterous or not, the historical reality is that it was
given serious consideration.
The reasoning behind this consideration was that, like his loyal
subjects introduced above, Hirohito might be tried as a war criminal.
The worst case scenario envisioned the possibility that the victorious
Allies would do away with the imperial institution altogether. In the
minds of Hirohito and his advisers, the imperial institution had to be
saved at all costs. But could Buddhism help preserve the throne?
A number of Hirohito’s confidants, centred on Prince (and twice
prime minister) Konoe Fumimarō (1891–1945), thought it could. On
20 January 1945 Konoe made an unexpected visit to the Shingon
sect-affiliated temple of Ninnaji in Kyoto, ostensively to pray for “the
completion of the holy war.” Ninnaji was the ancestral temple of
Konoe’s noble family, descendants of the Fujiwara clan who had
served and intermarried with the imperial family since the seventh
century. More importantly, Ninnaji had an impressive imperial
pedigree in that it had been founded in 888 CE by Emperor Uda (r.
887–97) who later moved his palace inside the temple precincts and
assumed the title of “Hō-ō” (Skt. Dharma Rāja or Dharma King), a
traditional title for kings in India, China, and Japan who took upon
themselves the role of protector of Buddhism. In Japan, the title Hō-ō
was bestowed on an emperor once he entered the priesthood upon
retirement.
Konoe, following his prayers for victory, convened a secret
meeting at his nearby villa. Apart from himself, the other three
participants were Navy Minister and Admiral Yonai Mitsumasa
(1880–1948), former prime minister Okada Keisuke (1868–1952)
and Ninnaji’s abbot, Okamoto Jikō (1867–1957). Jikō was both the
thirty-ninth in the line of Ninnaji abbots and the administrative head
of the Omuro branch of the Shingon sect comprising some 800
temples in all. Konoe opened the meeting by saying: “In light of the
precedent established by Dharma King Uda, I would like to propose
that His Majesty be invited to Ninnaji to enter the priesthood. I can’t
imagine that the Allies would bother an emperor who had become a
priest.”61
All present supported Konoe’s proposal including Jikō who
agreed to step aside for the sake of the emperor, bestowing on him
the priestly name of “Yū-nin Hō-ō.” Yū-nin, meaning “abundant
benevolence,” was an alternative Chinese-derived pronunciation of
the same Chinese characters used for Hirohito’s secular name.
Following this meeting, Konoe sought the support of Prince
Takamatsu (1905–87), the emperor’s second brother and a
professional naval officer. Takamatsu’s support was critical; for
according to Konoe’s plan, Hirohito would abdicate in favour of his
small son, Akihito, while Takamatsu took over as regent until Akihito
reached majority.
Once installed as Ninnaji’s new abbot, Hirohito would devote the
rest of his life to praying for the repose of the souls of all those who
had given their lives in his service. Hirohito biographer Edward Behr
records that Konoe spent nine hours trying to convince Takamatsu of
the wisdom of his plan but to no avail. How, Takamatsu asked, could
the Americans and British, who were Christians, be expected to
understand the religious motivation behind an emperor giving up his
throne in order to become a Buddhist priest? Weren’t the Allies more
likely to regard Hirohito’s move as an attempt to escape war
responsibility, thereby actually confirming his guilt in their eyes? The
plan, he felt, was simply too risky to be implemented.62
Failing to gain either Takamatsu’s support or that of other leading
members of the emperor’s inner circle, Konoe was ultimately forced
to abandon his plan. It must be stressed, however, that this
abandonment had nothing to do with the appropriateness of using
the Buddhist priesthood as a means of protecting a possible war
criminal. The fact that millions had been ordered to their deaths in
the emperor’s name was, morally speaking, of no more concern to
Konoe than it was to Ninnaji’s abbot, Okamoto Jikō, even though
Buddhist precepts require the expulsion from the Saṃgha of any
member who is guilty of taking human life. In agreeing to step aside,
Jikō was doing no more than following a tradition of Buddhist
subservience to the state that in his own temple’s case already had a
history of more than a thousand years.
Ironically, it was Konoe, not the emperor, whom the Allies chose
to investigate as a possible war criminal. Faced with the prospect of
being questioned about his wartime role, Konoe chose suicide by
swallowing a cyanide capsule in the early morning hours of 15
December 1945. The question of the emperor’s war responsibility, on
the other hand, was never once raised by Allied prosecutors during
the two-and-a-half years of the Tokyo War Crimes Tribunal. At no
time did the Allies propose that Hirohito step down or accept the
least responsibility for his wartime actions. Thus, at least this time,
Buddhism did not become the last refuge for a man whom many, this
author among them, regard as having been Japan’s greatest war
criminal.63

Conclusion

Tsuji Masanobu
Let me first note that, as strange as it may seem, Tsuji Masanobu’s
imitation of a Buddhist priest did not end in postwar Bangkok. In
1961 Tsuji, still a member of the Upper House of the Japanese Diet,
once again donned the saffron robes of a Theravādan monk in the
Laotian capital of Vientiane. This time, however, Tsuji’s disguise was
even less convincing than before. For one thing he had been unable
to find any robes in Vientiane long enough to fit his relatively large
frame. Second, he was wearing a style of eyeglasses not seen in
Laos, where almost no priests wore glasses in the first place. And
finally, Tsuji once again refused to shave his eyebrows as was also
the custom for Laotian monks. In short, Tsuji was inviting trouble if he
seriously hoped to convince anyone in Laos that he was a monk. But
just why was he trying to disguise himself in the first place?
The answer once again involved war though this time it was not a
war of Japan’s making. Instead, Tsuji’s concern was the civil war
raging in neighbouring Vietnam. Specifically, he had come to Laos in
order to gather intelligence on Vietnam in advance of a meeting
between Japanese Prime Minister Ikeda Hayato (1899–1965) and
President John F. Kennedy scheduled for May 1961. Based on past
experience, Tsuji realized there was no better way of moving freely
through roadblocks, checkpoints, and even across borders, than
dressed in a monk’s robes. Tsuji expressed a desire to visit Hanoi in
order to meet Ho Chi Minh. “When I meet President Ho Chi Minh,”
he said, “I will try to convince him to stop this stupid war between the
north and the south since both parties to it are Vietnamese.”64
The last time Tsuji was seen alive was early on the morning of 21
April 1961. Two Japanese residents of Vientiene drove him to the
city’s outskirts where he met a Laotian priest who had agreed to
serve as his guide. The two of them quickly disappeared into the
mists of the Laotian highlands as they walked along the road leading
to Luang Prabang.
Various theories have been put forward as to what happened to
Tsuji next. One theory claims that he was captured and eventually
executed as a spy by Communist Pathet Lao soldiers. A second
theory asserts that he was killed by the CIA. A third theory has him
reaching Hanoi and then leading North Vietnamese troops into
battle. Nevertheless, in the absence of anything to indicate that he
was still alive, Japanese courts declared him officially dead seven
years later, on 20 July 1968. He would have been 65 years old.
 Tsuji, it appears, was quite aware of the possibility he would not
return. In March 1961, just one month before his departure for Laos,
Tsuji visited the Sōtō Zen temple of Jiganji in Osaka to make a
somewhat unusual request. He informed the abbot, Ōtake Ippō, that
he wanted to change his sectarian affiliation from the True Pure Land
to the Sōtō Zen sect. The reason Tsuji gave was that he was
dissatisfied with the shortness of the posthumous Buddhist names
bestowed on the deceased in the True Pure Land sect. Instead, he
wanted a longer name as was customary in the Sōtō sect. Ippō,
impressed with his earnestness, accepted Tsuji into the Sōtō sect
and informed him that upon death he would receive the posthumous
name of “Layman Radiant Nation Masanobu [residing in] the Temple
of Great Serenity.” Ippō added, “I felt something Zenlike about Tsuji’s
features and the way he moved his body”65
If there was indeed something “Zen-like” about Tsuji, it may have
been best captured by D. T. Suzuki in his description of Zen-
influenced warriors:

Zen did not necessarily argue with [warriors] about the

immortality of the soul or righteousness or the divine way or
ethical conduct, but it simply urged going ahead with whatever
conclusion rational or irrational a man has arrived at.
Philosophy may safely be left with intellectual minds; Zen
wants to act, and the most effective act, once the mind is made
up, is to go on without looking backward. In this respect, Zen is
indeed the religion of the samurai warrior [Italics mine].66

If Suzuki’s description may be taken as a model for the life of a Zen-

inspired warrior, it would be difficult to deny that Tsuji Masanobu had,
throughout his life, embodied it to the full. To those who would argue
that despite his belated switch to Sōtō Zen, Tsuji never formally
underwent Zen training, Suzuki had this to say:

The spirit of the samurai deeply breathing Zen into itself

propagated its philosophy even among the masses. The latter,
even when they were not particularly trained in the way of the
 warrior, have imbibed his spirit and are ready to sacrifice their
lives for any cause they think worthy.67

As quixotic as his final imitation of a Buddhist priest appears to have

been, Tsuji was fully prepared to sacrifice his life for a cause he, at
least, found worthy.

Class A war criminals

In reflecting on the similarities between the Class A war criminals
described above, we find that in their final days, at least six of the
seven found spiritual solace in the Buddhist faith. Yet, with the
possible exception of Itagaki Seishirō, it cannot be claimed that
Buddhism per se served as the inspiration for any of them to
participate in aggressive warfare. As for Itagaki, it is certainly
debatable as to whether his adherence to Ishiwara Kanji’s
apocalyptic vision of a “final war” is an authentic expression of the
Nichiren tradition. No less debatable is the question of whether
Nichiren-inspired nationalism is an authentic expression of the
Buddha Dharma. As interesting as these questions are, they lay
beyond the scope of this book.
Few people would deny the right of condemned men to seek in
religious faith a means of reconciling themselves to their impending
death. Even their Allied executioners made certain that the spiritual
needs of the condemned were ministered to. It is nevertheless
striking to see how many of the condemned consciously looked to
Buddhism, regardless of sectarian affiliation, as a means of
transcending life and death. As previously revealed in chapter 7, this
is exactly what led the Japanese military to incorporate the Zen
teaching on life and death into such military documents as the Field
Service Code.
It is also striking that, their faith in Buddhism notwithstanding, few
if any of the condemned assumed moral responsibility for their acts.
Matsui Iwane appears to have been the exception in that he
genuinely regretted the brutality of the Japanese military following
the fall of Nanking in 1937. Yet, he goes on to absolve himself of any
personal responsibility, claiming that he was helpless in the face of
his subordinates’ unwillingness to restrain their troops. For his part,
Tōjō Hideki appears to have come to regard himself as an
“extremely evil person,” at least within the Pure Land understanding
of that term. Yet, he was equally convinced that despite the millions
who died following his orders, “the true meaning of Japan’s actions
will finally come to be appreciated.”
Whatever their differences, Matsui and Tōjō did share one thing
in common, i.e. the strong Shinto influence exerted on them through
their fathers. Given the ultranationalist and emperor-centric features
found in prewar State Shinto, it is not surprising that they, as senior
officers in what was known as the “emperor’s military” (kōgun),
should have been attracted to this faith. Yet, Shinto is a religion that
offers surprisingly little spiritual solace to men facing the hangman’s
noose. Buddhism, on the other hand, especially in its True Pure
Land formulation, offers the promise of personal salvation to all who
seek it no matter how “evil” they might have been in the past.
Some readers may find it strange, or at least incongruous, to see
how many of the condemned ultimately turned to the True Pure Land
school for spiritual sustenance, especially when a number of them
had earlier practiced Zen. Does the Pure Land school, like Zen, have
a militarist dimension as well?
The reader will recall a previous discussion of this question at the
beginning of chapter 8. It was there Satō Gan’ei was quoted as
having said, “I think that for military men of today who wish to calm
their minds … only the Zen and True Pure Land sects can meet their
needs.” Further, as noted in the introduction to chapter 9, some of
Japan’s earliest military chaplains were itinerant Pure Land priests.
Not only that, but the historical reality is that over the centuries some
of Japan’s fiercest battles have been fought by adherents of the True
Pure Land sect.68
Readers of Zen at War will recall the deep impression Pure Land
faith made on the Japanese officer corps during the Russo-
Japanese War of 1904–5 as they observed the way in which
adherents of this school were able, even though seriously wounded,
to die on the battlefield without crying out for help. Instead, they
simply recited Namu Amida-Butsu. “I was deeply moved,” said
General Hayashi Senjūrō (1876–1943), “by the power of the
Buddhist faith as revealed in these soldiers’ actions.”69
Yet, what exactly was it that made the Pure Land faith so
attractive to Japan’s modern soldiers? The noted True Pure Land
scholar-priest Ōsuga Shūdō (1876–1962) explained the underlying
rationale as follows:

Reciting the name of Amitābha Buddha makes it possible to

march onto the battlefield firm in the belief that death will bring
rebirth in paradise. Being prepared for death, one can fight
strenuously, knowing that it is a just fight, a fight employing the
compassionate mind of the Buddha, the fight of a loyal subject.
Truly, what could be more fortunate than knowing that, should
you die, a welcome awaits in the Pure Land of Amitābha
Buddha?70

If there is a difference between Zen and the Pure Land tradition, it is

simply this: Zen-influenced warriors were promised that by
undergoing spartan, demanding, and highly regimented Zen
practice, most especially the meditative practice of zazen, they
would acquire a form of spiritual power that would directly enhance
their martial prowess on the battlefield. Pure Land leaders, on the
other hand, did not promise to make them better fighters, but they
did offer “peace of mind” based on guaranteed entrance into
paradise upon death. The common factor in both schools was their
provision of a method for “transcending life and death.”
Interestingly, generals like Doihara Kenji and Tōjō Hideki were
not the only military men to have turned to the True Pure Land
school in defeat, having decided that Zen salvation acquired through
their own efforts was not possible for them. General Imamura
Hitoshi, first introduced in chapter 7, was also attracted to Pure Land
in the postwar era. Imamura’s biographer, Tsunoda Fusako, noted
that “[Imamura] was deeply moved by the idea of universal salvation
as taught by Shinran.” Yet, she also quoted Imamura as saying:
“Having failed to bring victory to the nation, I must bear the great sin
of causing many of my troops to die meaninglessly. After death I will
be unable to go to either the Pure Land or Heaven.”71 Tsunoda
explained the contradiction by claiming that Imamura had too strong
a sense of responsibility to unconditionally accept the Pure Land
tradition’s offer of universal salvation.
Finally, it is noteworthy that the Pure Land faith was not only
attractive to right-wing military men. Even a left-wing Rinzai Zen
priest, Mineo Setsudō (1885–1919), found himself turning to it when
facing a similarly hopeless situation. Setsudō had been sentenced to
life imprisonment for his role in the “High Treason Incident,”
(Taigyaku Jiken) of 1910, an alleged anarcho-Communist plot to
assassinate Emperor Meiji. While in prison, Setsudō wrote “A
Passage on My Repentance” (Waga Zange no Issetsu) in which,
after reflecting on his own weakness, he declared his faith in the
vows made by Amitābha Buddha.72 If, as D. T. Suzuki claims, Zen is
a religion for those who seek an “iron will,” then the Pure Land
tradition is for those who discover that iron wills are of little value to
the vanquished.

Hirohito and D. T. Suzuki

While, ultimately, Hirohito did not enter the Buddhist priesthood, this
did not signify a lack of interest in Buddhism on his part. In fact, only
eight months after Japan’s surrender, Hirohito summoned no less an
authority on Buddhism than D. T. Suzuki to instruct both him and
Empress Nagako in the fundamentals of this faith. Suzuki delivered
his lectures before their Royal Highnesses on 23–4 April 1946.
Fortunately, Suzuki published the content of his lectures, with
some additions, the following year in a 136-page booklet entitled An
Outline of Buddhism (Bukkyō no Tai-i). As its name suggests, it was
a general introduction to Buddhist thought, not unlike what one might
received today in an introductory course on Eastern religions. It did,
however contain some surprises.
In the first instance, Suzuki took pains to defend Buddhism in
particular, and religion in general, from those who asserted that
religious belief was no more than superstition or
 even worse, religion is an opiate used by capitalists and
bureaucrats to intoxicate the masses so as to make them act
blindly, doing just as they are told. Those who reject religion
think that god(s) are no more than objects toward whom one
prays for selfish reasons.73

Needless to say, Suzuki is describing the militantly atheistic stance

of Japan’s newly reorganized Communist Party, the only sizable,
prewar political organization to have spoken out, albeit ineffectually,
in opposition to Japan’s military aggression. Given the fervent and
unconditional support for Japanese militarism that characterized all
of Japan’s religious traditions, from Buddhism and Shinto up to and
including Christianity, it is hardly surprising that the Communist credo
was attracting an increasing number of followers in 1946, especially
given the desperate poverty in which the majority of the Japanese
people found themselves.
To counter arguments like these, Suzuki emphasized the
importance of a proper understanding of the “spiritual world”
(reiseiteki sekai). According to Suzuki, this understanding could be
acquired through “intuition that transcended discriminating thought,”
by realizing that the spiritual world and the ordinary world of our daily
experience are “only one world.” Misfortune (fukō) comes to human
beings from the fact that “they think that the spiritual world and the
discriminating world of the senses mutually clash with one another
when what is needed is to penetrate through to the harmonious
world of a single reality.”74
Suzuki admitted that the term “spiritual world” was a designation
he had given to such Buddhist terms as: “Nirvāṇa,” “realizing
Buddhahood,” “rebirth in the Pure Land,” etc. He warned, however,
against the common (mis)understanding of these terms: these words
should not be thought of as representing a world entered into only
after death. The spiritual world Suzuki described could be entered in
this life if “as the Zennists say, one kills the intellect.”75
Suzuki explained the importance of killing the intellect as follows:
 The world of analysis and discrimination is ruled over by the
firm conviction of the existence of the self. Thus, as long as
one does not slay the self, it is impossible to enter the world of
non-discrimination and equality. The killing of the intellect is
none other than the slaying of the self.76

Lest his words sound too warlike, Suzuki hastened to explain that
the killing of the intellect really meant the transcendence of the
intellect, something accomplished by the realization of a state of “no
mind” (mushin) or “no thought” (munen). Should all of this remain too
abstract, Suzuki quoted an unnamed Zen master who said: “Give the
discriminating mind that is always spouting off about something or
other a sound trouncing. Then feed what’s left to the dogs!”77
Readers familiar with Suzuki’s other writings will recognize the
preceding comments as merely representative of his overall thinking,
including the fact that he seldom if ever suggested that meditation,
i.e. zazen, was either necessary or even desirable for someone
seeking to enter the spiritual world. Also missing, of course, were his
wartime comments identifying the warrior class as “the most
Japanese-like” of all classes and asserting that most of Japan’s
problems could be solved instantly “if the warrior spirit, in its purity,
were to be imbibed by all classes in Japan.”
Nevertheless, at the end of his second lecture, Suzuki once again
attempted to apply Buddhist doctrine to the political realm. This time,
however, he came to a dramatically different conclusion. “We must,”
Suzuki claimed, “expand our vision beyond the confines of the
nation-state as a vehicle for group living to include a ‘world
government’ or a ‘world state.’” The relationship of Buddhist doctrine
to such a state Suzuki explained as follows:

The ego of the nation-state is a form of self-attachment.

Wherever the self exists there is always fighting. The reason
for this is that those who cut themselves off from the world and
don’t know what is going on cannot help but be filled with fear
and suspicion. At the same time they engage in the conceit of
exaggerating their own importance. It is only natural that those
who block the road leading to the outside world should end up
 like this. The final result is that they bring about the ravages of
war.78

One can only speculate on the reaction of their Royal Highnesses to

Suzuki’s proposal for the creation of a “world state.” After all, it is
difficult to envision a place for either an “emperor,” much less an
“empress,” in such a state. Perhaps that was exactly the message
Suzuki intended to deliver. One would like to believe that he had
learned something from the many millions who had “transcended life
and death” to die selflessly for the emperor and state. Yet, if Suzuki
had ultimately come to the realization that the state’s ego was a form
of self-attachment, the human cost of such a realization was very
high indeed.
On the other hand, a more cynical observer might argue that not
only Suzuki but the emperor himself were but adapting themselves
to the new realities of a postwar Japan in which a commitment to
peace was not only expected but required by the Allied Occupation
authorities. Among other things, this meant that Hirohito had to
distance himself from his former close association with the Shinto
faith.
On 1 January 1946 Hirohito was forced, in his New Year’s
greetings, to renounce his Shinto-derived status as a living god.
Then, only six days after the second of Suzuki’s lectures, the
Occupation authorities ordered Hirohito to cease honouring Japan’s
war dead through visitations to the Shinto-affiliated Yasukuni shrine
in Tokyo where these “heroic spirits” (eirei) were enshrined.
Seen in this light, calling on Suzuki, whose prewar writings were
already known and respected in the West, to deliver lectures on
Buddhism at the imperial palace may well have been part of the
larger effort then underway to “salvage the imperial mystique.”79
Were this the case, Suzuki was but doing his part in assisting yet
another “war criminal” to take refuge in Buddhism.
 11

BUDDHISM – A TOP SECRET

RELIGION IN WARTIME JAPAN

On a winter’s day in early 1999 I was conducting research deep in

the bowels of the library at Hitotsubashi University in Tokyo. In the
midst of searching for a dictionary on leading ultranationalists in
prewar Japan, I came across a book, the title of which immediately
caught my eye: Buddhism and Social Movements (Bukkyō to Shakai
Undō). What, I wondered, was a book on Buddhism doing in a
section of the library devoted to right-wing political organizations and
personages?
Out of curiosity, I opened the book to find that it had been
published in February 1939 by the Criminal Affairs Bureau of the
Ministry of Justice. Its author was listed as Ogata Hiroshi, a public
prosecutor in the Kanazawa district court system. What really
surprised me was the stamp on the book’s inner cover: “Top Secret”
(Gokuhi). What, I asked myself, could possibly have made Buddhism
in wartime Japan such a sensitive topic that a top secret designation
was required to read about it?
Inasmuch as the book consisted of 497 pages in all, no more
than a fraction of its content can be introduced here. Thus, I have
chosen to focus on only two aspects of the book’s contents. The first
aspect concerns what the Japanese government feared in
Buddhism, i.e. what the government feared from both left-wing and
right-wing Buddhists whom it viewed as threats to public security.
The second aspect focuses on the book’s conclusions, for here
was an official government document that spelled out in some detail
the role Buddhism was expected to play in Japan. If there were any
question that the Japanese government opposed Buddhism during
the war years, this section of the book should lay that issue to rest.
There were, however, clear government expectations of the social,
political and even religious values which a truly Japanese Buddhism
should embrace. The crucial question is – did the government get
what it wanted?

The Ministry of Justice’s fears

Fear of the Left

Significantly, Ogata added the following subtitle to his book:
“Primarily Concerned with the Incident Involving the ‘Youth League
for Revitalizing Buddhism’ (Shinkō Bukkyō Seinen Dōmei)” As this
subtitle and the more than 200 pages devoted to this topic reveal,
the original impetus for Ogata’s book came from the government’s
October 1937 crackdown on this pan-Buddhist reform group.
Inasmuch as I had previously introduced the League and its activities
in Zen at War, I was curious to see what the League looked like from
the government’s viewpoint.1 Just what was it that made the League
such a threat?
Since some readers may not have seen this original introduction,
let me begin with an excerpt from the League’s founding declaration
as made public on 5 April 1931 by the League’s chairman, Nichiren
lay activist Seno’o Giro (1889–1961):

A revitalized Buddhism must deny currently existing Buddhism

which has already lost its capacity for confrontation while, at
the same time, calling on all Buddhists to return to the Buddha.
A revitalized Buddhism must recognize that the suffering in
present-day society comes chiefly from the capitalist economic
system and must be willing to cooperate in a fundamental
reform of this system, working to preserve the well-being of the
masses. We must revolutionize bourgeois Buddhism and
change it to a Buddhism for the masses.2
Between 1931 and 1934, the League published a total of six
pamphlets detailing its positions on various issues. Of these six, two
were written by Seno’o himself and the others by leading League
members. Not surprisingly, Seno’o wrote the first pamphlet published
which was entitled simply: “A Lecture on the Revitalization of
Buddhism” (Shinkō Bukkyō no Teishō). In this pamphlet he
presented a more detailed rationale for the founding of the League
together with the doctrinal basis of its program.
A second pamphlet by Seno’o, published in 1933, was entitled:
“On the Road to Social Reform and the Revitalization of Buddhism”
(Shakai Henkaku Tojō no Shinkō Bukkyō). As its name implies,
Seno’o focused on the need for social reform based on a Buddhist
understanding. For example, he put forth the proposition that
international cooperation, rather than narrow nationalism, was the
Buddhist approach to world peace. When nations seek only to
promote themselves, he wrote, they inevitably resort, sooner or later,
to military force to achieve their self-centred goals. Such efforts,
Seno’o stated, were clearly at odds with the Buddhist doctrine of
“selflessness” (muga).
Seno’o maintained that the ideal Buddhist society, i.e. the
Saṃgha, was a communal organization. As such it was in direct
contradiction to the personal acquisitiveness fostered by a capitalist
economic system. In particular, Seno’o saw Buddhist temples as the
natural agents for the promotion of such a communal society in
Japan.
Together with the capitalist system, it was Japanese Buddhism’s
leaders who came in for the harshest criticism. Among other things,
Seno’o accused sectarian leaders of having turned the central object
of worship in each of their sects (e.g. Amitābha Buddha in the True
Pure Land sect) into absolute deities who had the power to “save”
the faithful. According to Seno’o, early Buddhism was clearly
atheistic in orientation, with no place for salvation figures to act as
religious opiates.
In addition, Seno’o accused temple priests of being “sermon
thieves” (sekkyō dorobō). They deserved this title, in his opinion,
because they took the position that social ills and inequities could all
be solved, if only people would become more spiritually inclined.
Behind the scenes, however, these same priests took care to insure
that they themselves were well provided for through their solicitation
of large donations. In so doing they effectively became pawns of the
ruling classes who used their services to help support the status quo.
For Seno’o there was little if no hope that currently existing
Buddhism would be able to reform itself from within. He made this
clear in the final sentences of his pamphlet:

As the saying goes, one should not serve new wine from old
wineskins. Members of the Youth League for Revitalizing
Buddhism should advance resolutely. You should carry the
Buddha on your backs and go out into the streets! Go out into
the farm and fishing villages!3

Needless to say, sentiments like these were no more welcomed by

the Japanese government than they were by institutional Buddhist
leaders. The government moved to censor the League’s organ,
Revitalized Buddhism (Shinkō Bukkyō), as early as the November
1931 issue. Over the next five years the police, on more than ten
occasions, either forbade the sale of the offending League
publication altogether or required certain articles to be deleted prior
to distribution. As Ogata noted, the League’s publications, as well as
its activities, were clearly aimed at “revolutionizing the national polity
and denying the system of private ownership.”4
As a consequence, government repression did not stop with
censorship alone. League-sponsored public lectures were frequently
terminated by police in the audience starting as early as May 1933.
Seno’o himself was first arrested in September 1934 when he
attempted to speak at a rally in support of Tokyo’s striking streetcar
conductors. Although he was only held overnight, he was beaten by
a guard the next morning before his release.
In February 1936 Seno’o was arrested once again, this time
together with another League member, Matsuura Fumio. The police
were convinced that the League was either connected to the
Communist Party or a Communist organization using Buddhism as a
cover. Unable to force admissions of Communist affiliation from
either man, the police finally released the two League leaders after
having held them without charges for nearly one month.
Ogata makes clear that what was so disturbing about the League
from a police perspective was the way in which its members took
their organization’s motto to heart. That is to say, members did
indeed carry the Buddha out into the street. For example, as early as
August 1932 League members began collecting signatures on the
street for a petition drawn up by the Japan Farmers Union (Nihon
Nōmin Kumiai). The League was collectively able to gather more
than 2,000 signatures on this petition which demanded, among other
things, that the government act to increase the incomes of tenant
farmers and other workers so as to alleviate the growing disparity
between the upper and lower classes.
In addition to its efforts on behalf of farmers, the League also
took a strong stance against various government and judicial
measures which helped perpetuate discrimination against Japan’s
traditional outcaste community, members of which were commonly
referred to as burakumin. Still further, League members supported
the activities of the “Anti-Nazi Fascism Annihilation League” (Han-
Nachisu Fassho Funsai Dōmei) and took part in many anti-war
labour strikes. Seno’o himself also became an editor of the left-wing
Labour Magazine (Rōdō Zasshi).
Seno’o’s activism came to an abrupt end on 7 December 1936
when he was arrested once again. This time he was charged with
the crime of treason, punishable by death, for having allegedly
plotted the destruction of both the emperor system and capitalism. At
first Seno’o denied the police accusations, insisting that the League’s
goals were to reform capitalism, work for world peace, and oppose
fascism and militarism. After enduring more than five months of
relentless police questioning, however, he finally broke down and
confessed that all of the charges against him and the League were
true. Not only that, he promised that henceforth he would
unconditionally support both the emperor and the nation.
Seno’o’s confession was used by the police as the pretext for the
wholesale arrest of more than 200 League members scattered
throughout Japan starting in October 1937. Of those arrested,
twenty-nine were eventually prosecuted including Seno’o, who
despite his pledge of loyalty was sentenced to five years in prison on
29 August 1939. Given this background, it is little wonder that Ogata
characterized the League as “possessed of a radical and lawless
objective that, in the final analysis, puts an extremely distorted
emphasis on Buddhist ‘harmony’ and ‘love’.”5

Fear of the Right

If the number of pages devoted to the topic is any indication, Ogata
was far less concerned about Buddhist-inspired right-wing activities
than he was about those on the left. He devoted only 27 pages to
this topic, describing the activities of just one man, Inoue Nisshō
(1886–1967), yet another Zen-trained ultranationalist who led a band
of assassins popularly known as the “Blood Oath Corps”
(Ketsumeidan).
Inoue began his Zen training in Manchuria in October 1912 while
working for the Japanese-owned South Manchuria Railroad
Company. Inoue’s first master was a Japanese Sōtō Zen priest and
“missionary” by the name of Higashi Soshin. Inoue relates that under
Soshin’s guidance, he meditated on a daily basis for more than a
year “almost forgetting to eat or sleep.”6 Inoue claimed to have
passed a number of kōan during this period and, in recognition of his
accomplishment, Soshin granted him the lay name of “Yuishin”
(Mind-only).7
Although Inoue eventually left Soshin to become a spy and
translator for the Japanese Army in northern China, he later noted
that Soshin’s parting words had a profound impact on his religious
life:

When I went to bid farewell to Zen Master Higashi Soshin, he

said to me: “Had we had more time, I would have liked to
instruct you on the Lotus Sūtra” At the time I didn’t think much
about it, but in later years this master’s words were to have a
major impact on my spiritual life.”8
Inoue returned to Japan permanently in February 1921 and in the
early summer of 1922 resumed his religious training in an
abandoned Buddhist nun’s hermitage known as Santoku-an located
near his home village of Kawaba in Gumma Prefecture. Here, Inoue
once again engaged in the intensive practice of zazen, though this
time he trained completely on his own. Sometime later, however,
Inoue felt that his practice of zazen was, if anything, actually
increasing the level of distress he felt not lessening it. He wrote:

After having practiced [zazen] for some time, I noted that

during the time I was seated my mind became clear. However,
when I had to stand up to do things like relieving myself, there
was no change in my state of mind, and I continued to be
afflicted by the same doubts as before. Since I didn’t know of
any other method [of training], I continued to practice [zazen]
day and night but my mental anguish only increased.9

As a result, Inoue eventually switched to something he called

daimoku-zammai, i.e. the state of samādhi (mental concentration)
achieved through the repetitive invocation of the phrase, i.e. Namu-
myōhō-renge-kyō (Adoration to the Marvellous Dharma of the Lotus
Sūtra). It should be noted, however, that the inspiration for this latter
practice came not from any contact with the Nichiren sect but was,
rather, the result of Soshin’s earlier influence coupled with a
subsequent vivid dream Inoue had while still in China. In this dream,
he had seen the phrase invoking the Lotus Sūtra engraved on a
stone pagoda in the midst of what seemed to be a life-threatening
situation.

Enlightenment
After further months of daimoku-zammai practice accompanied by
still more visions, Inoue finally had an initial enlightenment
experience in the spring of 1924. Significantly, Inoue employed
classic Zen terminology to describe his breakthrough:
 I experienced a oneness in which the whole of nature and the
universe was my Self. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that
“heaven and earth [and I] are of the same root,” and “the ten-
thousand things [and I] are of one substance.” This was
something I had never felt before, a truly strange and
mysterious state of mind. I thought to myself “This is really
weird!” And then I thought, let me examine my past doubts in
light of the enlightened realm I had just entered. As I quietly
reflected on these doubts, I was astounded to realize that my
doubts of thirty years standing had melted away without a
trace.”10

The two phrases Inoue quoted above are contained in the fortieth
case of the Blue Cliff Record (J. Hekiganroku/Ch. Biyan Lu), the
famous twelfth-century collection of one hundred kōan that has been
described as containing “the essence of Zen.”11 In the case in
question, the conversation partner of the famous Zen master
Huairang (677–744) cites a passage from an earlier essay written by
Sengzhao (384–414) describing the oneness of heaven, earth, and
humanity.12 Significantly, Sengzhao is known for the deep influence
Daoist thought and terminology exerted on his understanding of
Mahāyāna philosophy, especially the Mādhyamika school’s teaching
of “emptiness” (Skt. śūnyatā, J. kū).

Good and evil

One of the doubts that had long plagued Inoue was how to
determine standards for good and evil, right and wrong. Here, too,
the Zen “solution” to this question is evident, for Inoue stated:

It is truly a case in which, from the very beginning, “good and

evil do not differ [from one another].” Rather, when our
thoughts and actions are in accord with the truth of a monistic
universe, this is good. When they are not, this is evil.… This
said, concrete manifestations of good and evil do differ from
one another according to the time, place, and those involved.
 Thus, there is no need to be attached to a particular concept
[of good and evil] or think about what is right or wrong.13

As will be seen shortly, Inoue did at least live up to his own

perception of right and wrong. Or perhaps more accurately, when he
subsequently embarked on his career as the leader of a band of
ultranationalist assassins, he would find no need to “think about what
is right or wrong.”

Further Zen training

Although Inoue did not resume formal Zen training until sometime
after his solitary experience of “enlightenment,” he did, again in the
best Zen tradition, realize the need for “post-enlightenment”(gogo)
training. As he explained:

The reason that strange phenomena don’t occur very often

during the practice of zazen is because one’s spirit is unified
through the use of kōans, facilitating the rapid acquisition of
wisdom. In my case, the strange phenomena that I
experienced were an initial stepping-stone toward the
realization of wisdom.
Undergoing religious practice by oneself is dangerous, for
having entered the realm where strange phenomena occur,
one may either go mad or become conceited. In Zen practice,
on the other hand, if one displays any signs of strangeness, the
waking stick (keisaku/kyōsaku) is employed as a warning to
prevent these abberations.14
The temple Inoue chose for his post-enlightenment training was the
famous Rinzai temple of Ryūtakuji, that the reader will recall was
founded by medieval Rinzai Zen reformer, Hakuin. It is true,
however, that Inoue chose to continue his Zen training only after
having first visited the Nichiren sect’s headquarters on Mt. Minobu
where he found the training “unsatisfactory.”15 In addition, he also
attended a week-long seminar conducted by ultranationalist Tanaka
Chikaku, creator of previously introduced “Nichirenism” (Nichiren-
shugi). As to why he ultimately chose to stay with Zen rather than
adopt Nichirenism, Inoue wrote:

The reason I chose Zen is that, while Nichirenism is all right, it

is full of discussion and debate. Furthermore, this discussion is
of a scholarly type in which putting theory into practice only
comes later, if at all.… What the nation and our people need
now, however, is not theory but actual reform. That is to say,
implementation must come first, and theory later. As far as I’m
concerned, theory can be left up to those specialists who call
themselves scholars. Given this and my own personality, which
eschews both doctrines and creeds, I realized that Zen was
best for me.16

Nevertheless, Inoue did write of his deep admiration for Nichiren as

a historical personage, a man whose life of perseverance in the face
of great adversity seemed to parallel his own. Yet even this
statement must be qualified by noting that Inoue had first studied
Nichiren’s life only after having had his initial enlightenment
experience.17
Inoue first went to Ryūtakuji in the fall of 1926 where he came
under the guidance of a Rinzai Zen master now quite familiar to
readers: Yamamoto Gempō. While at Ryūtakuji, Inoue was
particularly attracted to the practice of yaza, the solitary late-night
practice of meditation. Inoue recounted: “After bedtime at 8 p.m. I
would enter the Hakuin Memorial Hall where I practiced zazen until
around eleven. At times I continued my practice until 1 a.m.”18 In
addition, Inoue participated in week long intensive meditation
periods, i.e. sesshin, that were held at this temple on a monthly
basis. Eventually Inoue was put in charge of the temple kitchen, one
of the most responsible and difficult positions at a Zen temple.
Thanks to his previous right-wing connections, Inoue received an
invitation in April 1928 to participate in the founding of a small temple
in the village of Oarai not far from the city of Mito, north of Tokyo.
This temple was to be built in conjunction with the construction of a
nearby hall memorializing Emperor Meiji (Meiji Kïnenkan). Whereas
the centrepiece of the Meiji Kïnenkan was to be a bronze statue of
Emperor Meiji, the centrepiece of the temple was to be a bronze
statue of Nichiren, selected for his well-known dedication to the
defense of Japan. The Nichiren (and nationalist) orientation of this
new temple is also reflected in the name selected for it, i.e. Risshō
Gokokudo or Temple to Protect the Nation [by] Establishing the True
[Dharma].
It should be pointed out, however, that Inoue was, at least initially,
an interested bystander in the construction of this temple. The
planning and fund-raising for its construction was in the hands of
former imperial household minister Count Tanaka Mitsuaki (1843–
1939) and the president of Ibaragi Transport Company, Takeuchi
Yūnosuke. As temple records indicate, contributions toward the
temple’s construction came from scores of Japan’s top political and
military leaders, for from its outset this temple was designed to
become the “foundation for the reform of the state” through training
Japanese youth.19 Nevertheless, Inoue initially declined the invitation
to head the temple, for the simple reason that the temple, lacking
traditional parishioners, had no reliable source of income.
Once persuaded to direct the temple’s activities, Inoue did put on
the robes of a Buddhist priest, though this was an act entirely of his
own making, unsanctioned by any Buddhist organization or sect. It
was this “imitation” of a Buddhist priest, coupled with the presence of
Nichiren’s statue in the temple, that would later result in both
Japanese and non-Japanese scholars alike mistakenly identifying
Inoue as a “Nichiren priest.” Inoue never made this claim for himself,
his robes notwithstanding.
Having agreed to head the temple, Inoue threw himself into the
work of training a group of youths who would eventually number
some twenty in all. Inoue’s goal was to create a band of volunteers
with a “do-or-die” spirit. Toward this end he employed a variety of
training methods that included zazen practice in the morning and
evening; assigning kōan and conducting private interviews with his
disciples, i.e. dokusan; daimoku recitation; and fasting. In fact,
youths seeking admittance to his group were first required to
undergo a seven-day fast. Inoue explained the rationale for this
requirement as follows:
 Without doing this [i.e. fasting] the youths would talk big and
spout nothing but theory, unable to undergo true [Buddhist]
training. The reason that numerous training centres ended in
failure was because they forgot this essential element in the
hardening-up process.20

Although Inoue initially conceived of his band as engaging in legal

political activities, by 1930, under the prodding of young military
officer sympathizers, Inoue realized he must take more resolute
measures. He justified this new direction as follows: “In an
emergency situation, emergency measures are necessary. What is
essential is to restore life to the nation. Discussions over the
methods for doing this can come later, much later.”21
And toward what goal were Inoue and his band’s “emergency
measures” directed? Inoue explained: “We had taken it upon
ourselves to engage in destruction, fully aware that we would perish
in the process. Therefore we had no interest in developing
constructive proposals of any kind.”22 Yet, how was Inoue able to
justify such “destruction” on the basis of his Buddhist faith?
In actual fact, Inoue found no difficulty in doing so, for his Zen
training provided him with the rationale, i.e. the taking of life was
none other than an expression of Buddhist compassion. During
lectures at his temple on the thirteenth-century Zen collection of
kōan known as the Mumonkan, Inoue maintained that it was
Buddhist compassion that had motivated Nansen (Ch. Nanquan,
748–834) to kill the monastery cat in case number fourteen. Building
on this, Inoue claimed:

Revolution employs compassion on behalf of the society of the

nation. Therefore those who wish to participate in revolution
must have a mind of great compassion toward the society of
the nation. In light of this there must be no thought of reward
for participating in revolution. A revolution that does not
encompass a mind of great compassion is not Buddhist. That
is to say, revolution is itself the mind of great compassion.23
 Time for action
As the next step in achieving their goals, Inoue and key members of
his band shifted their base of operations to Tokyo in October 1930.
Finding a home with other ultranationalist groups in the nation’s
capital, Inoue continued his recruitment of youths, including some
from Japan’s most prestigious universities, who were prepared in his
words to become “sacrificial stones” (sute-ishi).24 Employing Zen
terminology, one of Inoue’s band members later explained: “We
sought to extinguish Self itself.”25
That Zen terminology should have continued to play a prominent
part in the discourse of even those band members recruited in Tokyo
is not surprising in light of the fact that the band members’ “religious
training” had by no means come to an end. In a 1998 personal
interview, 90-year-old Yotsumoto Yoshitaka (b. 1908), a Tokyo
University student at the time Inoue recruited him, informed the
author that the band members frequently practiced zazen at the
Rinzai temple of Ryū-un-in located in Tokyo’s Bunkyō ward.26 It was
here that Yamamoto Gempō conducted zazen-kai (one or two-day
Zen training sessions) on his regular visits to the Tokyo area. There
is, however, no record indicating that Gempō was directly involved in
Inoue and his band’s plans for “revolution.”
Yet, why had Inoue and his band chosen assassination as their
method of revolution? Were there no other more humane ways of
bringing about the fundamental reform of Japanese society which
Inoue sought? Inoue stated:

In explaining why “assassination” was the most appropriate

method to have employed, I would point out that … this method
required, whether successful or not, the least number of
victims…. The critical issue is that there was no better method
than implementing what I felt sure was best for the country,
untainted by the least self-interest.27

It was exactly this point that Inoue believed distinguished his

revolution from those that had taken place in western countries. In
the French and Russian revolutions, Inoue claimed, the
revolutionaries had worked to insure their own survival in order that
they might secure a leadership role for themselves in the post-
revolutionary era. As a consequence they were quite willing to kill
any and all persons who stood in their way. The result was a
massive loss of life.
Inoue and his band members, however, were prepared from the
outset to perish themselves in the process of the revolution. The
“selflessness” of their Buddhist faith enabled them to willingly
sacrifice themselves, firm in the belief that others, particularly their
comrades in the military, would follow after and construct the ideal
society they sought. By being prepared to sacrifice themselves, they
could insure that as few persons as possible would fall victim to
revolutionary violence. A youthful band member by the name of
Onuma Shō (1911–78) clarified Inoue’s thinking in this regard as
follows:

Our goal was not to harm others but to destroy ourselves. We

had no thought of simply killing others while surviving
ourselves. We intended to smash ourselves, thereby allowing
others to cross over [to a new society] on top of our own
bodies. I think this is what our master Inoue meant when he
told us that our goal was not to sacrifice personal affections on
the altar of justice but to destroy ourselves. In the process of
destroying ourselves it couldn’t be helped if there were [other]
victims. This was the fundamental principle of our revolution. A
mind of great compassion was the fundamental spirit of our
revolution.28

Inoue himself summed up his attitude in the following short poem:

“Dew taken up in the palm of the hand fades away in the summer
morning.”29

Assassination
Of the more than twenty intended victims, only two were actually
killed by members of Inoue’s youthful band. The first of these was
Inoue Junnosuke (1869–1932), a former finance minister, who was
shot on the evening of 9 February 1932 as he entered Komamoto
Elementary School in Tokyo to deliver an election speech. His
assassin was twenty-two year old Onuma Shō, introduced above, a
one-time baker’s assistant and carpenter’s apprentice. In
subsequent court testimony, Onuma explained that he had debated
with himself over whether to strike before Junnosuke spoke or
afterwards. In the end he decided to strike before due to his concern
that innocent well-wishers might be injured if he waited until
Junnosuke’s departure.
This, however, was not Onuma’s only concern, for he was beset
by anxiety over the act of assassination itself. Especially on the
morning of the assassination day, he had been so upset he
wondered whether he would be able to carry out his assignment. It
was at this point that he sought strength from his Buddhist training
as he began to quietly recite four sections of the Lotus Sūtra to calm
himself. Thereafter he recited the daimoku four or five times and
finally began to practice zazen in the full lotus posture. About this,
Onuma said:

After starting my practice of zazen I entered a state of samādhi

the likes of which I had never experienced before. I felt my
spirit become unified, really unified, and when I opened my
eyes from their half-closed meditative position I noticed the
smoke from the incense curling up and touching the ceiling. At
this point it suddenly came to me – I would be able to carry out
[the assassination] that night.30

Nearly four weeks later, on the morning of 5 March, Baron Dan

Takuma (1858–1932), managing director of the Mitsui holding
company, was shot just as his car pulled up to the side entrance of
the Mitsui Bank Building. This time the assassin was a twenty-one
year old band member by the name of Hisanuma Gorō (b. 1911). By
this time Inoue himself had taken refuge in the “House of Heavenly
Action,” a student hostel run by the Black Dragon Society and
located next door to the home of the previously introduced
ultranationalist leader, Tōyama Mitsuru. Six days after Dan’s death,
and realizing his arrest was imminent, Inoue chose to turn himself in
to the police.
Although Inoue’s direct involvement with assassinations ended
with his arrest, his indirect involvement did not. Only two months
later, on 15 May, a small group of young naval officers, army cadets,
and civilians, who had earlier plotted together with Inoue, launched a
second wave of violence. This time the victim was no less than
Inukai Tsuyoshi (1855–1932), prime minister and head of the
Seiyūkai political party. Inukai’s death, coupled with the earlier
assassinations, marked the end of party-based government in Japan
which in turn contributed substantially to the eventual military
takeover. Thus did Inoue and his band’s self-proclaimed dedication
to “destruction” become a reality.

Court trial
Inoue’s trial began on 28 June 1933. According to one description,
the courtroom atmosphere was “as melodramatic as a revival
meeting” thanks not only to the religiously impassioned court
testimony of Inoue and his “right-minded” young followers, but the
similarly emotional pleadings of the defendants’ lawyers as well.31
The trial so captured the nationalistic imagination of the nation that
when, six weeks later, the presiding judges attempted to limit
testimony to events directly related to the assassinations, the
defendants, in an almost unheard of move, successfully demanded
the presiding judges step down from the case due to their alleged
“inattention.”32
When the trial finally resumed on 27 March 1934, the new chief
judge gave the fourteen defendants, Inoue among them, the right to
wear formal kimono (not prison uniforms) in the courtroom as well as
expound at length on the “patriotic” motivation for their acts. Inoue’s
testimony made it abundantly clear that his Buddhist faith lay at the
heart of his actions:

I was primarily guided by Buddhist thought in what I did. That is

to say, I believe the teachings of Mahāyāna Buddhism as they
 presently exist in Japan are wonderful.… No matter how many
sects Mahāyāna Buddhism may be divided into [in Japan], they
all aim for the essence, the true form of the universe.33

If Inoue took a rather ecumenical stance in his testimony, it is also

true that he went on to express his indebtedness to both the Pure
Land and Nichiren sects for having contributed to his “salvation.”
With regard to Zen, however, he said: “I reached where I am today
thanks to Zen. Zen dislikes talking theory so I can’t put it into words,
but it is true nonetheless.”34
Inoue made another reference to an especially “Zen-like” manner
of thinking when he was asked about the particular political ideology
that had informed his actions. He replied: “It is more correct to say
that I have no systematized ideas. I transcend reason and act
completely upon intuition.”35
Inoue went on to describe the contribution Buddhism had made
to his band’s acts. He first noted that Buddhism was a religion that
taught the existence of “Buddha nature” (Busshō). Although Buddha
nature is universally present, he asserted, it is concealed by
passions, producing ignorance, attachment, and degradation. Japan
is likewise a country that possesses a truly magnificent national
polity, a polity that is in fact identical with the “absolute nature of the
universe itself.” Yet here too, human desires for such things as
money, power, etc. had worked to conceal this incomparable national
polity and resulted in dualistic ways of thinking, leading to the failure
to comprehend the fundamental truth that matter and mind are one.
Thus, even though Japan’s national essence is excellent,
degradation can occur.
At this point the judge interrupted to ask: “In the final analysis,
what you are saying then is that the national polity of Japan, as an
expression of universal truth (shin’yo, Skt. tathatā), has been
clouded over?” Inoue replied: “That’s right. It is due to various
passions that our national polity has been clouded over. It is we who
have taken it on ourselves to disperse these clouds.”36
 Yamamoto Gempō’s defense
The 15 September 1934 morning edition of the Asahi Shimbun
carried the following headline: “Zen Master Yamamoto Gempō,
spiritual father of Inoue Nissho, arrives in Tokyo to testify in court.
Yamamoto claims, I’m the only one who understands his [Inoue’s]
state of mind.”‘37 Commencing his testimony at 11.10 a.m., Gempō
said:

The first thing I would like to say is that Inoue has engaged in
spiritual cultivation for many years. This led him to a direct
realization of the most important element in religion – the true
nature of the mind, something Buddhism calls perfect wisdom.
Perfect wisdom is like a mirror that reflects humans, heaven,
earth, and the universe. Inoue further realized that the true
form of humans, heaven, earth, and the universe is no different
than the true form of the self. The manifestation of this truth of
the universe is the Spirit of Japan, that is to say, the polity of
Japan. It is in these things that Inoue’s spirit is to be found.
In light of the events that have befallen our nation of late,
there is, apart from those who are selfish and evil, no fair and
upright person who would criticize the accused for their actions
in connection with the Blood Oath Corps and 15 May Incidents.
Since agreeing to appear in court on behalf of the defendants, I
have received several tens of letters. All of these letters, with
but one exception, have expressed support for the defendants,
identifying their actions as being at one with the national spirit.
Notwithstanding this, however, it is utterly impossible to
express by the spoken or written word the true meaning and
intent of either Inoue or those allied with him in these two
incidents.
No doubt there are those who would ask why, in light of his
devotion to religion, a believer in Buddhism like Inoue would
act as he did? This is especially true given that Buddhism
attaches primary importance to social harmony as well as
repaying the four debts of gratitude owed others and practicing
the ten virtues.38
 It is true that if, motivated by an evil mind, someone should
kill so much as a single ant, as many as one hundred and
thirty-six hells await that person. This holds true not only in
Japan, but for all the countries of the world. Yet, the Buddha,
being absolute, has stated that when there are those who
destroy social harmony and injure the polity of the state, then
even if they are called good men killing them is not a crime.
Although all Buddhist statuary manifests the spirit of Buddha,
there are no Buddhist statues, other than those of Śākyamuni
Buddha and Amitābha Buddha, who do not grasp the sword.
Even the guardian Kṣitigarbha Bodhisattva holds, in his
manifestation as a victor in war, a spear in his hand. Thus
Buddhism, which has as its foundation the true perfection of
humanity, has no choice but to cut down even good people in
the event they seek to destroy social harmony.
Although Inoue came to visit me in the midst of his spiritual
training, I most definitely did not give him my sanction [i.e.
confirming him as being fully enlightened] nor say that his
practice was complete.
Thus on 14 December of last year [1933], I received a letter
from Inoue stating that now more than ever he wished to
become a Buddha, that is to say, to realize the fundamental
unity of the universe and self and become one with all things.
Since then I have visited him [in prison] and verified his
intention. The [Buddha] Dharma is like a great ocean, the
further one enters into it the deeper it becomes. I believe that
Inoue’s true work is set to begin from this point onwards.
However, in the event he were sentenced to death, his wish
would remain unfulfilled. This much I can vouch for.
Inoue’s hope is not only for the victory of Imperial Japan, but
he also recognizes that the well-being of all the coloured races
(i.e. their life, death, or possible enslavement) is dependent on
the Spirit of Japan. There is, I am confident, no one who does
not recognize this truth.
Although there is much more I would like to say, I have no
doubt that both the lawyers for the defense who have
thoroughly researched this case, as well as each one of the
 judges present who, possessed of a truly pure mind, graciously
adjudicate it, are well aware of what I have to say.
At this point the defendants are not thinking of themselves,
but state they have entrusted themselves to the judgement of
the law. For my part I am absolutely certain they have truly
become one with the spirit of the gods and Buddhas.39

Verdict and aftermath

Inoue and the members of his band were all found guilty and
sentenced on 22 November 1934. As Gempō had hoped, none of
the defendants were sentenced to death. Inoue and the two actual
assassins were given life sentences while the others received
sentences ranging from fifteen down to as few as three years. In
rendering his verdict, the presiding judge described the motivation of
Inoue and his band as follows:

[The defendants maintain that] to overthrow the old system of

organization is a destructive or negative act. To establish the
new system of organization is a constructive or positive act.
Without destruction, however, there can be no construction.
Since ultimate denial is the same as genuine affirmation,
destruction is itself construction, and the two are one and
inseparable.40

While the sentences were, especially by Japanese standards, clearly

on the lenient side, what is more surprising is that eleven of the
accused were amnestied and released from prison in early 1935.
Inoue himself had his sentence made progressively shorter until in
1940 he, too, was freed only to be invited a short time later to
become a personal adviser to the then Prime Minister Konoe
Fumimarō.
When Ogata published his report in early 1939 he was, of course,
unaware that Inoue would be released the following year let alone
become the prime minister’s adviser. Nevertheless, there is ample
reason to believe that Ogata would have welcomed these
developments, for following an interview with Inoue in Tokyo’s
Kosuga prison, Ogata came away “unable to overlook the
mysterious power that allowed Inoue to have a peace of mind so
vast that nothing could disturb it.”41 Whether public prosecutor or
prime minister, who would not seek for “peace of mind” like this or
admire those who possessed it?

The Reformation of Japanese Buddhism

As demonstrated above, Ogata clearly saw left-wing forms of
Buddhism as deviating from Buddhism’s proper role in Japanese
society. Right-wing figures, on the other hand, were far more
tolerable, even admirable. This did not mean, however, that Ogata
was satisfied with mainstream institutional Buddhism, for in his
opinion the time for significant reform had arrived.
In the fourth and concluding section of his book, Ogata devoted
two chapters to describing the nature of that reform. While the
second chapter focused on specific proposals for improvement in the
work of prison chaplains, the first chapter, entitled “The Necessity for
Reform of Japanese Buddhism,” contained an outline of Buddhism’s
ideal form, something Ogata (and his contemporaries) called
“Imperial Way Buddhism” (Kōdō Bukkyō).42 As an officially
sanctioned “top secret” government document, Ogata’s outline
represents more than simply the religious prejudices of its author.
Rather, it comes closer than anything else now available in
describing not only the government’s understanding of Buddhism but
its expectations as well. For this reason, and despite its somewhat
repetitive nature, the first chapter is included below in its entirety.

Chapter One
Religion represents a person’s attitude toward life as well as
their view of the world. Religion is most definitely not a simple
question of ideology. Rather, it is composed of the entire
experience of the real life of humankind. Buddhism, too, is like
this, for it is based on the cognitive life of Śākyamuni who was
delivered from life’s suffering. Thereafter Buddhism could not
help but develop and progress through the ages in accordance
with the objective changes taking place in an ever changing
society. Changes to its form and contents signify no more than
the way in which it brings relief from suffering in accordance
with the age in which it finds itself.
The true nature of the universe is that time changes
incessantly and culture changes gradually. Nothing is
permanent, and Buddhism is no exception. Buddhism’s future
is ensured exactly when it develops in concert with the age in
which it finds itself, for therein lies the power for its
development. On the one hand, the Buddhist goal of delivering
various types of individuals [from suffering] cannot be regarded
as of secondary importance. Yet the basis for contemporary
practice must include both individual deliverance and the
altruistic deliverance of society as a whole. Furthermore,
Buddhism must seek the development of both the individual
and society.
It is for this reason that Buddhism in Japan must focus on
the Japanese people and state. That is to say, a Japanese
Buddhism that has lost sight of Japanese tradition, history, and
the Spirit of Japan is unthinkable. In this respect, the object of
Buddhism’s teachings must be the Japanese nation. The
distinctive quality of Japanese Buddhism lies in its exaltation of
the Spirit of Japan.
When we quietly reflect on the history of Japanese
Buddhism, we find that it has had its share of ups and downs.
Nevertheless, its true character was developed by the national
polity of our country, producing an Imperial Way Buddhism
characterized by its [historical] willingness to “pacify and
protect the state” (chingo kokka) and “promote Zen for the
protection of the state” (kōzen gokoku).
However, what is the actual situation Buddhism finds itself in
today? The anti-religion movement [advocated by the
Communists] rejects religion as an opiate that stupefies the
masses. The Youth League for the Revitalization of Buddhism
does likewise in that it denounces contemporary Buddhism for
its failure to move beyond the realm of ideas while vainly
compelling resignation and subservience, absent any guiding
principles or vitality. The League argues that a religion that is
not only unable to save the country but lacks guiding principles
is nothing more than an empty shell.
In thinking about this issue, I find that contemporary
Buddhism (and Christianity for that matter) truly have a number
of aspects in need of reform. Needless to say, those anti-
Japanese doctrines and teachings of the various sect founders
must be reformed, for they were developed during [Japan’s]
Dark Ages when the national polity was obscured. Chief
among these is the belief that Shinto deities are mere
manifestations of Buddhist bodhisattvas. In addition, there is a
need to convert temples into juridical persons, clean up priestly
institutions, and undertake countless other reforms. This said,
there can be no reform more important than the establishment
of guiding principles for the salvation of our nation.
In this connection I would like to candidly and boldly propose
the reorganization of the chief objects of worship. The essence
of Buddhism is to be found in the Buddha, Dharma, and
Saṃgha. Furthermore, Buddhism teaches that a Buddha
possesses three forms: 1) his Dharma body, 2) his physical
body, and 3) his reward body.43 Inasmuch as in our country it is
the Sun Goddess who, both in history and in fact, embodies all
three of these forms, there can be no question that the chief
object of worship for Japanese Buddhism must be the Sun
Goddess, for she is the Truth of the universe. When this Truth
is deified, it appears in physical form as the Sun Goddess.
Therefore, it follows that today’s sectarian-based Buddhism
should unite together as one in reverence to the Sun Goddess.
Buddhism’s ideal is to be a unified whole without sects.
Furthermore, the guiding principle of Buddhism in Japan is the
salvation of our homeland. The future development of Imperial
Way Buddhism cannot exist apart from the exaltation of the
Spirit of Japan. Thus, Buddhist sects should cease wrangling
with one another and make the Sun Goddess, who is the Truth
of the Japanese Spirit and the common ancestress of our
people, their main object of worship. This is the practical
observance of Buddhism in the present age.
Furthermore, as previously indicated, the Imperial Way of
Japan and the true nature of Buddhist “wisdom” most definitely
do not contradict one another. Therefore, making the Sun
Goddess the chief object of worship while retaining Buddhist
doctrine is the right thing to do. However, maintaining that
Shinto deities are mere manifestations of Buddhist
bodhisattvas is to revere India and China’s past and must be
rectified.
Japanese Buddhism has a hallowed history, having long
been separated from its origins [in India]. Thus in form it has
grown into something that is uniquely Japanese. Nevertheless,
in terms of content it has developed some bad features, having
degenerated into a religion that reveres statuary as its
essence. The reform of present-day Buddhist doctrine requires
a return to the past.
While it is true that Buddhism must be reformed, it should not
be rejected. No, it absolutely must not be rejected! The reason
for this is analogous to the situation in which my mother, having
come to my father as his bride from another family, gave birth
to me. My father would have no reason to reject me as his child
simply because I was born from my mother.
Japanese Buddhism originated in India and was introduced
into Japan by way of China and as such does contain alien
ideas. Nevertheless, contemporary Japanese Buddhism is a
religion and culture with an enduring history and tradition
stretching back some 1,400 years since its introduction. To
some extent at least, it has ended up being Japanized. That is
to say, while it is true that Buddhism encountered opposition
when it was first introduced as well as in recent years, it is also
true that the Imperial Court deigned to fervently embrace
Buddhism and establish it as a state religion with influence on
political affairs. Furthermore, in the Middle Ages Buddhism
spread widely among the general populace.
 In any event, although it has had its ups and downs,
Buddhism has in times past occupied the greater part of the
intellectual and cultural life of our ancestors. Even more, our
ancestors worked extremely hard to Japanize it. For example,
granted that it was no more than a disguise, their efforts gave
birth to the idea that Shinto deities were manifestations of
Buddhist bodhisattvas leading to the amalgamation of
Buddhism and Shinto.
The Buddhism of the Nara and Heian periods [646–794/794–
1185] both had the important duty of pacifying and preserving
the Imperial Court. This duty was subsequently given
expression by [Rinzai Zen sect founder] Eisai in his treatise
entitled “The Promotion of Zen and the Defense of the Country”
and Nichiren in his “The Establishment of Righteousness and
the Security of the Country.” Added to these was the teaching
of [True Pure Land sect] priest Rennyo who wrote: “Revere the
law of the Sovereign and preserve the Buddha Dharma deep in
your heart.” Given that we know of these things even today, no
one can deny that the deeds and thoughts of our ancestors
have been transmitted to us as an ineradicable part of our
blood.
Buddhism has, over the course of its fourteen-hundred-year
history [in Japan], given birth to Japanese Buddhism. That is to
say, while Buddhism is a heretical teaching, thanks to having
bonded with the Japanese race, it has produced a distinctively
Japanese Buddhism. Thus Buddhism cannot now be rejected
for the same reason that my father cannot reject me.
The construction of a Buddhism for the new age must be
based on its fourteen-hundred-year history while taking into
account both the present and the future. To think of such
construction, while trampling under foot Japanese Buddhism’s
distinctive character and history, is more in the nature of pure
ignorance than mere recklessness. This is clearly
demonstrated by the failure in recent times of the anti-Buddhist
movement [of the Meiji period]. The rioting that occurred in
various parts of the country at that time was not an expression
of resistance to the new [Meiji] government on the part of an
ignorant populace still attached to the old shogunal
government. Rather, it was a backlash against the barbarism of
those government officials who disregarded Japanese
Buddhism’s history. Although it can be described as similar to a
religious uprising, its substance was completely different from
the Buddhist-related peasant uprisings [of the premodern
period].
Given this, it is clear that within the anti-Buddhist movement
of today can be discerned the remnants of the anti-Buddhist
thought existing at the time of the Meiji Restoration. While I
can’t be sure, this may be the reason Buddhist adherents have,
of late, suddenly and confusedly spoken of the need to devise
countermeasures. Yet one cannot but feel annoyed to discover
that not a single one of their countermeasures addresses the
root of the problem.
The core of the needed reforms is the abandonment of “blind
attachment.” Why is it that Buddhists teach others to rid
themselves of blind attachment yet fail to do so themselves?
Why is it that they teach others to do good and lead upright
lives yet fail to practice these things themselves?
If contemporary Buddhists wish to discard their blind
attachment to statuary and see the true Buddha in Japan, there
is no more perfectly enlightened personage than the Sun
Goddess. As I previously mentioned in my discussion on the
essence of the Imperial Way, the gracious source of the
creation and evolution of the universe is to be found in the Sun
Goddess. If the Spirit of Japan is the distinctive quality of
Japanese Buddhism, then the object of absolute devotion of
Japanese Buddhists must be the Sun Goddess.
The reason I put forth this argument is not an expression of
some narrow nationalism. Rather, I have clarified the special
characteristics of both the Imperial Way and Japanese
Buddhism in order to arrive at this conclusion. Were I to give a
more detailed explanation of my reasoning, I would first point to
the fact that in the True Pure Land sect, Amitābha Buddha is
the chief object of worship. The reason that the phrase “Namu
Amida-Butsu” [Homage to Amitābha Buddha] is recited in this
sect, however, is not to gain worldly favors. Shinran clearly
taught this when he said: “Reciting the phrase ‘Namu Amida-
Butsu’ is done as an expression of joy emanating from one’s
faith” (as quoted in Akegarasu Haya’s book, Amida no
Hongan).
Thus, one should not recite the name of Amitābha Buddha
out of a desire to gain entrance into the Pure Land. Rather,
such recitation is an expression of one’s gratitude, one’s desire
to repay the debt of gratitude owed Amitābha Buddha. Even
were one to express one’s thanks over and over again, it would
be impossible to completely satisfy one’s feelings of religious
devotion. Therefore the recitation of “Namu Amida-Butsu” is no
more than the result of the need to give vent to such feelings.
In short, it is no more than an expression of gratitude for those
who have truly awakened to the road of life. If this were not so,
and the name of Amitābha Buddha were recited with the goal
of gaining worldly favors, then such a faith would be no
different from the faith of those aborigines who worship phallic
symbols. The same reasoning applies to the chief objects of
worship of all Buddhist sects.
The repayment of the debt of gratitude we owe others is
what Buddhists refer to as the four debts of gratitude.44 In a
country with a national polity such as ours, however, the truth is
that three out of the four, no, four out of the four, ought to be
respectfully reduced to the immense debt of gratitude owed the
emperor. Further, as explained in the previous paragraph, the
divine virtue of the Sun Goddess is unsurpassable. The
gracious essence, virtue, and power of the emperor is most
definitely nothing but an expression of his non-differentiated
great compassion for others. As far as Buddhists are
concerned, he truly ought to be worshipped as the essence of
the various Buddhas and bodhisattvas.
If this is so, the emperor as a living god should also be
considered the gracious appearance of the Sun Goddess in the
present world. Thus, there should never be a case in which
tenets arise [in Buddhism] asserting that it is wrong to pledge
absolute faith in the emperor, that is to say, that it is wrong to
worship the Sun Goddess.
It is also possible to discuss this issue from another point of
view – that of ancestor veneration. I am confident that the
highest form of ancestor veneration is to be found in the
veneration of our common ancestors. At the same time,
Buddhists already perform memorial services for our individual
ancestors thereby acquiring considerable financial reward,
designating it as the eternal recitation of sūtras on behalf of the
deceased. These services bring in the bulk of the temples’
income thereby insuring their financial stability. Given this, it
would be illogical for there to be a theory claiming that it was
wrong to hold worship services on behalf of our common
ancestors.
It would be good for Buddhists to consider this – the
ancestors who are beneficiaries of eternal sūtra recitations
were, as citizens of this land, once joined as one to the gods. It
is exactly this unity of gods and humans that has been the
most precious and powerful legacy bequeathed to the
Japanese people in every age. With their deaths these same
ancestors entered into the realm of the Buddhas where their
life as priests is assured. Given this, it is truly incomprehensible
that Buddhists would fail to venerate their common ancestors
who lie at the very core of their existence and with whom they
share the same roots. Note that what I am saying here is
neither the idea that Shinto deities are manifestations of
Buddhist bodhisattvas nor some newfangled theory I have just
invented.
At the end of the Tokugawa era [1615–1867], and prior to the
promulgation of the edicts separating Shinto from Buddhism,
every feudal domain was filled with a fairly intense anti-
Buddhist movement. Moreover, as noted in my previous
discussion of this movement, there were a considerable
number of domains that took concrete steps to promote this
movement. At that time, Buddhists, fearing the destruction of
Buddhism, enshrined the Sun Goddess in their temple
sanctuaries as a method of preserving the Dharma. The [Pure
Land sect] temple of Zōjōji in the Shiba district [of Tokyo] is but
one example of many that did so.
Yet another example involves the famous traditional temples
located on Mt. Kōya dating back to the time of [Shingon sect
founder] Great Teacher Kōbō [aka Kūkai]. Shocked by the
severity of the anti-Buddhist movement, the sect’s
administrative body decided that in order to preserve the
Dharma they would rename the entire mountain as “Hironori
Shrine” [using the Japanese pronunciation of the Chinese
characters for Kōbō]. Shaku Unshō [1827–1909], among other
Shingon priests, opposed this decision and, in the end, this
Shinto shrine never saw the light of day.
What should one think of this proposal? If asked, I would
reply that it does not represent the mixture of gods and
Buddhas. The reason is that gods and Buddhas ought not be
enshrined together, for Buddhists should enshrine only Shinto
gods. The argument that there is something wrong with
Buddhists enshrining gods, or worshipping them, or placing
one’s faith in them, ought never arise anywhere. If such an
argument were to arise, I dare say such talk would soon
degenerate to the point that it would be claimed it is wrong for
Buddhists to pay reverence to the emperor.
The basis for the future development of Japanese culture
depends on the thoroughgoing yet critical adoption of a culture
of [Buddhist] wisdom placed on top of a “culture of blood” and a
“culture of race.” Should this be forgotten, it will lead to a
repetition of the same stupidity as advocated by the
Freemasons.45 Thus, it makes no difference who you are, for
as long as you are a Japanese you must have faith in the Sun
Goddess as our common ancestor and the center of our race.
In other words, the Japanese people must absolutely embrace
this faith, for the philosophical principles associated with the
Sun Goddess represent the acme of our racial culture.
Today we are in the August Reign of Emperor Shōwa
[Hirohito]. Domestically this is a time of enhancing the life of
farmers while in foreign affairs, Imperial Japan’s mission is to
promote concord with all nations, knowing that we are now on
 the brink of accepting the heavy responsibility of guiding the
entire world. Truly, this is the fall for Buddhists to be reborn.
It is unbearable to think about the situation which now
prevails with Buddhists vainly esteeming ancient India while
chasing after statuary and paying no attention to present-day
Japan. If they truly wish to appreciate the national polity and
clearly manifest Buddhism’s true value, then they must rid
themselves of former customs and, uniting together under the
umbrella of the Imperial Will, take their first step forward as a
reborn Imperial Way Buddhism conforming to the national
polity.
Buddhism takes as its first principle the removal of
attachment to all relative viewpoints and, further, criticizes
polemics. Isn’t it true that Buddhism rejects those who take
pleasure in polemics as “foolish disputants”? Buddhism
regards everything as being completely empty, without form or
self. It recognizes and teaches that the Buddha, Dharma and
Saṃgha, as well as the precepts and faith, should constantly
evolve. Buddhism must not have sectarian egos or divisions.
These divisions are even more abnormal than in the secular
world and are the most despicable things imaginable.
Buddhism should make a principal of its original ideal of a
unified teaching without sectarian differences. Japan has a
national polity consisting of unconditional support for the
Imperial Way. Though there are various sectarian doctrines,
great compassion is one all-encompassing unity. When great
compassion is merged with devotion to the Sun Goddess, then
the true nature of Imperial Way Buddhism can be manifested. If
Buddhism fails to wake up from its feudal dream, then
momentum will build, and its success or failure will be left to
chance. Just wait and see what happens then!

Author’s conclusion
No doubt I am not alone in finding this chapter of Ogata’s book, at
least in its conclusions, to be one of the most fanatical pieces of
religious writing imaginable. Further, Ogata’s proposals for
Buddhism’s “reform” make abundantly clear the nature of the conflict
between a race-based, nationalistic faith in a Shinto Sun Goddess
(with a divine emperor as her living incarnation) and such universal
tenets in Buddhism as “wisdom” and “compassion.”
Since Ogata’s writings were then “top-secret,” he was clearly
writing to influence the views of those relatively few government
officials who would have had access to his report. Thus, he sought to
defend Buddhism from those who even then regarded Buddhism as
an “un-Japanese” religion. To do this, Ogata not only aligned
Buddhism with the Imperial Court but demonstrated just how
supportive Buddhist sectarian founders had been of the state during
their lifetimes. In that sense, Ogata sought to convince his readers
that the “Imperial Way Buddhism” he advocated was really nothing
new.
Yet Ogata was clearly not satisfied with the Buddhism of his day,
for he claimed it remained lost in its “feudal dream.” While Buddhism
was to be allowed to retain its “doctrine(s),” it ought to discard its
sectarian statuary in favor of the Sun Goddess alone as the sole
Truth of the universe. If there appear to be echoes of monotheism in
this proposition, it must be remembered that the Sun Goddess was
identified en toto with the “Japanese race.” In essence, then,
Buddhism was being called upon (if not coerced) to abandon its
supranational objects of worship in favor of a national (if not tribal)
deity.
Perhaps the most frightening aspect of Ogata’s writing is that, as
fanatical as he may now appear, he was ignorant of neither Buddhist
doctrine nor practice. In fact, early chapters of his book contained
quite lucid and detailed descriptions of not only Mahāyāna Buddhism
prior to its introduction to Japan, but the earliest teachings of
Buddhism in India as well. Thus, no matter what other faults Ogata
may have had, simple ignorance of Buddhist doctrines and history
was not one of them. Nevertheless, his knowledge of Buddhism did
not prevent him from fervently embracing and promoting the race-
based and nationalistic religious fanaticism of his age.
Ogata’s writing is also interesting because of an implied
admission he made with regard to the Sun Goddess: beyond a belief
in the ultimacy of the Sun Goddess (and her imperial descendants
ruling over a divine land), Ogata had almost nothing to say of any
doctrinal content related to the broader Shinto faith. This suggests
(though it does not prove) that while Shinto was indispensable as a
“race-based” religion, by itself it was insufficient for anyone looking
for a more sophisticated understanding of the human condition, most
especially anything connected to personal salvation. Such matters
were Buddhism’s preserve, and Ogata was not prepared to cast it
aside for a Shinto-only policy. Buddhism was, after all, nothing less
than his (and the Japanese people’s) “mother.”
On the one hand, it can be argued that the Sun Goddess-centric
form of Buddhism advocated by Ogata never came into existence.
His urging notwithstanding, Japan’s Buddhist sects never went so far
as to replace their various objects of worship with representations of
the Sun Goddess exclusively. Yet, it would be a mistake to interpret
this as in any way demonstrating resistance to either Japanese
aggression abroad or emperor-worshipping, totalitarianism at home.
As this book and Zen at War have revealed, institutional Buddhist
leaders were united as one in their fervent promotion of the war
effort.
As far as the Zen school is concerned, it was “god of war” Lt. Col.
Sugimoto Gorō who noted:

The Buddhist statues that are enshrined in temples should,

properly speaking, have the emperor reverently enshrined in
the center and such figures as Amitābha Buddha or
Mahāvairocana at his sides. It is only the various branches of
the Zen sect in Japan who have His Majesty enshrined in the
center.… All of Japanese Buddhism should have His Majesty,
the Emperor as their central object of worship.46

Sugimoto’s stance is not the least surprising given Rinzai Zen

Master Yamazaki Ekijū’s own unambiguous endorsement of the
emperor. Ekijū, Sugimoto’s master, wrote: “The faith of the Japanese
people is a faith that should be centered on His Imperial Majesty, the
Emperor.” A study of the literature of the period reveals that Ekijū’s
endorsement was shared not only by his fellow Zen masters but the
leaders of all of institutional Buddhism.
Thus, if Japanese Buddhism succeeded in maintaining
something of its traditional Buddhist character as far as its objects of
worship were concerned, this must be considered as something of a
hollow victory. In terms of the government’s demand for absolute
loyalty and obedience, institutional Buddhism did not hesitate to
promote government policy as its own. Nor in fact did it hesitate to
adopt the phrase “Imperial Way Buddhism.” By March 1943, for
example, both branches of the True Pure Land sect were using this
phrase to describe themselves. The Nishi Honganji branch went so
far as to claim: “In the True Pure Land sect there can be no teaching
that does not advocate submission to the imperial national polity.”47
That things could have been different is demonstrated by the
existence of the Buddhist Youth League for the Revitalization of
Buddhism. Its leaders clearly saw and opposed the growth of
Japanese militarism and were prepared to risk imprisonment and
maltreatment, even protesting against Nazi anti-Semitism as early as
May 1933. On the other hand, the League can be faulted for having
adopted an ideological stance that made it difficult to know where
Buddhism left off and socialism and communism began. In any
event, the combination of government repression and the opposition
of institutional Buddhist leaders condemned this movement to failure
from the outset.
In the final analysis, at least politically speaking, what the
government wanted from Buddhism is exactly what the government
got. The reader will recall that in 1943 Yasutani Haku’un wrote:

In the event one wishes to exalt the Spirit of Japan, it is

imperative to utilize Japanese Buddhism. The reason for this is
that as far as a nutrient for cultivation of the Spirit of Japan is
concerned, I believe there is absolutely nothing superior to
Japanese Buddhism.

In identifying the “Spirit of Japan” with Japanese Buddhism, Yasutani

was in complete accord with Ogata. And all too tragically, up until 15
August 1945 there was indeed “absolutely nothing superior to
Japanese Buddhism” in cultivating not only that spirit but the
brutality, inhumanity, and fanaticism it produced.
 EPILOGUE

Where do we go from here?

The preface to my earlier Zen at War ended with the following
Chinese maxim: “A journey of ten thousand leagues begins with the
first step.” Hopefully readers will recognize this current volume as
constituting a second step along the path toward understanding. This
said, a second step remains far, far, from the end of a journey of any
significance. Were the phenomenon of holy war safely behind
Buddhists, one might even question the whole purpose of “dragging
up the past.” Sadly, however, questions related to Buddhist-
sanctioned warfare remain alive even today as demonstrated by the
involvement of Singhalese Buddhists in Sri Lanka’s bitter civil war.
When we look beyond Buddhism, we see millions of believers of
all the world’s major faiths, from the Balkan states, to the Mideast, to
Indonesia, justifying the killing of their fellow human beings in the
name of (or at least with the support of) religion. There is, of course,
nothing new in this, for the historical reality is that all religions have
engaged, at one time or another, in what are variously called “holy
wars,” “jihad,” “just wars,” etc. It is, for example, only in retrospect
that the Christian Crusades from the eleventh-thirteenth centuries
are recognized as having fallen short, far short, of the teachings of
Jesus of Nazareth.
Closer to our own times, it must not be forgotten that the leaders
of both the Protestant and Roman Catholic churches on the
European continent remained silent, on the whole, in the face of
Hitler’s Holocaust against Jews and other “inferior races.” Even more
recently, in the war between Iran and Iraq of the 1980s, both of these
self-proclaimed Islamic countries claimed to be engaged in a
religious jihad against the other. “For God and Country/In the name
of Allah, the Merciful” etc., are battle cries that continue to
reverberate throughout the world, seemingly without end.
If I have one hope as author, it is that this book, like its
predecessor, will serve as a catalyst for thoughtful adherents of all
the world’s faiths to look critically at the historical relationship of their
own faith to state-initiated warfare. Couched in Christian terms, is
there any world religion whose adherents in large numbers can claim
to have always, or even consistently, or even once “loved one’s
enemy and done good to those who abuse you”? How is one to
explain the tremendous gap that exists in all religions between their
highest ideals of peace and universal well-being and the historical
reality of their consistent endorsement of governmental war policies?
Rinzai Zen scholar-priest Ichikawa Hakugen went so far as to
write that, in the face of death, war requires the unity of killing and
the “peace of mind” derived from religion.1 Expanding on this theme,
sociologist Peter Berger wrote:

Whenever a society must motivate its members to kill or to risk

their lives, thus consenting to being placed in extreme marginal
situations, religious legitimations become important.… Killing
under the auspices of the legitimate authorities has, for this
reason, been accompanied from ancient times to today by
religious paraphernalia and ritualism. Men go to war and men
are put to death amid prayers, blessings, and incantations.2

As early as 1932, the noted German-American Protestant

theologian, Reinhold Niebuhr, described just how easy it is for the
adherents, especially the leaders, of ALL religions to be found
among “the worst liars of wartime.” Niebuhr wrote:

The nation is always endowed with an aura of the sacred,

which is one reason why religions, which claim universality, are
so easily captured and tamed by national sentiment, religion
and patriotism merging in the process. The spirit of the
nationally established churches and the cult of “Christentum
and Deutschtum” of pre-war [i.e. World War I] Germany are
interesting examples. The best means of harmonizing the claim
 to universality with the unique and relative life of the nation, as
revealed in moments of crisis, is to claim general and
universally valid objectives for the nation. It is alleged to be
fighting for civilization and for culture; and the whole enterprise
of humanity is supposedly involved in its struggle.
In the life of the simple citizen this hypocrisy exists as a
naive and unstudied self-deception. The politician practices it
consciously (though he may become the victim of his own
arts), in order to secure the highest devotion from the citizen
for his enterprises. The men of culture give themselves to it
with less conscious design than the statesmen because their
own inner necessities demand the deceptions, even more than
do those of the simple citizens. The religious or the rational
culture to which they are devoted helps them to realize that
moral values must be universal, if they are to be real; and they
cannot therefore give themselves to national aspirations,
unless they clothe them in the attributes of universality. A few
of them recognize the impossibility of such a procedure.
Among most, the force of reason operates only to give the
hysterias of war and the imbecilities of national politics more
plausible excuses than an average man is capable of
inventing. So they become the worst liars of wartime.3

Sadly Niebuhr’s words remain as relevant today as they were in

1932. In a 1995 visit to Yokota Air Force Base outside of Tokyo, the
author came across the following interview with Major Gary Perry, a
local Protestant chaplain, in the base newspaper Fuji Flyer. When
asked about the relationship between the Christian teaching
prohibiting killing and the US military, Maj. Perry replied:

I interpret killing as a willful taking of life for personal gain, or

because of hate or convenience. I view the military as an
institution that when going to war, takes life to save people.… I
believe it’s sometimes necessary to kill in order to preserve life.
Of course, I would always encourage actions short of that
[Italics mine].4
Major Perry’s position is, of course, one that has a long history within
the Christian tradition, reaching back to what eventually came to be
known as a “just war,” first advocated by St. Augustine at the end of
the fourth century and further elaborated on by St. Thomas Aquinas
in the thirteenth century. Whereas the subsequent Protestant
Reformation changed the interpretation of many doctrines of the
early church, the doctrine of a “just war” remained widely accepted.
For example, Martin Luther made the following comments in 1523 in
a treatise entitled Secular Authority: To What Extent It Should Be
Obeyed:

If your opponent is your equal, your inferior, or of a foreign

government, you should first offer him justice and peace, as
Moses taught the children of Israel. If he is unwilling, then use
your best strategy and defend yourself by force against force.
… And in such a war it is a Christian act and an act of love
confidently to kill, rob, and pillage the enemy; and to do
everything that can injure him until one has conquered him
according to the methods of war.… Such happenings must be
considered as sent of God, that He may now and then cleanse
the land and drive out the knaves [Italics mine].5

In these quotations, I suggest, we hear a clear echo of wartime Sōtō

Zen scholars Hayashiya Tomojirō and Shimakage Chikai who wrote:
“Japanese Buddhists believe that war conducted for a [good] reason
is in accord with the great benevolence and compassion of
Buddhism.… We now have no choice but to exercise the benevolent
forcefulness of ‘killing one in order that many may live’.”6
When their countries go to war, Buddhist and Christian believers
alike are encouraged to ignore the ethical prohibitions against killing
so fundamental to their respective faiths. Equally important, there is
no suggestion of any personal responsibility for their murderous acts.
Instead, it is an expression of Buddhist compassion to kill; it is God’s
will to kill. Separated by differences of hundreds of years, let alone
culture and religious affiliation, how is one to account for this
similarity?
 Clearly much work remains to be done if we are to understand,
let alone prevent, future “holy wars.” This work cannot be done by
scholars of religion alone, but must be conducted with the assistance
of experts in a broad range of disciplines, most especially historians,
sociologists, anthropologists, psychologists, political scientists, and
even economists. In the absence of such multidisciplinary studies,
the prospects for future holy wars are all too clear. As peace activist
and Jesuit, Daniel Berrigen notes:

Everybody has always killed the bad guys. Nobody kills the
good guys. The Church is tainted in this way as well. The
Church plays the same cards; it likes the taste of imperial
power too. This is the most profound kind of betrayal I can
think of. Terrible! Jews and Christians and Buddhists and all
kinds of people who come from a good place, who come from
revolutionary beginnings and are descended from heroes and
saints. This can all be lost, you know. We can give it all up. And
we do. Religion becomes another resource for the same old
death-game.7

Clearly, the overwhelming majority of the world’s religious adherents

do not wish to see their faith become “another resource for the same
old death-game,” let alone used to “motivate people to kill.” For this
to be prevented, however, the world’s major religions must call their
adherents to a higher universal or global ethic – an ethic that
transcends ethnic, national, or even religious identities, an ethic in
which one is called to “love one’s neighbour as oneself,” wherever
and whoever that “neighbour” may be.
In building support for such a universal ethic, religious leaders
should remember that their role is one of leading by personal
example and exhortation, inspiring others to adopt, of their own free
will, the highest ethical standards of their respective faiths. Coercive
methods of any kind must be clearly recognized as being the very
antithesis of the authentically religious life. For this reason, religious
leaders must resist the siren call of the state to use its coercive
powers to enforce the particularistic moral dictates of their personal
faith.
 Despite the difficulties involved, failure to adhere to a universal
global ethic is to invite continued repetitions of the recent tragedies
in the former Yugoslavia, Uganda, not to mention New York, 11
September 2001, on an ever-grander scale. In the long term it could
also make spaceship earth uninhabitable for the human species.
Even more importantly, for those, like myself, who believe in the
liberating function of the religious experience, it is to betray the
heritage of religious sages like Śākyamuni Buddha who taught
“never is hatred by hatred overcome, rather, it is overcome by love.
This is an ancient law.”
Shalom
 POSTSCRIPT

In Chapter 1, I noted that none of the many branches of the Rinzai

Zen Sect has ever admitted, let alone apologized for, their fervent
support of Japanese militarism. Happily this is no longer the case, for
on 27 September 2001 the 100th session of the Myoshinji Branch
General Assembly held in Kyoto issued a proclamation containing
the following passage:

As we reflect on the recent events [of 11 September 2001] in

the USA, we recognize that in the past our country engaged in
hostilities, calling it a “holy war,” and inflicting great pain and
damage to various countries. Even though it was national
policy at the time, it is truly regrettable that our sect, in the
midst of wartime passions, was unable to maintain a resolute
anti-war stance and ended up cooperating with the war effort.
In light of this, we wish to confess our past transgressions and
critically reflect on our conduct.

A follow-up statement by branch administrators on 19 October 2001

said:

It was the publication of the book Zen to Sensō [i.e. the

Japanese edition of Zen at War] that provided the opportunity
for us to address the issue of our war responsibility. It is truly a
matter of regret that our sect has for so long been unable to
seriously grapple with this issue. Still, due to the General
Assembly’s adoption of its recent “Proclamation,” we have
been able to take the first step in addressing this issue. This is
a very significant development.
Myōshinji, it should be noted, is the largest branch of the Rinzai Zen
sect with more than 3,400 affiliated temples and 1.6 million
adherents. In addition, the smaller Tenryūji branch issued a similar
statement earlier in the 2001, once again citing my book as the
catalyst. Kubota Jiun, current head of the Sanbō-kyōdan, also
apologized in the spring of 2001 for the “errant words and actions” of
Yasutani Haku’un during the wartime era.
As welcome as these long overdue admissions are, they
represent no more than the first step on the road to restoring Zen to
its rightful place within the Buddhist tradition. The challenge now is
for all those whose lives, like my own, have been enriched by this
tradition to create the second, third and subsequent steps.
 NOTES

PREFACE
1 Quoted in Brian Victoria, Zen at War (New York: Weatherhill,
1997), p. 101.
2 Christian Brothers, A Treatise on Modern Geography (Dublin: W.
Powell, 1870), p. 301. Modern spellings for some words have
been employed.
3 Heinrich Dumoulin, S. J., A History of Zen Buddhism (Boston:
Beacon Press, 1963), p. 290.
4 Quoted in Peter Harvey, An Introduction to Buddhist Ethics
(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), p. 34.
5 Ibid., p. 254.
6 See, for example, D. T. Suzuki’s discussion of “Zen and
Swordmanship II” in Zen and Japanese Culture (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1959), pp. 139–214. On p. 144 of this
section Suzuki informs us: “Without the sense of an ego, there is
no moral responsibility, but the divine transcends morality.” On p.
147 Suzuki describes this ego-less state as what Zen calls either
“no-mind” (mushin) or “no-thought” (munen).
7 John Daido Loori, The Heart of Being (Boston: Charles E. Tuttle
Co., 1996), p. 24.
8 Quoted in Peter Harvey, An Introduction to Buddhist Ethics, p.
254.

1 THE ZEN MASTER WEPT

 1 Nakajima Genjō’s war memoirs are primarily contained on pp.
41–68 of his book: Yasoji o Koete (Numazu, Shizuoka Prefecture:
Shōinji,1998).
2 Yoshida Yutaka, “Nankin Daigyaku-satsu o dō toraeru ka” (How
to Grasp the Great Nanking Massacre?) in Nankin Daigyaku-
satsu to Genbaku (Osaka: Tōhō Shuppan, 1995), p. 128.
3 Quoted in Iris Chang, The Rape of Nanking (London: Penguin
Books, 1998), p. 48.
4 Ibid., p. 176.
5 Ibid., p. 49. Note that the romanized Chinese here, as in other
places, has been converted to pin-yin format from Wade-Giles.
The original read “Pikankan.” While it is impossible to say for
certain without seeing the original Chinese characters, the word
“pi” (bi) can refer to a woman’s vagina. Given the context, this
(rather than “hip”) is the more likely meaning of the term used by
Azuma and his fellow soldiers.
6 Ibid., p. 218.
7 Quoted in Onuma Hiroaki, Ketsumeidan Jiken Kōhan Sokki-roku,
vol. 3 (Tokyo: Ketsumeidan Jiken Kōhan Sokki-roku Kankō-
kai,1963), p. 737.
8 See Victoria, Zen At War, pp. 86–94, for further discussion of this
point.
9 Quoted in Kenneth Ch’en, Buddhism in China (Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1964), p. 357. Liang Su was an
important figure in Chinese intellectual and literary circles during
the last quarter of the eighth century. He was among the first to
recognize the possibility of a synthesis of Buddhism and
Confucianism that eventually led to the creation of Neo-
Confucianism. Liang studied Tiantai Buddhism under the
guidance of Chanjan (711–82) who revived this school in the late
eighth century.
10 Genjō provided the name of his torpedoed ship and estimated
casualties in a second personal interview that took place at
Shōinji on 25 January 2000. Of special interest is the fact that the
Japanese ship that first rescued Genjo was itself torpedoed
shortly thereafter, and Genjō found himself in the water yet again.
 It was his good fortune, however, to have been rescued a second
time.

2 MONKS AND SOLDIERS MOVE ON THEIR

STOMACHS
1 Quoted in Victoria, Zen At War, pp. 183–4.
2 Tanaka Gi’ichi was also a firm believer in the unified military
state, yet another insight he picked up from his study in Russia
where, as noted in the text, he had seen how domestic unrest
could hamper if not badly damage a nation’s ability to wage war
abroad. In 1907, the same year this episode took place, Tanaka
played a leading role in drafting a new Imperial National Defense
Policy which called for a rapid military buildup to protect Japan’s
new interests in Korea and Manchuria. Promoted to the rank of
major general in 1910, lieutenant general in 1915, and full
general in 1921, Tanaka was a strong proponent of the Army
policy that “a good soldier equals a good citizen.” Accordingly,
Tanaka left active military service in 1925 to become president of
the Seiyūkai political party and then prime minister in 1927. As
prime minister Tanaka ruthlessly suppressed domestic left-wing
dissent while pursuing an expansionist policy in China. Tanaka
died shortly after leaving office in 1929.
3 Ōe Shinobu, Kogarashi no Toki (Tokyo: Chikuma Shobō, 1985),
p. 43.
4 Ibid., p. 46.
5 Ibid., p. 47.
6 For further information on the role of spiritual education in the
Japanese military, see Victoria, Zen at War, pp. 114–16.
7 Originally Zen priests, together with the peasantry, ate unmilled
brown rice (genmai). As milled white rice became more affordable
due to the introduction of milling machines, however, pressure to
switch to the more easily eaten and tastier white rice grew.
Nutritionally, white rice has far fewer vitamins than unmilled
brown rice. Eventually a compromise was reached in most
 contemporary Zen monasteries where barley, rich in vitamins, is
mixed in with rice that has been milled for only 70 per cent as
long as required to create standard white rice. As for the
monastic evening meal, it should be remembered that mendicant
Buddhist monks were originally forbidden from eating after noon
in the hot climates of India and Southeast Asia. In the cold
climates of China and East Asia, however, this prohibition was
broken under the guise that the food eaten in the evening was
taken for medicinal purposes.
8 Mizukami Tsutomu, Ikkyū (Tokyo: Chūō Kōron-sha, 1997), p. 42.
9 D. T. Suzuki, Zen and Japanese Culture, p. 62.
10 Quoted in ibid., p. 114.

3 THE ZEN OF ASSASSINATION

1 In addition to the incident described in this chapter, the most
important of these assassinations were first, the shooting of
Prime Minister Hamaguchi Ōsachi (1870–1931) on 14 November
1930 (died 26 August 1931); second, the shooting of Prime
Minister Inukai Tsuyoshi (1855–1932) on 15 May 1932; and third,
the murders of three leading political figures (together with the
wounding of one more and the escape of three) during the
abortive Young Officers’ Uprising of 26 February 1936.
2 This phrase is later quoted by Fukusada Mugai in defense of his
disciple, Lt. Col. Aizawa Saburō’s actions. It was employed
repeatedly by countless Zen masters and other Buddhist leaders
during the Asia-Pacific War (and before) to justify their
endorsement of Japan’s military actions abroad. Its origin can be
traced to the famous Chinese Buddhist treatise entitled Sanlun
Xuanyi written by the Sui Dynasty priest, Jicang (643–712). It
forms one of the fundamental tenets of the Sanlun (Three
Treatises, J. Sanron) school based on the Mādhyamika
philosophy of Nāgārjuna. However, the “destruction” called for in
this school originally had nothing to do with taking the lives of
other sentient beings. Instead, it refers to “destroying” the mind of
 attachment, such “destruction” being in and of itself the
establishment of the True.
3 For a detailed exposition of the February 26th Incident, see, for
example, Richard Storry, The Double Patriots, pp. 177–91; Hugh
Borton, Japan’s Modern Century, pp. 386–9; or David Bergamini,
Japan’s Imperial Conspiracy, pp. 809–58.
4 The incident is described in Meirion and Susie Harries, Soldiers
of the Sun (New York: Random House, 1992), pp. 181–2.
5 Quoted in David Bergamini, Japan’s Imperial Conspiracy (New
York: William Morrow, 1971), p. 802. It is also noteworthy that
Yamazaki Ekijū (1882–1961), one of those Rinzai Zen masters
whom I identify in Zen at War (see pp. 121–9) as a staunch
supporter of Japanese militarism, conducted a memorial service
for Major General Nagata following his assassination. It can
therefore be said that at least in this instance prominent Rinzai
and Sōtō Zen masters found themselves on opposite sides of the
fence, though both remained, nevertheless, closely connected to
the Japanese military. For further discussion of Ekijū’s role see
Ichikawa Hakugen, Nihon Fashizumu ka no Shūlyō, pp. 42–4, 81.
6 Quoted in Sugawara Yutaka, Aizawa Chūsa Jiken no Shinsō
(Tokyo: Keizai Orai-sha, 1971), pp. 180–1. Prince Higashikuni
was well-known for his interest in Buddhism. For details of some
of the uses to which he put his Buddhist faith, see David
Bergamini, Japan’s Imperial Conspiracy, pp. 813–5, 1374–5.
Readers unfamiliar with Bergamini’s work, however, are
cautioned against accepting at face value the author’s always
flamboyant and sometimes inaccurate description of events.
7 Ibid., p. 181.
8 Ibid., p. 181.
9 Quoted in Yamada Kyōdō, Mugai-san no Fūkei (Sendai:
Hōbundō, 1991), p. 191.
10 Quoted in Sugawara, Aizawa Chūsa Jiken no Shinsō, p. 81.
11 Ibid., p. 203.
12 Quoted in Katano Tatsurō, Kongō-hōzan Rinnōji Gohyaku-gojū-
nen-shi (Sendai: Kongōhōzan Rinnōji, 1994), p. 191.
13 Ibid., p. 193.
14 Quoted in Hugh Byas, Government by Assassination (London:
Bradford & Dicken, 1943), p. 111.
15 Ibid., pp. 111–2.
16 Ibid., p. 113.
17 Quoted in James W. Heisig and John C. Maraldo, eds., Rude
Awakenings (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1994), p. 22.
18 R. H. Blyth, Zen and Zen Classics: Mumonkan, vol. 4 (Tokyo:
Hokuseido Press, 1966), p. 123.
19 Quote in Katano Tatsurō, Kongō-hōzan Rinnōji Gohyaku-gojū-
nen-shi, p. 189.
20 Ibid., p. 190.
21 Ibid., p. 190.
22 Ibid., p. 190.
23 Ibid., p. 193.
24 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 37.
25 D.T. Suzuki, Zen and Japanese Culture, p. 63.
26 Ibid., p. 84.
27 In Japanese, the two assassinations referred to are collectively
known as the “Ketsumeidan Jiken,” i.e. the Blood Oath Corps
Incident. The Blood Oath Corps was a band of assassins headed
by Inoue Nisshō, lay disciple of Rinzai Zen Master Yamamoto
Gempō introduced in chapter 1. As noted in the text, the Zen
connection to this incident will be introduced in chapter 11. See
also Victoria, “The Zen of Assassination: The Cases of Fukusada
Mugai and Yamamoto Gempō,” published in ARC, The Journal of
the Faculty of Religious Studies, McGill University, 27, 1999, pp.
5–36. Note, too, that the assassination of Prime Minister Inukai
Tsuyoshi on 15 May 1932 was an extension, or second phase, of
the Blood Oath Corps Incident.

4 ŌMORI SŌGEN
 1 Dōgen Hosokawa, Omori Sogen – The Art of a Zen Master
(London: Kegan Paul International, 1999), pp. xi–xiii.
2 See Victoria, Zen at War, pp. 112–13, 160–2.
3 Ibid., pp. 188–90.
4 Quoted in Dōgen Hosokawa, Omori Sogen – The Art of a Zen
Master, pp. 71–2.
5 Quoted in Omori Sōgen, Sanzen Nyūmon (Tokyo: Kōdan-sha,
1986), pp. 248–9.
6 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 188.
7 Quoted in Hosokawa, Omori Sogen – The Art of a Zen Master, p.
28.
8 Ibid., p. 58.
9 Omori Sōgen, Yamaoka Tesshū (Tokyo: Shunjū-sha, 1983), p.
212.
10 Quoted in Dōgen Hosokawa, Omori Sogen – The Art of a Zen
Master, p. 73.
11 Ibid., p. 81.
12 Ibid., p. 95.
13 Contained in Arahara Bokusui, Dai-Uha Shi (Tokyo: Dai-Nippon
Issei-kai Shuppan), pp. 21–2.
14 Quoted in Hori Yukio, Uha Jiten (Tokyo: Sanryō Shobō, 1991), p.
123.
15 Ibid., p. 125.
16 Ibid., p. 312.
17 Quoted in Dōgen Hosokawa, Omori Sogen – The Art of a Zen
Master, p. 41.
18 Ibid., p. 40.
19 Hori Yukio, Uha jiten, p. 311.
20 See Ben-Ami Shillony, Revolt in Japan (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1973), p. 42.
21 Arahara Bokusui, Dai-Uha Shi, p. 432.
22 Contained in ibid., p. 431.
23 Quoted in Hori Yukio, Uha Jiten, p. 416.
24 Quoted in Dōgen Hosokawa, Omori Sogen – The Art of a Zen
Master, p. 43.
25 Quoted in Naimusho Keiho-kyoku, Shuppan Keisatsu-hō, No. 73
(September 1934), p. 166.
26 Arahara Bokusui, Dai-Uha Shi, p. 432.
27 Ben-Ami Shillony, Revolt in Japan, p. 112.
28 Quoted in Toyoda Jō, Kakumeika Kita Ikki (Tokyo: Kōdan-sha,
1991), p. 409.
29 Quoted in Hori Yukio, Uha Jiten, p. 294.
30 Quoted in ibid., p. 294.
31 See Ben-Ami Shillony, Revolt in Japan, p. 128.
32 Ibid., p. 132.
33 Quoted in Dōgen Hosokawa, Omori Sogen – The Art of a Zen
Master, p. 45.
34 Quoted in Ben-Ami Shillony, Revolt in Japan, p. 164.
35 Quoted in ibid., p. 173.
36 Herbert Bix, Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan (New
York: HarperCollins, 2000), p. 305.
37 Quoted in Dōgen Hosokawa, Omori Sogen – The Art of a Zen
Master, p. 45.
38 Quoted in Civil Intelligence Section; General Headquarters, US
Far East Command, The Brocade Banner – The Story of
Japanese Nationalism (unpublished, typed report issued on 23
September 1946), p. 92.
39 Ibid., p. 91.
40 Quoted in Hosokawa, Omori Sogen — The Art of a Zen Master,
p. 47.
41 For more on Seki Seisetsu’s political views, especially his strong
support for Japan’s military actions, see Victoria, Zen at War, pp.
112–13.
42 Ibid., p. 47.
43 Ibid., p. 47.
44 Ibid., p. 51.
45 Civil Intelligence Section, The Brocade Banner – The Story of
Japanese Nationalism, p. 129.
46 Quoted in Dōgen Hosokawa, Omori Sogen – The Art of a Zen
Master, p. 51.
47 Ibid., p. 49.
48 For further details in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 190.
49 Dōgen Hosokawa, Omori Sogen — The Art of a Zen Master, p.
51.
50 Quoted in ibid., p. 51.
51 See Victoria, Zen at War, p. 189.
52 Quoted in Dōgen Hosokawa, Omori Sogen – The Art of a Zen
Master, p. 51.
53 Ibid., p. 51.
54 Ibid., p. 52.
55 Quoted in Hori Yukio, Uha Jiten, p. 308.
56 Ibid., p. 308.
57 Ibid., p. 308.
58 Ibid., p. 309.
59 Ibid., p. 234.
60 Dōgen Hosokawa, Omori Sogen – The Art of a Zen Master, pp.
76–7.
61 Quoted in ibid, pp. 90–91.
62 Quoted in James W. Heisig and John C. Maraldo, eds., Rude
Awakenings, p. 20.
63 Collected by Echū in 1660.
64 Quoted in Dōgen Hosokawa, Omori Sogen – The Art of a Zen
Master, p. 92.
65 Ibid., p. 98.
66 Described in Ben-Ami Shillony, Revolt in Japan, pp. 216–17. For
a more complete discussion, see Masao Maruyama, Thought and
Behaviour in Modern Japanese Politics (London: Oxford
University Press, 1963), pp. 26–33, 65.
67 Quoted in David Titus, Palace and Politics in Prewar Japan (New
York: Studies of the East Asian Institute, Columbia University,
1974), p. 275.
68 Herbert Bix, Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan, p. 305.
69 Quoted in David Titus, Palace and Politics in Prewar Japan, p.
287.
70 Herbert Bix, Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan, pp. 302–
6.
71 David Titus, Palace and Politics in Prewar Japan, pp. 286–7.
72 Quoted in ibid., p. 285.
73 Ōmori Sōgen, Ken to Zen (Tokyo: Shunjū-sha, 1966), p. 69.

5 ZEN MASTER DŌGEN GOES TO WAR

1 Victoria, Zen at War, p. 167.
2 For an introduction to Ichikawa Hakugen, see Victoria, Zen at
War, pp. 166–74.
3 Ibid., pp. 137–8.
4 Ibid., p. 137.
5 Ibid., p. 168.
6 For further discussion of this topic, including further references to
both Nakaseko and Kodera’s research, see Heinrich Dumoulin,
Zen Buddhism: A History, Japan, n. 3–4, p. 106.
7 Quoted in Philip Kapleau, The Three Pillars of Zen (Tokyo: John
Weatherhill, 1965), p. 29.
8 No. 7, December 2, 1980.
9 No. 11, December 11, 1980, p. 4.
10 David G. Goodman and Masanori Miyazawa, Jews in the
Japanese Mind (New York: The Free Press, 1995), pp. 106–7.
11 This quotation is taken from an article by J. H. Hunting entided
“The Protocols of the Elders of Zion,” that first appeared in the
March 1978 issue of Vineyard. The complete article is available
on the Internet at: http://www.cdn-friends-
icej.ca/antiholo/protocol.html.
12 Tanaka Chigaku, Shishi-ō Zensnū Daisan-shū, vol. 6 (Tokyo:
Shishi-ō Bunko, 1937), p. 353.
13 Ibid., pp. 353–4.
14 Additional background information contained in Leonard Mosley,
Hirohito, Emperor of Japan, p. 186.
15 Quoted in John Dower, War Without Mercy (New York: Pantheon
Books, 1986), p. 224.
16 Ibid., p. 225.
17 Quoted in Victoria, Zen At War, p. 50.
18 Ibid., p. 42.
19 Quoted in Ananda K. Coomaraswamy, Buddha and the Gospel of
Buddhism (London: George G. Harrap, 1916), p. 137.
20 Quoted in Victoria, Zen At War, p. 43.
21 Quoted in Okano “Women’s Image and Place in Japanese
Buddhism” in Japanese Women, Kumiko Fujimura-Fanselow and
Atsuko Kameda, eds. (New York: The Feminist Press, 1995), p.
16.
22 Quoted in Brian Victoria, “Zen Master Dōgen’s Social
Consciousness” in Journal of Asian Culture, vol. 1, no. 1 (Spring
1977), pub. Graduate Students Association, UCLA, p. 13.
23 Quoted in Nakamura Sōichi, Zenyaku Shōbōgenzō, vol. 4
(Tokyo: Seishin-shobō, 1972), p. 9.
24 Quoted in Richard J. Smethurst, “The Military Reserve
Association and the Minobe Crisis” in Crisis Politics in Prewar
Japan (Tokyo: Sophia University, 1970), p. 9.
25 Quoted in Herbert Bix, Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan,
p. 315.
26 Edward J. Drea, In Service of the Emperor (Lincoln: University of
Nebraska Press, 1998), p. 32.
27 Quoted in Victoria, Zen At War, p. 168.
28 Ibid., p. 168.
29 Harada Sōgaku, “Nihon Seishin to Daijō Zen” (The Japanese
Spirit and Mahāyāna Zen) in Chuō Bukkyō (March 1934), p. 298.
30 Yasutani Haku’un, “The Crisis in Human Affairs and the
Liberation Found in Buddhism” in ZCLA Journal 3/3–4 (1973), p.
46.
31 David G. Goodwin and Masanori Miyazawa, Jews in the
Japanese Mind, p. 103.
32 D. T. Suzuki, Zen and Japanese Culture, p. 84.
33 Philip Kapleau, The Three Pillars of Zen, p. 29.
34 John Dower, War Without Mercy, p. 228.
35 Shimano Eido, “White Cloud,” in ZCLA Journal, 3/3–4 (1973), p.
50.
36 Hashimoto Fumio, “Yoroppa ni okeru Zen” (Zen in Europe) in
Doitsugo to Jinsei: Hashimoto Fumio Ronbun-shū (Tokyo:
Sanshū-sha, 1980), p. 223. In 1949 Hashimoto went on to
become a professor of German at Tokyo’s Chuō University.
Further, from 1952 onwards he participated in Yasutani’s lay-
oriented Sanbō-kōryū-kai (Society for the Prosperity of the Three
Treasures).
37 Ibid., p. 223.
38 Ibid., p. 223.
39 This quote was part of a personal conversation I had with Robert
Aitken in mid-1975 in which we discussed Yasutani’s attitude
toward the Vietnam War. Aitken further confirmed this quotation
to me in an e-mail dated 23 March 1999 though he also added: “I
don’t think he [Yasutani] was necessarily referring specifically to
the war in Vietnam.”.
40 See Victoria, Zen at War, pp. 160–2, 188–90.
41 Josh Baran’s comments were included in a review he wrote on
Zen At War entitled: “Zen Holy War?” The entire review is
available on the Internet at:
http://www.teleport.com/~zennist/zenholy.htm.

6 CARRYING ZEN TO CHINA

1 For further background information see Victoria, Zen At War, pp.
63–5.
 2 Ibid., see discussion in chapter 7, pp. 79–94.
3 Takagi Sōgō, Gempō Rōshi (Tokyo: Daizō Shuppan-sha, 1963),
p. 87.
4 See, for example, “God of War” Lt. Colonel Sugimoto Gorō’s
comments in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 124.
5 Takagi Sōgō, Gempō Rōshi, p. 88.
6 Ibid., p. 89.
7 Ibid., p. 88.
8 This incident is described in Tamaki Benkichi, Kaisō – Yamamoto
Gempō (Tokyo: Shunjū-sha, 1970), p. 32.
9 Quoted in Tamaki Benkichi, Kaisō – Yamamoto Gempō, p. 149.
10 For further details of Asahina Sōgen’s right-wing activities, see
Victoria, Zen at War, pp. 162–6; for those of Harada Sōgaku, see
pp. 135–8 of the same book; and for those of Yasutani Haku’un
see chapter 5 of this book. Note that Yamada Kōun, as Yasutani’s
chief Dharma heir, became the administrative and spiritual head
(kanchō) of the Sanbōkyōdan in 1970. The Sanbōkyōdan (Three
Treasures Association) was the name given to what was, in
essence, a newly established Zen sect, first registered with the
Japanese government in January 1954.
11 Quoted in Takagi Sōgō, Gempō Rōshi, pp. 84–5.
12 I am grateful to retired Zen Master Robert Aitken for having
shared with me a photocopy of the colophon of this sūtra booklet.
13 Quoted in Tamaki Benkichi, Kaisō – Yamamoto Gempō, p. 201.
14 Ibid., p. 202.
15 Ibid., p. 202.
16 Quoted in Leonard Mosley, Hirohito, Emperor of Japan (London:
Prentice-Hall International, 1966), p. 356.
17 The mutual friend was Tanaka Seigen (b. 1906). Tanaka was
former secretary-general of the Japan Communist Party who,
while imprisoned in 1933, recanted his Marxist beliefs and
pledged absolute loyalty to the emperor as a result of Gempō’s
visits with him in prison.
18 Quoted in Tamaki Benkichi, Kaisō – Yamamoto Gempō, p. 154.
19 Ibid., see pp. 155–7 for a fuller discussion.
20 Ibid., p. 156.
21 Ibid., pp. 157–8.
22 Quoted in Hugh Burton, Japan’s Modern Century (New York:
Ronald Press, 1970), p. 570.
23 Quoted in Tamaki Benkichi, Kaisō – Yamamoto Gempō, p. 161.
24 Quoted in Richard B. Frank, Downfall – The End of the Imperial
Japanese Empire (New York: Random House, 1999), p. 347.
25 Ibid., p. 92.
26 Quoted in Chaen Yoshio, Misshitsu no Shūsen Shōchoku (Tokyo:
Matsudo Shuppan, 1987), p. 41.
27 Ibid., p. 42.
28 Masanori Nakamura, Japanese Monarchy (New York: M.E.
Sharpe, 1992), p. 87.
29 Ibid., p. 71.
30 Ibid., p. 91.
31 Quoted in ibid., p. 91.
32 Quoted in Tamaki Benkichi, Kaisō – Yamamoto Gempō, p. 155.
33 Hugh Borton, Japan’s Modern Century, p. 463.
34 Matsumoto’s comments are quoted in Masanori Nakamura,
Japanese Monarchy, p. 103, while the relevant text of the
American draft is found on p. 100 of the same book. The final
version of Article 1 reads as follows: “The Emperor shall be the
symbol of the State and of the unity of the people, deriving His
position from the will of the people with whom resides sovereign
power.”.
35 For further details, see Herbert Bix, “Symbol Monarchy” in The
Journal of Japanese Studies, vol. 21, no. 2 (Summer 1995), p.
336.
36 See Tamaki Benkichi, Kaisō – Yamamoto Gempō, p. 158.
37 Masanori Nakamura, Japanese Monarchy, p. 100.
38 These comments were provided to the author by Herbert Bix in
an email dated 1 April 2000. For further details on Narahashi,
including a concocted meeting with the emperor, see Herbert Bix,
 “Symbol Monarchy” in The Journal of Japanese Studies, vol. 21,
no. 2 (Summer 1995), pp. 339–40.
39 See, for example, comments in Takagi Sōgō, Gempō Rōshi, p.
84.
40 For further details see David Bergamini, Japan’s Imperial
Conspiracy, pp. 682–3.

7 ZEN “SELFLESSNESS” IN JAPANESE

MILITARISM
1 These figures were contained in the Report of International
Committee of the Red Cross, 1939–1947, vol. 2 (1948), p. 316.
The corresponding figures on the allied side were 5,893,000
French, 1,811,000 English, and 477,000 US POWs.
2 Hata Ikuhiko, Nihonjin Hōryō, vol. 1 (Tokyo: Hara Shobō, 1998),
p. 87.
3 Quoted in the 8 January 1941 issue of the Asahi Shimbun, p. 7.
4 D. T. Suzuki, Zen and Japanese Culture, p. 70.
5 Quoted in Tsunoda Fusako, Sekinin Rabauru no Shōgun
Imamura Hitoshi (Tokyo: Shinchō-sha,1984), p. 357.
6 Ibid., p. 338.
7 Ibid., p. 190.
8 Ibid., p. 129.
9 Ibid., pp. 129–30.
10 For further details on both Generals Nogi and Kodama, see
Victoria, Zen at War, pp. 36–7.
11 Quoted in Victoria, Zen At War, p. 58.
12 Quoted in Imamura Hitoshi, Imamura Taishō Kaisō-roku, vol. 1
(Tokyo: Jiyū Ajia-sha, 1960), pp. 259–60.
13 Ibid., p. 261.
14 Ibid., pp. 264–5.
15 Ibid., p. 265.
16 Ibid., p. 267.
17 Ibid., p. 272.
18 For further information on Shaku Sōen, especially his
understanding of the relationship of Buddhism to war, see Zen at
War, pp. 25–9.
19 Imamura Hitoshi, Imamura Taishō Kaisō-roku, vol. 1, p. 281.
20 Quoted in ibid., pp. 279.
21 Ibid., p. 280.
22 Ibid., p. 280.
23 Ibid., p. 273.
24 Ibid., p. 285.
25 Ibid., p. 280–1.
26 Ibid., p. 294–5.
27 Ibid., pp. 292–3.
28 Ibid., p. 294.
29 Quoted in Tsunoda Fusako, Sekinin Rabauru no Shōgun
Imamura Hitoshi (Tokyo: Shinchō-sha, 1984), p. 139.
30 Ibid., p. 392.
31 Quoted in Tanaka Tadao, Sawaki Kōdō – Kono Koshin no Hito,
vol. 2 (Tokyo: Daihōrin-kaku, 1995), p. 462.
32 Ōmori Zenkai, “Taisei Yokusan to Daijō Bukkyō” (Assisting
Imperial Rule and Mahāyāna Buddhism) in Sōtō Shūhō, no. 39
(15 January 1941), pp. 1–3.
33 Ibid., p. 2.
34 See, for example, Victoria, Zen at War, pp. 43, 50, and 171–2.
35 Quoted in Charles S. Prebish, Buddhism: A Modern Perspective
(University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1975), p.
95.
36 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 111.
37 Kyōiku-sōkanbu, eds., Seishin Kyōiku Shiryō, vol. 2 (Tokyo:
Kaikō-sha, January 1941), pp. 675–6.
38 Ibid., p. 673.
39 Ibid., pp. 677–9.
40 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 105.
41 D. T. Suzuki, “Nihonjin no Shōji-kan” (Japanese View of Life and
Death) in Suzuki Daisetsu Zenshū, vol. 29 (Tokyo: Iwanami
Shoten, 1970), p. 31.
42 Ibid., pp. 32–7.
43 Ibid., p. 33.
44 Ibid., p. 33.
45 Ibid., p. 33.
46 Ibid., p. 33.
47 Ibid., p. 37.
48 For further discussion, see Victoria, Zen at War, pp. 105–112.
49 Kyōiku-sōkanbu, eds., Seishin Kyōiku Shiryō, vol. 2, p. 676.
50 Ibid., p. 678.
51 Joseph Kitagawa, Religion in Japanese History (New York:
Columbia University, 1966), p. 126.
52 Hajime Nakamura, Philip p. Wiener, ed., Ways Of Thinking Of
Eastern Peoples: India-China-Tibet-Japan (Honolulu: East-West
Center, 1964), p. 434.
53 Ibid., p. 435.
54 Wada Kameji, Rikugun-Damashii (Tokyo: Tōsui-sha, 1942), pp.
9, 14.
55 Ibid., see, for example, pp. 71–3, 292–4, et al.
56 Ibid., p. 291.
57 Sugimoto Gorō, Taigi (Tokyo: Heibon-sha, 1938), p. 178. For
further information on Sugimoto Gorō, see Victoria, Zen at War,
pp. 116–129.
58 Ibid., p. 179.
59 Ibid., p. 292.
60 Ibid., p. 293.
61 Ibid., p. 293.
62 Ibid., p. 294.
63 Hata Ikuhito, Nihonjin Hōryō, vol. 1, p. 143.
64 Okuda Kyūji, Senjinkun to Nihon Seishin (Tokyo: Gunji Kyōiku
Kenkyū-kai, 1942), p. 2.
65 Ibid., p. 312.
66 Ibid., p. 313–4.
67 Ibid., p. 314. As is so typical of East Asian Buddhism, Entai’s
comments are a mixture of indigenous Chinese thought and
Buddhism. The phrase, “there is something more precious than
life itself” is a quotation from the Confucian scholar Mencius
(372–289 BCE) spoken in connection with his emphasis on the
importance of yi (J. gi), often translated as “righteousness” but
better translated as “doing the right (or appropriate) thing.”
Mencius’s teaching was later interpreted to mean “fulfilling one’s
duty” to one’s superiors, most especially to one’s sovereign.
Quoted in D. C. Lau, Mencius, 6A.10 (Harmondsworth: Penguin,
1970), p. 166.
68 Sōtō Shūhō, no. 40 (1 February 1941), pp. 4–5.
69 Kumazawa Taizen, “Shōji Tōrai Ikan ga Kaihi-sen” (How to Avoid
the Coming of Life and Death) in Daihōrin (May 1944), p. 19.
70 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 26.
71 Quoted in Kumazawa Taizen, “Shōji Tōrai Ikan ga Kaihi-sen”
(How to Avoid the Coming of Life and Death) in Daihōrin (May
1944), p. 19.
72 Ibid., p. 21.
73 Yamamoto Tsunetomo [Jōchō], Hagakure, trans. William Scott
Wilson (Tokyo: Kodansha International, 1979), p. 164.
74 Hillis Lory, Japan’s Military Masters – The Army in Japanese Life,
p. 32.
75 Ibid., p. 43.
76 Thomas B. Allen & Norman Polmar, Code-Name Downfall, p.
165.
77 Meirion and Susie Harries, Soldiers of the Sun – The Rise and
Fall of the Imperial Japanese Army, p. 323.
78 Noda Masa’aki, Sensō to Zaiseki, p. 289.
79 Quoted in Nagamine Hideo, Nihongunjin no Shiseikan, pp. 162–
3.
80 Kawano Hitoshi, “Gyokusai no Shisō to Hakuhei Totsugeki” [The
Ideology of Death before Dishonour and the Bayonet Charge] in
Sensō to Guntai, p. 169.
81 D. T. Suzuki, Zen and Japanese Culture, p. 85.
82 Ibid., p. 123.
83 Quoted in Hillis Lory, Japan’s Military Masters – The Army in
Japanese Life (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1973, first
printed, 1943), pp. 42–3.
84 Minami Hiroshi, Nihonjin no Shinri (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten,
1953), p. 158.
85 Quoted in Fukushima Nichi’i, “Jūgun-sō toshite Chūgoku ni
Hachinen” (Eight Years in China as a Military Chaplain) in Asahi
Shimbun Têma Danwa-shitsu, eds., Nihonjin no Sensō (Tokyo:
Heibon-sha, 1988), p. 78.
86 Kawabe Masakazu, Nihon Rikugun Seishin-kyōiku Shi-kō (Tokyo:
Harashobō, 1980), p. 117.
87 Okamoto Sekiō, “Kokumin Seishin to Muga” (The People’s Spirit
and the Non-self) in Sanshō (June 1935), p. 206.
88 Quoted in Bernard Faure, Chan Insights and Oversights
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993), pp. 162–3.
89 Kumazawa Taizen, “Shōji Tōrai Ikan ga Kaihi-sen” (How to Avoid
the Coming of Life and Death) in Daihōrin (May 1944), pp. 19–20.
90 Ibid., pp. 19–21.
91 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 138. Although frequent
reference is made throughout the war period to there being a
total of “one hundred million” Japanese, the actual count in the
1944 census was about seventy-two million.
92 Quoted in Richard B. Frank, Downfall, p. 89.
93 Quoted in Nagamine Hideo, Nihongunjin no Shiseikan (Tokyo:
Hara Shobō, 1982), p. 157.
94 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 139.
95 Quoted in Minami Hiroshi, Nihonjin no Shinri, p. 158.
96 Hirata Seikō, Issai wa Kū, p. 94.
97 Quoted in Richard B. Frank, Downfall, p. 189.
 98 Minami Hiroshi, Nihonjin no Shinri, p. 162.
99 Richard B. Frank, Downfall, p. 29.
100 For further discussion on the number of civilian deaths on
Okinawa see Richard B. Frank, Downfall, pp. 71–2.
101 Chalmers Johnson, ed., Okinawa: Cold War Island (Cardiff, CA:
Japan Policy Research Institute, 1999), p. 25.
102 Ibid., p. 25.
103 Ibid., p. 29.
104 Richard B. Frank, Downfall, pp. 117–18.
105 Ibid., p. 189.
106 Herbert Bix, Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan, p. 496.
107 Richard B. Frank, Downfall, p. 190.
108 Rekishi Kyōiku-sha Kyōgi-kai, eds., Maboroshi dewa nakatta
Hondo Kessen (Tokyo: Kōbunkyū, 1995), p. 308.
109 Ibid., p. 80.
110 Richard B. Frank, Downfall, p. 299.
111 Quoted in Stanley Weintraub, The Last Great Victory – The End
of World War II, July/August 1945 (New York: Truman Talley
Books/Dutton, 1995), p. 572.
112 Whether or not there were realistic alternatives to the use of the
atomic bombs remains a subject of much scholarly debate. In
Hirohito – The Making of Modern Japan, Herbert Bix takes the
position that even without the atomic bomb(s), the Soviet Union’s
entrance into the war against Japan on 9 August 1945 may well
have prompted Japan’s surrender. On the other hand, Richard
Frank in Downfall notes that in each month of 1945 somewhere
between 100,000 to 250,000 Asian noncombatants are estimated
to have died under the brutal conditions of Japanese occupation.
Frank asks what gave Japanese civilians a greater right to
continue living than these other Asian victims?
113 D. T. Suzuki, “Zenkai Sasshin” [Reform of the Zen World] in
Suzuki Daisetsu Zenshū, vol. 30, p. 57.
114 Ibid., p. 56. Suzuki’s metaphorical use of the words “horse” and
“deer” is not accidental, for in Japanese the word for “fool” (baka)
 is written with the Sino-Japanese characters for these two
animals. That is to say, in ancient China a hunter (and by
extension anyone) who could not tell the difference between a
horse and a deer was considered to be a fool.
115 Ibid., pp. 56–7.
116 John Dower, War Without Mercy, p. 48.
117 Gavan Daws, Prisoners of the Japanese (New York: William
Morrow and Co., 1994), p. 18.
118 Quoted in Kawano Hitoshi, “Gyokusai no Shisō to Hakuhei
Totsugeki” [The Ideology of Death before Dishonour and the
Bayonet Charge] in Sensō to Guntai (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten,
1999), p. 166.
119 Quoted in Iris Chang, The Rape of Nanking, p. 58.

8 BUDDHIST WAR BEREAVEMENT

1 Har Dayal, The Bodhisattva in Buddhist Sanskrit Literature
(London: Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1932), p. 199.
2 Ibid., p. 207.
3 Tsunemitsu Kōnen, Meiji no Bukkyō-sha, vol. 1 (Tokyo: Shunjū-
sha, 1968), pp. 61–2.
4 Satō Gan’ei, Bushidō (Tokyo: Senryūdō, 1902), p. xxii.
5 Ibid., p. 2.
6 Ibid., p. 31.
7 Ibid., p. 45.
8 Ibid., pp. 45–6.
9 Ibid., p. 51.
10 Ibid., p. 52.
11 Ibid., p. 97.
12 Ibid., p. 105.
13 Ibid., pp. 99–100.
14 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 133.
15 Ibid., p. 26.
16 Ibid., pp. 27–8.
17 Ibid., p. 28.
18 Shaku Soyen, Sermons of a Buddhist Abbot, trans. D. T. Suzuki
(La Salle, IL: Open Court, 1906), p. 214.
19 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 132.
20 Tomomatsu Entei, Izoku Tokuhon (Kyoto: Rikugun Juppei-bu,
1941), p. 2.
21 Ibid., p. 42.
22 Ibid., p. 9.
23 Ibid., p. 12.
24 Quoted in Mizuno Kōgen, The Beginnings of Buddhism (Tokyo:
Kōsei Publishing Co., 1980), p. 180.
25 For the historical background to Śākyamuni Buddha’s admonition
to his disciples, see George N. Marshall, Buddha – The Quest for
Serenity (Boston: Beacon Press, 1978), p. 88.
26 Tomomatsu, Izoku Tokuhon, p. 74.
27 Ibid., pp. 74–8.
28 Ibid., p. 70.
29 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 105.
30 Tomomatsu Entei, Izoku Tokuhon, p. 71.
31 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 43.
32 Tomomatsu Entei, Izoku Tokuhon, p. 80.
33 Ibid., pp. 81–2.
34 Ibid., p. 81.
35 Ibid., p. 81.
36 Ibid., p. 82.
37 Kenneth Ch’en, Buddhism in China (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1964), p. 197.
38 Ibid., p. 201.
39 Ibid., p. 199.
40 Holmes Welch, Buddhism under Mao (Cambridge: Harvard
University Press, 1972), p. 297.
41 David Little, Sri Lanka – The Invention of Enmity (Washington,
DC: United States Institute of Peace Press, 1994), p. 94.
42 Martin E. Marty, “An Exuberant Adventure: The Academic Study
and Teaching of Religion,” in Academe 82/6 (1996), p. 14.

9 CONFESSIONS OF A BUDDHIST CHAPLAIN

1 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 26.
2 Thornton, “Buddhist Chaplains in the Field of Battle” in Donald S.
Lopez, Jr., ed., Buddhism in Practice (Princeton: Princeton
University Press, 1995), pp. 586–7.
3 Quoted in ibid., p. 590.
4 Ibid., p. 589.
5 Note that the statement concerning General Chō’s delight in
having entered the priesthood is appended here from Nichi’i’s
description of this event as contained in an earlier book. See
Fukushima Nichi’i, Shōwa Risshō Ankoku-ron, vol. 1 (Mito:
Daisendō, 1980), p. 433.
6 As a technical Buddhist term, the word shukumei refers only to
one’s existence in a previous life. The popular connection of this
term to “fate” or “destiny” comes from the fact that the karmic
consequences of one’s actions in a previous life (or lives) are
regarded as determining what will occur in one’s present life.
Nevertheless, Buddhism does recognize the possibility of
changing one’s present and future based on the moral quality of
one’s acts at each point in time. As a technical term, shukumei is
more properly pronounced in Sino-Japanese as shukumyo.
7 Fukushima Nichi’i, Shōwa Risshō Ankoku-ron, vol. 1, p. 432.
8 Ota Masahide, This Was the Battle of Okinawa (Naha, Okinawa:
Naha Shuppan-sha, 1981), p. 30.
9 For further details see David Bergamini, Japan’s Imperial
Conspiracy, vol. 1, p. 30. Bergamini suggests that Chō may have
claimed to have issued the orders to kill all captives in order to
protect his commander, Prince Asaka Yasuhiko (1887–1981),
 Emperor Hirohito’s uncle, from having to take responsibility for
the massacres.
10 Quoted in Chalmers Johnson, ed. Okinawa: Cold War Island, p.
29.
11 Quoted in Himeyuri Heiwa Kinen-shiryōkan Koshiki Gaido-bukku
(Naha, Okinawa: Himeyuri Peace Museum, 1999), p. 22.
12 Quoted in Julia Yonetani, “On the Battlefield of Mabuni: Struggles
Over Peace and the Past in Contemporary Okinawa,” in East
Asian History, no. 20 (December 2000), p. 162.
13 Fukushima Nichi’i, Shōwa Risshō Ankoku-ron, vol. 1, p. 428.

10 BUDDHISM – THE LAST REFUGE OF WAR

CRIMINALS
1 Meirion and Susie Harries, Soldiers of the Sun, p. 342.
2 For a more complete description of this incident, see David
Bergamini, Japan’s Imperial Conspiracy, pp. 1165–70. Bergamini
claims that between 2,000 to 3,000 of the 12,000 American
POWs were slaughtered, while about 8,000 of the 58,000
Filipinos perished. Another 6,000 Filipinos managed to escape
along the way as did a handful of American airmen and officers.
3 Hashimoto Tetsuo, Tsuji Masanobu to Shichi-nin no Sō, p. 43.
4 Ibid., p. 48.
5 For further details, see David Bergamini, Japan’s Imperial
Conspiracy, pp. 1342–3.
6 Hashimoto Fumio, Tsuji Masanobu to Shichi-nin no Sō (Tokyo:
Sanshū-sha, 1980), p. 24.
7 Ibid., p. 41.
8 Quoted in “Basic Facts on the Nanking Massacre and the Tokyo
War Crimes Trial” available on the Web at:
http://www.cnd.org/njmassacre/nj.html.
9 For further details on Japan’s prison chaplaincy system see
Ogata Hiroshi, Bukkyō to Shakai Undō, pp. 491–7.
10 Hanayama Shinshō, Eien e no Michi – Waga Hachijū-nen no
Shōgai (Tokyo: Nihon Kōgyō Shimbun-sha, 1982), p. 176.
11 Quoted in Wm Theodore de Bary and the Conference on Ming
Thought, Self and Society in Ming Thought (New York: Columbia
University Press, 1970), p. 13.
12 Ibid., p. 13.
13 Wing-Tsit Chan, A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy
(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1963), pp. 429–30, 658.
14 Ibid., p. 658.
15 D. T. Suzuki, Zen and Japanese Culture, pp. 62–3.
16 Wing-Tsit Chan, A Source Book in Chinese Philosophy, p. 656.
17 Nakamura Hajime, Philip p. Wiener, ed., Ways of Thinking of
Eastern Peoples (Honolulu: East-West Center, 1964), p. 400.
18 Hanayama Shinshō, Eien e no Michi – Waga Hachijū-nen no
Shōgai, pp. 164–5. The three Pure Land sūtras include: 1)
Amitābha Sūtra; 2) Longer Amitābha Sūtra; and 3) Meditation
Sūtra, also known as the Meditation on the Buddha of Infinite Life
(Amitāyur Dhyāna Sūtra).
19 Ibid., p. 165.
20 Ibid., p. 167.
21 Ibid., p. 165.
22 Ibid., p. 166.
23 Ibid., p. 254.
24 Ibid., p. 255.
25 Ibid., p. 255.
26 Ibid., p. 236.
27 Ibid., p. 236.
28 Ibid., p. 236.
29 Ibid., p. 245.
30 Ibid., p. 251.
31 Ibid., p. 253.
32 Ibid., pp. 251–2.
33 Ibid., p. 256.
34 Ibid., p. 310.
35 For further details of Buddhism’s repression in the early Meiji
period, see Victoria, Zen at War, pp. 3–11.
36 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 142.
37 Quoted in Hanayama Shinshō, Eien e no Michi – Waga Hachijū-
nen no Shōgai, p. 220.
38 See Herbert Bix, Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan, p.
728, n. 56.
39 Quoted in Hanayama Shinshō, Eien e no Michi – Waga Hachijū-
nen no Shōgai, p. 221.
40 Ibid., pp. 260–1. Tōjō was by no means alone in believing that
Avalokiteśvara was capable of assuming a variety of forms in
order to compassionately save suffering human beings. The well-
known Kannon-gyō (Avalokiteśvara Sūtra) describes a number of
these forms though certainly a handkerchief is unique. See also
n. 41.
41 For further historial background information, see Victoria, Zen at
War, p. 142. Note that this title did not originate with the Rinzai
sect. On the contrary, it is to be found in both the Lotus and
Śūrangama Sūtras where it designates one of Avalokiteśvara’s
thirty-three incarnations. See, for example, Bunnō Katō et al.,
trans. The Threefold Lotus Sūtra where, on p. 322,
Avalokiteshvara manifests himself as a “great divine general” to
preach the Dharma and save sentient beings.
42 Quoted in Hanayama Shinshō, Eien e no Michi – Waga Hachijū-
nen no Shōgai, p. 218.
43 Quoted in Mark R. Peattie, Ishiwara Kanji and Japan’s
Confrontation with the West, p. 95.
44 Ibid., p. 42.
45 Quoted in Hanayama Shinshō, Eien e no Michi – Waga Hachijū-
nen no Shōgai, pp. 192–3.
46 Mark R. Peattie, Ishiwara Kanji and Japan’s Confrontation with
the West (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1975), p. 40.
47 Ibid., p. 374.
48 Quoted in Hanayama Shinsho, Eien e no Michi – Waga Hachijū-
nen no Shōgai, pp. 185.
49 Ibid., p. 186.
50 Ibid., p. 195.
51 Ibid., p. 182.
52 Ibid., p. 231.
53 Ibid., p. 231. Rinzai Zen master Kaisen Jōki (d. 1582) had been
invited by the famous warrior and feudal lord Takeda Shingen
(1521–73) to become abbot of Erinji in present-day Yamanashi
Prefecture. When Takeda’s forces were defeated by the equally
famous feudal lord Oda Nobunaga (1534–82), some of them took
refuge in Erinji. Nobunaga’s forces demanded that these refugee
warriors be expelled from the temple, but Jōki refused to do so. In
retaliation, Nobunaga’s forces are said to have burned the temple
down with Jōki and all of the monastics gathered together in the
second floor of the main entrance gate (sanmon). It was then he
is alleged to have repeated the words in the text, though they
actually form part of Case Forty-Three in the famous Chinese
Chan kōan collection known as the Pi-yen lu (Hekigan-roku; Blue
Cliff Record).
54 Ibid., p. 230.
55 Ibid., p. 274.
56 Ibid., p. 198.
57 Ibid., p. 211.
58 Ibid., p. 283. Kimura’s poem was clearly inspired by a statement
made by that famous paragon of loyalty, Shingon sect-influenced
warrior Kusunoki Masashige (1294–1336). Facing death in battle,
Kusunoki pledged to “be reborn seven times in order to annihilate
the enemies of the emperor.”.
59 Herbert Bix, Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan, p. 520.
60 Ibid., see especially pp. 567–8, 615–6.
61 Quoted in Mori Taien, “Ninnaji no Rekishi to Shinkō” [Ninnaji’s
History and Faith] in Koji-junrei – Kyoto 11 – Ninnaji (Kyoto:
Tankō-sha, 1977), p. 93.
62 Takamatsu’s opposition discussed in Edward Behr, Hirohito –
Behind the Myth (New York: Vintage Books, 1989), p. 284.
63 For a thorough and convincing discussion of Hirohito’s war
responsibility, see Herbert Bix, Hirohito and the Making of Modern
Japan, pp. 439–530. Though not as well researched, Edward
Behr’s book Hirohito – Behind the Myth, comes to similar
conclusions.
64 Quoted in Hashimoto Tetsuo, Tsuji Masanobu to Shichinin no Sō,
p. 366.
65 Ibid., p. 380.
66 D. T. Suzuki, Zen and Japanese Culture, p. 84.
67 Ibid., p. 85.
68 See, for example, George B. Sansom’s description of Oda
Nobunaga’s struggle in the late sixteenth century to subdue
Ishiyama Hoganji in A History of Japan – 1334–1615 (Kent,
England: Wm. Dawson & Sons, 1978), pp. 282–90. Adherents of
the True Pure Land school, however, were certainly not the only
Buddhists of that era to engage in armed combat.
69 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 31.
70 Ibid., pp. 31–5.
71 Quoted in Tsunoda Fusako, Sekinin Rabaul no Shōgun Imamura
Hitoshi, pp. 348–9.
72 For a more complete description of the “High Treason Incident,”
see Victoria, Zen at War, pp. 38–48.
73 D. T. Suzuki, Bukkyō no Tai-i (Kyoto: Hōzōkan, 1947), p. 4.
74 Ibid., pp. 8–9.
75 Ibid., p. 12.
76 Ibid., p. 12.
77 Ibid., p. 13.
78 Ibid., p. 133.
79 See Herbert Bix, Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan, p.
619.
 11 BUDDHISM – A TOP SECRET RELIGION IN
WARTIME JAPAN
1 For additional background material on the League, see Victoria,
Zen at War, pp. 66–73.
2 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 67.
3 Ibid., p. 71.
4 Ogata Hiroshi, ed., Bukkyō to Shakai Undō (Tokyo: Criminal
Affairs Bureau; Ministry of Justice, February 1939), p. 394.
5 Ibid., p. 481.
6 Inoue Nisshō, Ichinin Issatsu (Tokyo: Nihon Shūhō-sha, 1953), p.
98. Additional material has been added to this section in order to
provide the reader with a clearer understanding of Inoue’s
connection to Zen.
7 Ibid., p. 99.
8 Ibid., p. 99.
9 Ibid., p. 183.
10 Ibid., p. 197.
11 Heinrich Dumoulin, Zen Buddhism: A History; Volume 1: India
and China (New York: Macmillan, 1988), p. 249. Note that D. T.
Suzuki employed these same phrases to illustrate “Zen
aestheticism” in Zen and Japanese Culture, pp. 352–4.
12 Sengzhao’s essay, entitied “The Namelessness of Nirvāṇa,” was
the fourth of four essays contained in the Zhao Lun (Treatises of
Zhao). For further details on Sengzhao’s life and the influence he
exerted on the development of Zen (Chan) in China, see Heinrich
Dumoulin, Zen Buddhism: A History; Volume 1: India and China,
pp. 70–4.
13 Inoue Nisshō, Ichinin Issatsu, p. 198.
14 Ibid., p. 208.
15 Ibid., p. 221.
16 Quoted in Onuma Hiroaki, Ketsumeidan Jiken-jōshinsho-
gokuchū Nikki (Tokyo: Ketsumeidan Jiken Kōhan Sokki-roku
Kankō-kai, 1971), p. 62.
17 Inoue Nisshō, Ichinin Issatsu, p. 220.
18 Ibid., p. 236.
19 Ibid., p. 247.
20 Ibid., pp. 248–9.
21 Ibid., p. 254.
22 Ibid., p. 272.
23 Quoted in Onuma Hiroaki, Ketsumeidan Jiken Kōhan Sokki-roku,
vol. 3 (Tokyo: Ketsumeidan Jiken Kōhan Sokki-roku Kankō-kai,
1963), p. 184.
24 The reference here is to the sacrifice of one’s own game pieces,
i.e. ‘stones,’ in the Japanese board game of go, The idea of
making a tactical sacrifice in the interests of ultimate victory is
similar to that of sacrificing a pawn in the game of chess.
25 Quoted in Onuma Hiroaki, Ketsumeidan Jiken Kōhan Sokki-roku,
vol. 3, p. 187.
26 The interview took place on 20 January 1998 at the Tokyo offices
of the Sankō Industrial Construction Co. which was then headed
by the still active Yotsumoto. Ryū-un-in is also known as Hakuzan
dōjō (training centre) due to its location in the Hakuzan area of
Tokyo’s Bunkyō ward.
27 Quoted in Onuma Hiroaki, Ketsumeidan Jiken-jōshinsho-
gokuchū Nikki, p. 30.
28 Quoted in Onuma Hiroaki, Ketsumeidan Jiken Kōhan Sokki-roku,
vol. 3, p. 188.
29 Quoted in Hugh Byas, Government by Assassination (London:
Bradford & Dicken, 1943), p. 61.
30 Quoted in Onuma Hiroaki, Ketsumeidan Jiken Kōhan Sokki-roku,
vol. 3, p. 403.
31 Civil Intelligence Section, The Brocade Banner – The Story of
Japanese Nationalism, p. 43.
32 Okamura Ao, Ketsumeidan Jiken (Tokyo: San-ichi Shobo, 1989),
p. 326.
33 Quoted in Onuma Hiroaki, Ketsumeidan Jiken Kōhan Sokki-roku,
vol. 1, p. 368.
34 Ibid., p. 369.
35 Quoted in Masao Maruyama, Thought and Behaviour in Modern
Japanese Politics, p. 53.
36 Quoted in Onuma Hiroaki, Ketsumeidan Jiken Kōhan Sokki-roku,
vol. 1, pp. 87–88.
37 Quoted in Tamaki Benkichi, Kaisō Yamamoto Gempo, p. 40.
38 Although there is some variation in the content of the categories,
the four individuals/groups to whom gratitude is owed are
typically identified as: 1) one’s parents, 2) all sentient beings, 3)
one’s sovereign, and 4) the Three Treasures of Buddhism (i.e.
Buddha, Dharma, and Saṃgha). The Ten Good Practices are
typically identified as: 1) not killing, 2) not stealing, 3) not
engaging in improper sexual conduct, 4) not lying, 5) not
speaking deceitfully, 6) not speaking ill of others, 7) not using
flowery language, 8) not coveting, 9) not getting angry, and 10)
not holding false views.
39 Quoted in Onuma Hiroaki, Ketsumeidan Jiken Kōhan Sokki-roku,
vol. 3, p. 737.
40 Quoted in Masao Maruyama, Thought and Behaviour in Modern
Japanese Politics, p. 53.
41 Ogata Hiroshi, Bukkyō to Shakai Undō, p. 261.
42 Ibid., pp. 485–91. For further discussion on the characteristics of
Imperial Way Buddhism, see Victoria, Zen at War, pp. 79–94.
43 Although definitions and even categories vary somewhat within
the Buddhist tradition, the three forms are typically defined as
follows: 1) Dharma body (Skt. Dharma-kāya) being the highest
aspect of the threefold body of the Buddha. It is composed of the
absolute nature of the Buddha-mind and is held to be ineffable,
unmanifested, and non-substantial; 2) the physical form (Skt.
Nirmāṇa-kāya) represents the Buddha as he actually manifests
himself for the benefit of unenlightened sentient beings,
Śākyamuni Buddha being a prime example; and 3) the reward
body (Skt. Saṃhhoga-kāya) is the body of bliss acquired by
bodhisattvas as a result of their religious practice and vows. In
effect, it represents the union of the first two bodies.
44 Although there is some variation in the content of the categories,
the four individuals/groups to whom gratitude is owed are
typically identified as: 1) one’s parents, 2) all sentient beings, 3)
one’s sovereign, and 4) the Three Treasures of Buddhism (i.e.
Buddha, Dharma, and Saṃgha).
45 In the minds of many Japanese leaders, the Free Masons were
linked to Jews as a group who, by advocating individualism and
liberalism, were part of a sinister plot to destroy Japanese social
unity in order to further their goal of world domination.
46 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 122.
47 Ibid., p. 85.

EPILOGUE
1 Ichikawa Hakugen, Fudō-chi Shinmyō-roku/Taia-ki (Tokyo:
Kōdan-sha, 1982), p. 44.
2 Peter L. Berger, The Social Reality of Religion (Middlesex,
England: Penguin University Books, 1973), p. 53.
3 Reinhold Niebuhr, Moral Man and Immoral Society (New York:
Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1932), pp. 96–7.
4 This interview appeared in the Fuji Flyer (18 August, 1995), p. 4.
5 John Dillenberger, Martin Luther: Selections from His Writings
(Garden City, New York: Doubleday, 1961), pp. 398–9.
6 Quoted in Victoria, Zen at War, p. 87.
7 Daniel Berrigan and Thich Nhat Hanh, The Raft Is Not the Shore
(Boston: Beacon Press, 1975), p. 34.
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Ichikawa Hakugen. (1975) Nihon Fashizumu ka no Shūkyō’ (Religion
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 INDEX

Aizawa Saburō (Lt. Col.) 27–37, 39, 53–5, 115, 236 n.2
Akegarasu Haya 174, 222
Akihito (Crown Prince/current Emperor aka Heisei) 42, 196
Allen, Thomas 132
Allied Occupation (Forces/authorities) 60, 84–6, 99, 100, 102–3,
108, 175–6, 202–3
Amaterasu Oomikami (aka Sun Goddess) see Shintō
Amida no Hongan 222
Amitābha Buddha (J. Amida Butsu) see Buddha
Anami Korechika (Army Minister) 142
Ananda (J. Anan) 157
Anti-Nazi Fascism Annihilation League (J. Han-Nachisu Fassho
Funsai Dōmei) 207 see also Germany and Japan
Anti-Semitism see Jews
Arahara Bokusui 43, 50, 53
Araki Sadao (General) 49, 56, 89, 168
Army (Imperial/emperor’s/Japanese) 13, 18–19, 28, 30, 32, 35, 48,
52, 56, 104, 108, 117, 123, 132, 135, 137, 164, 166, 168–9,
172, 178–9, 181, 199, 208, 235 n.2
Burma Area Army 135 see also Burma
China Expeditionary Force 186 see also China
Control Faction in 28–9, 53, 57, 65
Department of Military Education 108, 117, 125
Field Service Code Chpt. 7 passim, 185, 198
General Staff 56, 64, 109, 165, 184, 189
Imperial Way Faction in 28–9, 50, 56, 58, 63, 65
Manchurian Affairs Bureau 183
 Military Affairs Bureau 29, 32, 192
military police 30, 35, 168, 183
Military Regulations for Internal Affairs 130
Military Relief Department 156
Military Staff College 123
Ministry 19, 64, 123, 168
North China Expeditionary Army 164
Operations Division of the General Staff 189
Shanghai Expeditionary Force 168 see also China
Supreme War Council 101, 109, 181, 189
Art of War 10 see also Sunzi
Asada Daisen 25
Asahina Sōgen 85, 97, 240 n.10
Asahi Shimbun (newspaper) 216
Asaka Yasuhiko (Prince) 187–8, 246 n.9
Ashikaga Yoshimitsu (Shōgun) 75
Ashikaga Academy 122
Asia-Pacific War 19, 26–7, 69, 91, 121, 132–3, 164, 177, 183, 194,
236 n.2
Aśoka (King) (J. Aiku/Ashōka) 161
Auswitz (concentration camp) 170 see also Germany
Avalokiteśvara (J. Kanzeon/Kannon) 35, 186–9, 247 n.40–1
Azuma-kagami (history) 76
Azuma Shirō 13, 146, 234 n.5

Baizhang 20–1
Baizhang Qinggui 20
Bangkok see Thailand
Baran, Josh 91, 240 n.41
Bataan Death March (of April 1942) see Philippines
Berger, Peter 229
Berrigen, Daniel 231
Bix, Herbert xvii, 56, 64, 103, 141, 194–5, 241 n.38, 244 n.112, 248
n.63
Black Dragon Society (J. Kokuryū-kai), postwar Black Dragon Club
(J. Kokuryū-kurabu) 61, 214
Blood Oath Corps (J. Ketsumeidan) 38, 44, 207, 216, 235 n.27 see
also Inoue Nisshō
Blue Cliff Record (Ch. Pi Yen Lu, J. Hekiganroku) see Zen
Blyth, Reginald 33
Board of Inquiry on Wartime Bombing (U.S.) 138
Bolshevism see Marxism
Borton, Hugh 103, 236 n.3
Bougainville 8, 9, 108
Brahmajala Sūtra xiv
Brocade Banner [The] 57–8
Buddha
Amitābha 9, 16, 118, 125, 152, 163, 178, 182–3, 186, 189, 193,
199–200, 206, 216, 222, 226 see also Pure Land
Dharma (J. Buppō) xi, xiii, xvii, 3–4, 7, 9, 11, 14–15, 20, 22, 31, 52,
59, 68–71, 74–5, 77, 86, 89–91, 97, 109, 113, 130, 136, 144,
157–8, 161, 165, 171, 182, 190, 198, 208, 211, 217, 219, 221,
223–4, 247 n.41, 250 n.38, n.43
Mahāvairocana 226
nature (J. Busshō) 4, 42, 215
Śākyamuni (J. Shakamuni) xiv, xv, 101, 105, 113, 157, 192, 216,
218, 231, 245 n.25, 250 n.43
Tathāgata (title of respect for a Buddha) 152, 173
Way (J. Butsudō) 21, 34, 42, 83, 116, 151–2
Buddha Mind Association see Busshin-kai
Buddhism (J. Bukkyō)
bodhisattva (J. Bosatsu) 158, 188–9, 216, 219–21, 223, 250 n.43
chaplain 130–1, 150, 154, Chpt. 9
passim, 178, 199, 218, 246 n.9
in China 7, Chpt. 6 passim
Imperial Way 218–20, 224–6, 250 n.42
in Japan see Japan
karma 153–6, 158–9, 161
Kṣitigarbha (Bodhisattva) 216
 in Laos see Laos
Lotus Sūtra 79, 151, 165–6, 173, 190, 208, 214, 245 n.41
Mādhyamika philosophy 52, 117, 209, 236 n.2
Mahāyāna (school) xiii, xiv, 71–2, 77, 81, 90, 92, 117, 149–50,
166, 173, 188, 215, 225
Nirvāṇa 131, 156, 201, 249 n.12
Noble Eightfold Path of 149
Saṃgha 161, 250 n.44
in Thailand see Thailand
Theravāda (school) 173, 197
Youth League for Revitalizing Buddhism 203–7, 219, 226, 249 n.1
see also Seno’o Girō
Buddhism and Social Movements (Bukkyō to Shakai Undō) 204
Buddhism – A Top Secret Religion in Wartime Japan 204–27
Buddhism – The Last Refuge of War Criminals 171–203
Buddhist War Bereavement 149–62
Buppō (Skt. Buddha Dharma) see Buddha
Burma 173, 193–4
Burma Area Army see Army
Siam-Burma Railway see Thailand
Bushidō (booklet) 150
Bushido (code) xvii, 16, 19–20, 49, 51, 59, 107–8, 116, 118–20, 122–
3, 126, 128, 138, 187
Busshin-kai (Buddha Mind Association) 35
Buttsūji (temple/branch) 124

Cakravartin (J. Tenrin-nō) see Universal Monarch

Carrying Zen to China 92–105
Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) see United States
Chaen Yoshio 102
Chan see Zen
Chang, Iris 13
Chan, Wing-tsit 180
Chanyuan Qinggui 20–2
Chao-chou (J. Jōshū) see Jōshū
Chiang Kai-shek see Jiang Jieshi
Chicago
Natural History Museum in 112
University of 162
China
Beijing (aka Peking) 168
Beijing (aka Peking) University 175
China Expeditionary Force see Army (Imperial)
China Incident (of 1937) 7, 186, 190
Manchuria see Manchuria entry
Nanjing (aka Nanking) 7, 12–13, 85, 106, 146, 187–8
Nanjing, Rape/Massacre of 89, 107, 168, 179, 186, 192 see also
The Rape of Nanking
Nationalists 175
Neo-Confucianism see Wang Yangming
Shanghai 7, 96, 160, 175
Shanghai Expedionary Force 168
Shanghai Incident (of 1932) 95
Sino-Japanese War (of 1894–5) 36, 44, 131, 150, 163
Zhongjing (aka Chungking) 175
Chō Isamu (Col./Maj. Gen./Lt. Gen.) 135, 165–8, 170, 246 n.5, n.9
Chōzenji (International Zen Dōjō) 39, 42, 59
Christian(ity) xiv, 91, 105, 155, 193–4, 196, 201, 219, 228, 230–1
Crusades 13, 228
Roman Catholics 194
Chūgai Nippō (newspaper) 76, 138
Citizen’s Reader for Certain Victory [A] (Hisshō Kokumin Tokuhon)
80
Code-Name Downfall 132 see also Thomas Allen & Norman Polmar
comfort women (J. ianpu) 107
communism 36, 38, 43, 45, 61, 63, 80, 83–4, 87, 89, 175, 227
adherents 43
Party 60, 201, 206, 240 n.17 see also Japan
Confessions of a Buddhist Chaplain 163–70
Confucianism 82, 122–3, 235 n.9
Ashikaga Academy 122
Neo-Confucianism 122, 235 n.9 see also Wang Yangming
Constitution (of Japan) see Japan
Control Faction (J. Tōsei-ha) see Army

daigo see great enlightenment 9

Daihōrin (Great Dharma Wheel) magazine 130
Daily Mail (newspaper) 81
Dan Takuma (Baron) 214
Daws, Gavan 145
Dayal, Har 149
Decisive Battle for the Mainland – It Was No Phantom [The] (Hondo
Kessen – Maboroshi dewa nakatta) 142
Department of Military Education see Army
Dhammapada (J. Hokku-gyō) xiv, 101
Dharma (J. Hō) see Buddha
Dictionary of the Right Wing (Uha Jiten) 43, 61
Dōgen (Kigen) Chpt. 5 passim, 113, 116, 131, 136, 151 see also Zen
Dōgen Zenji to Shūshōgi (Zen Master Dōgen and the Treatise on
Practice and Enlightenment) 68, 89
Doihara Kenji (General) 181–3
Dōkyō Etan (aka Shōjū-rōjin) 114
Dower, John 87
Downfall – The End of the Imperial Japanese Empire 140 see also
Richard B. Frank
Drea, Edward 84
Dumoulin, Heinrich xiv, 74
Dürckheim, Karlfried Graf (Count) 88–9
Dutch East Indies see Indonesia

Ean 123
East Wind Society (Tōfū-kai) 60
Eigenji (temple) 130
Eihei Genzenji Goroku 76
Eiheiji (monastery) 75–6, 110, 129–30, 136, 155
Eihei Kōroku 76
Eisai (aka Myōan Eisai) 151, 221 see also Zen
Eisenhower, Dwight (Army Chief of Staff) 102
Engakuji (temple/branch) 37, 81, 85, 112, 154, 163
enlightenment see satori
Essence (Kakushin) 52
Essentials of Combat (Sentō Kōyō) 52
Evening Talks on Zen Studies (Zengaku Yawa) 155 see also
Yamada Reirin
Everything is Emptiness (Issai wa Kū) 139

Farmers Union (Nihon Nōmin Kumiai) see Japan

Fashizumu-ka no Shūkyō (Religion under Fascism) 66 see also
Ichikawa Hakugen
Field Service Code (J. Senjinkun) see Army
Field Service Code and the Spirit of Japan [The] (Senjinkun to Nihon
Seishin) 127
Fifteen (15) May Incident (of 1932) 216
First Zen Institute of America 66
Frank, Richard B. 101, 140–1
Free Masons 224, 250 n.45
French Revolution 213 see also Russian Revolution
Fuji Flyer (newspaper) 230
Fukusada Mugai 27, 31–7, 115, 236 n.2
Fukushima Nichi’i 164, 166–7, 169–70, 246 n.5
Fukuzawa Ekō 173–4
Fushiminomiya Sadanaru (Prince/General) 154

Gakushuin (Peers’ School) 37

General Federation of Citizens for the Salvation of the Nation (J.
Kyūkoku Kokumin Sōrengō) aka General Federation of Citizens
(J. Kokumin Sōrengō) 60
Geneva Disarmament Conference (of 1932–37) 186
Germany 27, 70, 78, 109–10, 145, 177, 229
 Nazi(s) 28, 46, 78–9, 82, 87–9, 109, 177, 207, 226
Nazi party 27, 58
S.S. Unit 170
Gidō Shūshin 75
Goodman, David 78, 86
Great Duty (Taigi) 124
great enlightenment (daigo) 9 see also satori
Great Essence (Taiganmoku) 53
Greater East Asia Co-prosperity Sphere (J. Dai-Tōa Kyōei-ken) 68–
9, 74
Greater East Asia War (J. Dai-Tōa Sensō) see Asia-Pacific War
Grew, Joseph 80, 102
Guadalcanal 8, 9, 10, 146
Guandong (Kwantung) army see Manchuria

Hagakure 106–7, 116, 123, 126, 132

Hakuin (Ekaku) 3, 7, 9, 113–14, 117, 123, 151, 210
Hakuin branch see Rinzai Zen sect
Hakuin Memorial Hall see Ryūtakuji
Hanaya Tadashi 94
Hanayama Shinshō 178–81, 183–4, 186, 188–94
Hanazono
Emperor 124
University 39, 42, 61–3, 91
Harada Daiun (Sōgaku) xvii, 66, 68, 86, 91, 97, 138, 240 n.10
Harries, Meirion and Susie 132–3, 172, 236 n.4
Harvey, Peter xiv
Hashimoto Fumio 88–9, 240 n.36
Hata Ikuhito 126
Hayashi Senjūrō (General) 199
Hayashiya Tomojirō 230
Heart Sūtra (Skt. Prajñāpāramitā Hrdaya Sūtra, J. Hannya Shingyō)
110, 173
Hekigan-roku (Blue Cliff Record, Ch. Pi Yen Lu) see Zen
Higashi Honganji (temple/branch) see Pure Land
Higashi Soshin 207–8
Higashikuni Naruhiko (Prince) 30, 236 n.6
High Treason Incident (J. Taigyaku Jiken) 200, 248 n.72
Hinayana school (J. Shōjō) see Buddhism
Hirata Seikō 139
Hirohito (Emperor, aka Shōwa) 30, 56, 64, 77, 96, 98–9, 103, 188,
194–6, 200, 203, 224, 246 n.9, 248 n.63
Hirohito and the Making of Modern Japan 194, 244 n.112, 248 n.63
see also Herbert Bix
Hirota Kōki (Baron/Foreign Minister/Prime Minister) 178–81, 183
History of Zen Buddhism (A) xiv see also Heinrich Dumoulin
Hitotsubashi University xvii, 204
Hitsuzendō (Way of Brush and Zen) 40
Hōjō Tokiyori 75–6
Hōjō Tokiyoshi 31, 37
Holocaust see Jews
holy war xvi, 13, 52–3, 67, 85, 91, 123, 166, 187, 195, 228, 230–1
Homma Masaharu (Lt. Gen.) 110
Hōnen 181 see also Pure Land
Hōshōji (temple) 175
Hosokawa, Dōgen 59, 61–3
Huairang 209
Huike 22
Human Bullets (Nikudan) 134 see also Sakurai Tadayoshi
Hymn in Praise of Meditation (Zazen Wasan) 9 see also Hakuin

Ichikawa Hakugen 66–8, 229

Iida Tōin xiii
Ikeda Hayato (Prime Minister) 197
Imakita Kōsen 37
Imamura Hitoshi (General) 108–18, 200
Ume (daughter) 115
Imperial Household 44, 85, 151, 211
Imperial Military Reserve Association (J. Teikoku Zaigo Gunjin-kai)
58
Imperial Rule Assistance Association (IRAA) 58
Assistance Manhood Group (J. Yokusan Sōnen Dan) 58
Imperial Spirit (Kōki) magazine 53
Imperial Way 43, 45–6, 48, 220, 222, 224
Imperial Way Buddhism (J. Kōdō Bukkyō) see Buddhism
Imperial Way Faction (J. Kōdō-ha) see Army
Indonesia (formerly “Dutch East Indies”) 108, 177, 228
Inokuchi Rikihei (Lt. Col.) 138
Inoue Junnosuke (Finance Minister) 213
Inoue Nisshō 207–18
Institute of Zen Studies (J. Zengaku Kenkyū-jo) 91
International Military Tribunal for the Far East see Tokyo War Crimes
Tribunal
International Red Cross 106, 241 n.1
In the Name of the Emperor (film) 13
Inukai Tsuyoshi (Prime Minister) 214, 235 n.1, 237 n.27
Iōjima 169
IRAA see Imperial Rule Assistance Association
lse (battleship) 4
Ishin Sūden 91
Ishiwara Kanji (Lt. Gen.) 79, 189–91, 198
Isobe Asaichi 44, 53–7
Itagaki Seishirō (General/Minister of the Army/Chief of the Army
General Staff) 109, 189–92, 198
Italy 70, 145
Itinerant branch (J. Yugyō-ha) see Pure Land

Japan
Communist Party of 60, 201, 206, 240 n.17
Constitution of 54, 61, 83, 86, 99–101, 103–4
Constitutional Revision Committee (J. Kempō Kaisei I’in-kai) 99
Criminal Affairs Bureau 204
Diet 83–4, 176, 196
Farmers Union 207
Ministry of Justice of 204
 Mutual Security Treaty (with USA) 61
national polity of 11, 14, 43–5, 54, 85, 101, 169, 206, 215–16, 219,
222, 224, 226
Russo-Japanese war see Russia
Spirit of 10, 62, 69–71, 73–4, 89, 120, 216–17, 219–20, 222, 227
Teachers’ Union 61
Japanese Peoples War [The] (Nihonjin no Sensō) 164
Japanese Spirit (J. Yamato-damashii) see Spirit of Japan
Japanese Thought (Nihon Shisō) 47
Japanism Youth Council (Nipponshugi Seinen Kaigi) 58
Japans Military Masters – The Army in Japanese Life 132 see also
Hillis Lory
Jen-wang-jing see Ninnō gokoku hannya haramittakyō
Jews 73, 78–80, 82, 84, 87, 89–90, 228, 231, 250 n.45
anti-Semitism 73–4, 78, 80, 82, 87, 190, 226
Holocaust 78, 89, 228
Jews in the Japanese Mind 78
Jiang Jieshi (aka Chiang Kai-shek) 175
Jicang 52, 236 n.2
Jiganji (temple) 197
Jiki Shin Dōjō (lit. “Direct Mind” Training Centre) 50–1, 53, 55
Jinshansi (temple) 7, 13
Jōdo sect see Pure Land
Jōdo Shin sect see True Pure Land sect
Jōkuin (temple) 25

kakekomi-dera (temple for taking refuge) see Tōkeiji

Kamakura 20, 37, 71, 74–7, 97, 112, 119, 122–3, 154, 163, 171
kamikaze (aka Special Attack Forces) 138–9, 141, 172
Kannon see Avalokiteśvara
Kantō District Council of the Restoration Movement (Ishin Undō
Kantō Kyōgi-kai) 60
Kanzan Egen 124
Kapleau, Philip 66, 87
karma (J. Gō) see Buddhism
Katayama Tetsu 85
Kawabe Masakazu (General) 135
Kawano Hitoshi 133
kempeitai see Army (military police)
Kenchōji (temple) 20–1, 23
Kennedy, John F. (President) 197
kenshō (initial enlightenment experience) 3, 53
Kensōji (temple) 35
Kimura Heitaro (General) 193–4, 248 n.58
Yuriko (daughter) 194
Kinki-kai (Imperial Flag Society) 47
Kinnō Ishin Dōmei (League for Loyalty to the Emperor and the
Restoration) 47
Kishi Nobusuke (Prime Minister) 85, 176–7
Kishi Yajirō (Major) 20–3
Kita Ikki 55–6, 191
Kōa Kannon (temple) 186
kōan 4, 7, 9, 16, 41, 125, 137, 208–12, 248 n.53
Kobayashi Junichirō 50
Kōbō (Daishi) see Kūkai
Kodama Gentarō (General) 109, 241 n.10
Kodera, James 74, 239 n.6
Kōdō see Imperial Way
Kōdō-Bukkyō (Imperial Way Buddhism) see Buddhism
Kōho-in (temple) 41–3
Kokuryū-kai see Black Dragon Society
kokutai (national polity) see Japan
Komazawa University 58, 62, 195–6, 218
Konoe Fumimaro (Prince/Prime Minister) 58, 62, 195–6, 218
Kūkai (aka Kōbō Daishi) 7, 223 see also Shingon
Kumazawa Taizen 129–133, 136–8
Kurebayashi Kōdō 154
Kurosawa Akira 143
Kusunoki Masashige 31, 248 n.58
Kwantung (aka Guandong) army see Manchuria
Kyoto 42, 75, 81, 91, 94, 124, 195, 231

Labour Magazine (Rōdō Zasshi) 207

Lachs, Stuart xvii
Laos 175, 197
Luang Prabang 197
Mekong (river) 175
Pathet Lao (Communists) 197
Vientiane 197
Leggett, Trevor 42
Liangsu 15
Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) 61
Life Chronology (Nian-pu) 180
Lin-chi sect (J. Rinzai-shū) see Rinzai sect
Little, David 161
Longer Amitābha Sūtra (Daimuryōjū-kyō) see Pure Land
Loori, John Daido xv
Lory, Hillis 132
Lotus Sūtra (J. Myōhō-renge-kyō) see Buddhism
Loy, David xvii
Luther, Martin 230

MacArthur, Douglas (General) 100–103, 108

Mabuni (caves) see Okinawa
Mādhyamika philosophy see Buddhism
Maeda Torao 43, 45, 48
Maeno Jisui 40
Maha-parinibbana Sutta 157
Mahaparinirvāṇa Sūtra (J. Daihatsu-nehangyō) see Nirvāṇa Sutra
Mahāvairocana (J. Dainichi) see Buddha Mahāvairocana
Mahāyāna school (J. Daijō) see Buddhism
Major History of the Right Wing [A] (Dai-Uha Shi) 43
Makeham, John xvii
Makino Nobuaki (Count) 55
Manchukuo (J. Manshū-koku) see Manchuria
Manchuria (J. Manshū, Ch. Manzhouguo/Manchukuo) 18, 28, 33, 59,
61, 80, 93–7, 104–5, 109, 165, 175–6, 181, 183, 189, 191, 207,
235 n.2
Guandong (Kwantung) army 93–4
Manchuria-Mongolia Development Youth Patriotic Unit 136
Manchurian Affairs Bureau see Army
Manchurian Incident (of 1931) 27, 79, 94, 109
Manchurian Mining Company 97
Opium Monopoly Bureau 105
Port Arthur 134
South Manchuria Railroad Company 94, 207
Xinjing (J. Shinkyō/present-day Changchun) 93–5, 97
Manzhouguo see Manchuria
Mao Zedong (aka Mao Tse-tung) 175
martial arts/ways 42, 51, 60, 62, 151–2
Marty, Martin 162
Maruyama Masao 63–4, 238 n.66
Marxism 79, 86 see also communism
Masons see Free Masons
Masunaga Reihō 138
Matsubara Banryū 30
Matsubara Kazuo (Pfc.) 146
Matsui Iwane (General) 186–9, 199
Matsumoto Jōji (Minister of State) 99, 103, 241 n.34
Matsuura Fumio 206
Mazaki Jinzaburō (General) 29, 49, 56, 58–9
meditation power see samādhi-power
Meiji (Emperor) 33, 200, 211
Constitution 54, 103
government/state 37, 41, 44, 221
Memorial Hall (J. Meiji Kinenkan) 211
Restoration 45, 48, 221
Mideast 228
military police (J. Kempeitai) see Army
Military Regulations for Internal Affairs see Army
Military Relief Department (J. Juppei-bu) see Army
Minami Hiroshi 139
Mineo Setsudō 200
Minobe Tatsukichi 83–4
Mitsubishi (financial combine/zaibatsu) 93
Electric Co. 61
Mitsunaga Taiyū 189
Mizukami Tsutomu 25
Monks and Soldiers Move on their Stomachs 17–26
Mountbatten, Louis (Admiral Lord) 174
mu (nothingness) 4, 41, 124, 179
muga (lit. no-self) 70, 122, 135–6, 205
Mumonkan (Gateless Gate) see Zen
Muranaka Kōji 53–6
Mutō Akira (General) 192–3
Myōshinji (temple/branch) see Rinzai Zen sect

Nabeshima Naoshige (Lord) 107

Nagako (Empress) 200
Nāgārjuna 53, 236 n.2
Nagata Tetsuzan (Major Gen.) 29–30, 32, 34, 39, 53–4, 236 n.5
Nakagawa Sōen 96–7
Nakajima Genjō xiii, xvii, Chpt. 1 passim, 142–3, 234 n.l, 235 n.10
Nakamura Aketo (Lt. Gen.) 172
Nakamura Hajime 181
Nakamura Masanori 102–3, 241 n.34
Nakaseko Shōdō 74
Namu Amida-Butsu see Pure Land
Namu Myōhō Renge-kyō see Nichiren
Nanjing (aka Nanking) see China
Nansen (Ch. Nanquan) 212
Nantenbō 36, 109
Nanzenji (temple/branch) see Rinzai Zen sect
Narahashi Wataru (Chief Cabinet Secretary) 99–104, 241 n.38
National History Museum (of Chicago, IL) 112
National Pillar Society (J. Kokujū-kai) see Nichiren
national polity (of Japan) (J. kokutai) see Japan
Navy (Imperial Japanese) Chpt. 1 passim, 28, 48, 52, 64–5, 89, 135,
169, 195
Nazi(s) see Germany
Neo-Confucian(ism) see Confucianism
New Guinea 8, 9, 10
New Japan Council (J. Shin-Nippon Kyōgi-kai) 60–1
Nichiren (St.) 55, 79, 165, 168, 190–1, 210–11, 221
Mt. Minobu 165, 210
Namu Myōhō Renge-kyō (Homage to the Lotus Sutra) 151, 208
National Pillar Society (J. Kokujū-kai) 79, 189
Nichirenism (J. Nichiren-shugi) 79, 189, 191, 210
sect/tradition/school 79, 95, 128, 151, 164–5, 173, 189, 191, 193,
198, 205, 208, 210, 215
Senjishō (Selection of the Time) 190
Nicholas II (Czar) 79
Niebuhr, Reinhold 229–30
Nihon Fashizumu ka no Shūkyō (Religion Under Japanese Fascism)
66 see also Ichikawa Hakugen
Nihon Nōmin Kumiai (Japan Farmers Union) see Japan
Nihon o Mamoru-kai see Association to Protect Japan
Niimi Hideo (Colonel) 30
Ninnaji (temple) 195–6
Nirvāṇa (J. Nehan) see Buddhism
Nishida Mitsugi 50, 53–6
Nishi Honganji see Pure Land
Nissan (financial combine/zaibatsu) 97
Nogi Maresuke (General) 36, 109, 126, 241 n.10
Nukariya Kaiten 109

Oda Katsutarō 40
Ooe Shinobu 17
Oohashi Chūichi (Vice Minister) 93
Okamoto Jikō 195
Okano Haruko 82
Ookawa Shūmei 177
Okinawa 135, 140–1, 165, 169–70
Battle of 168–9
Mabuni (caves) in 165
Okuda Kyūji 127
Omata Yukio 12
Oomori Sōgen Chpt. 4 passim, 66, 85, 90–1
Oomori Sōgen - The Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of Zen 39–65
Oomori Zenkai 69, 110–13, 115–17, 167
Onoda Hiroo (2nd Lt.) 173
Onuma Shō 213–14
Operations Division of the General Staff see Army
Opium Monopoly Bureau see Manchuria
Ooshima Ken’ichi (Lt. Gen.) 151
Oosuga Shūdō 199
Oota Masahide 141, 168
Ootake Ippō 197
Ootani Kōen 150
Outline of Buddhism [An] (Bukkyō no Tai-I) 201 see also D. T. Suzuki
Ooyama Iwao (Field Marshal) 11

Palace and Politics in Prewar Japan 64 see also David Titus

Patriotic Women’s Society (J. Aikoku-fujinkai) 18
Peattie, Mark 191
Perry, Gary (Major) 230
Philippines 96, 169, 172–3, 177, 192
Bataan Death March 110, 172
Camp O’Donnell 172
Lubang Island 173
Manila (Rape of) 96, 110, 192
Phillips, Bernard 62
Pi Yen Lu (J. Hekigan-roku) see Blue Cliff Record
Platform Sūtra of the Sixth Zen Patriarch see Zen
Polmar, Norman 132
Potsdam Declaration (of 26 July 1945) 172
Port Arthur (J. Dairen/present-day Nushun) see Manchuria
Prajñāpāramitā Hrdaya Sūtra see Heart Sūtra
Prebish, Charles xviii
Prince of Wales (battleship) 8
Prisoners of the Japanese 145 see also Gavan Daws
Protocols of the Elders of Zion [The] 78–80
Psychology of the Japanese [The] (Nihonjin no Shinri) 139 see also
Minami Hiroshi
Pure Land (J. Jōdo) 70, 125, 128, 152, 163–4, 173–4, 181–3, 187–9,
192, 199–201, 222
Amitābha Buddha (J. Amida Butsu) see Buddha
Itinerant branch of 164
Longer Amitābha Sūtra (Daimuryōjū-kyō) 185
Namu Amida-Butsu (Homage to Amitābha Buddha) 186, 193, 199,
222
sect/tradition/school (J. Jōdo-shū) 118, 127–8, 156, 163, 182, 200,
215, 223
Western Paradise in 118, 125, 199

Rabaul 8, 9, 10, 108

Rape of Nanking (The) 13 see also Iris Chang and China
Reader for Bereaved Families [A] (Izoku Tokuhon) 156
Religion under Fascism see Fashizumu-ka no Shūkyō
Renjōji (temple) 164
Rennyo 181, 221 see also True Pure Land
Repulse (battleship) 8
Revitalized Buddhism (Shinkō Bukkyō) 206 see also Youth League
for Revitalizing Buddhism
Ribbentrop, Joachim von (Foreign Minister) 88
Rinnōji (temple) 31, 33, 37, 115
Rinzai Zen sect/tradition of 3, 40–1, 80, 85,92, 114, 129, 139, 173,
181, 188, 221, 231–2
Hakuin branch 2
Myōshinji (temple/branch) 3, 80, 85, 92, 94, 96, 124, 234
Myōshinji Shinkyō Betsuin 95, 97, 104
Nanzenji (temple/branch) 91
Rise and Fall of the Imperial Japanese Army [The] 132
Risshō Gokokudo (temple) 211
Road to Eternity [The] - My Eighty-Two Years of Life (Eien e no Michi
- Waga Hachijū- nen no Shōgai) 178 see also Hanyama
Shinshō
Roankyō (Donkey-Saddle Bridge) 42, 63
Rōdō Zasshi (magazine) 207 see also Seno’o Girō
Roeling, B. V. A. 179
Russia 17–18, 58–9, 79, 150, 177, 235 n.2
Revolution (of 1917) 79, 213
2/7/10 Russo-Japanese War (of 1904–5)
Ryōhei (ship) 16
Ryōkan 113–14, 117, 183
Ryūtakuji (temple) 3, 98, 210
Hakuin Memorial Hall at 210
Ryū-un-in (temple) 212

Sacred Soldiers Incident (Shinpeitai Jiken) 48–9

Saipan 140–1, 169
Sakomizu Hisatsune (Chief Cabinet Sec.) 102
Sakurai Tadayoshi 134
Śākyamuni Buddha see Buddha
samādhi (J. jō/zenjō/sammai/zammai) 208, 214
Samāha (J. Sō/Sōgya) see Buddhism
Sanbōkyōdan (Three Treasures Association) 69, 97, 240 n.10 see
also Yasutani Haku’un & Yamada Kōun
Sanlun (Three Treatises) school 52, 236 n.2
Sanlun Xuanyi [Profound Meaning of the Three Treatises] 52, 236
n.2
Sanshō (periodical) 136
Sasaki, Ruth Fuller 66
Sasebo 175
Satō Gan’ei 150–55, 199
satori (enlightenment) xiv, 157
Sawaki Kōdō 17
Seiryūji (temple) 176
seishin kyōiku see spiritual education
Seki Bokuo 41
Seki Seisetsu 39, 41, 57, 238 n.41
Seki Toyoiki (Ensign) 138
Sekito Keiun 164
Seitaiji (temple) 42
Senjin-kun see Field Service Code
Senjishō (Selection of the Time) see Nichiren
Sengzhao 209, 249 n.12
Seno’o Girō 205, 207
Sermons of a Buddhist Abbot 154 see also Shaku Sōen
sesshin 51, 57, 210
Seiyūkai (political party) 214, 235 n.2
Shaku Sōen 37, 81, 112–13, 131, 154–6, 159, 163, 242 n.18
Shaku Unshō 224
Shanghai see China
Shibukawa Zensuke 44, 50, 53, 55–6
Shidehara Kijūrō (Prime Minister) 99, 102
Shillony, Ben-Ami 53–5
Shimabukuro Tetsu 169
Shimaji Mokurai 81
Shimakage Chikai 230
Shimano Eido 88
Shimmin no Michi (The Way of the Subject) 84
Shin sect (J. Shin-shū) see Pure Land
Shingon sect 7. 195, 223–4, 248 n.58
Hironori Shrine 223
 Mt. Kōya 223
Shinkō Bukkyō Seinen Dōmei (Youth League for Revitalizing
Buddhism) see Buddhism
Shinkōji (temple) 89
Shinran (St.) 181, 200, 222 see also True Pure Land
Shintō 13, 51, 82, 85, 88, 94, 119, 121–3, 129, 144, 181, 185–6,
188, 195, 199, 201, 203, 219–21, 223–6
Sun Goddess 10, 13, 51, 63, 94, 144, 220, 222–6
Yasukuni Shrine 85, 203
shisō-sen see thought warfare
Shōbōgenzō 82–3 see also Dōgen
Shōbōgenzō Zuimonkl (Record of Things Heard) 75 see also Dōgen
Shōinji (temple) 3–4, 14, 235 n.10
Shōkokuji (temple) 81
Shōkonsha see Yasukuni Shrine
Shōtoku (Prince Regent) 161
Shōwa Restoration (J. Shōwa-ishin) 28–9, 45, 48–55, 63–4
Shōwa Restoration Bulletin (Shōwa Ishin Jōhō) 56
Shōwa-kan (museum) 15
Shūshōgi 68, 89, 110–11, 131
Siam-Burma Railway see Thailand
Singapore 8, 96, 172, 175, 181, 189
Sino-Japanese War (of 1894—5) see China
Smith, Huston 66
Society to Repay the Heroic Spirits [of Dead Soldiers] (Eirei ni
Kotaeru Kai) 85
Sōjiji (monastery) 110
Song of True Faith (Shōshin-ge) see Pure Land
Sōtō Zen sect/tradition of 68–9, 76, 91, 110–11, 115–16, 129, 173,
176, 197
South Manchuria Railway Company (J. Mantetsu) see Manchuria
Special Attack Forces (J. Tokkō-tai) see kamikaze
Spirit of Japan(J. Yamato-damashii/gokoro) see Japan
Spirit of the Army [The] (Rikugun-Damashii) 123
spiritual education (J. seishin kyōiku) 19, 117, 131, 235 n.6
Sri Lanka (aka Ceylon) 228
Tamil minority in 161
Sri Lanka – The Invention of Enmity 161 see also David Little
Sugamo prison 177–8, 194
Sugimoto, Gorō (Lt. Col.) 124–6, 128, 186, 226, 240 n.4
Sun Goddess (J. Amaterasu Oomikami) see Shintō
Sunzi 10
Suzuki, D. T. (Daisetsu/Daisetz Teitarō) xiii, xv, 25, 36–8, 40, 42, 62–
3, 81, 87, 107, 112, 116, 119–23, 127–9, 134, 144–5, 154, 159,
180, 198, 200–3, 234 n.6, 244 n.l 14, 249 n.ll
Suzuki Kantarō (Admiral/Prime Minister) 98–9, 101–2
Suzuki Shōsan 63
Suzuki Zen’ichi 49

Taiganmoko see Great Essence

Taishō University 127
Takamatsu (Prince) 196, 248 n.62
Takasugi Shin-ichi 61
Takeuchi Yūnosuke 211
Takuan (Sōhō) 26
Tamil (minority) see Sri Lanka
Tanaka Chigaku 79–80, 189–90, 210
Tanaka Gi’ichi (Lt. Col.) 18–19, 23–4, 235 n.2
Tanaka Mitsuaki (Count) 211
Tanaka Ryukichi (Maj. Gen.) 95–6
Tanaka Seigen 240 n.l7
Tanoue Tenshin 42
Tathagāta (J. Nyorai) see Buddhism
Teachers’ Union (J. Nikkyōsō) see Japan
Tiantai (J. Tendai) sect 15, 235 n.9
Tienjin see China
Tenryūji (temple/branch) 41, 75, 139, 234
Thailand 172–4 see also Buddhism
Bangkok 172–6, 196
 Chao Phraya (river) 173
Siam-Burma Railway 194
Wat Mahathat (temple) 173
Wat Ratchaburana (temple) 173
Theravāda school see Buddhism
Thornton, Sybil 164
thought warfare (J. shisō-sen) xiii
Three Pillars of Zen (The) 66, 87 see also Philip Kapleau
Time of the Wintry Wind (Kogarashi no Toki) 17 see also Ooe
Shinobu
Titus, David 64
Toga Masataka 91
Togo Heihachirō (Admiral) 11
Tojō Hideki (General/Army Minister/Prime Minister) 106, 108, 116,
123, 176, 183–6, 188–9, 191, 195, 199–200, 247 n.40
Tōkeiji (temple) 171
tokkō-tai (Special Attack Forces/kamikaze forces) see kamikaze
Tokugawa
Ieyasu 151
Shogunate 41, 45, 91
Tokutomi Iichirō 80
Tokyo xvii, 8, 15, 17–18, 20, 23, 30, 32, 35, 37, 41–2, 49–50, 54, 56,
60, 68, 80, 85, 88, 96, 98, 108, 165–6, 168, 175–7, 203–4, 206,
211–13, 216, 218, 223, 230
Tokyo University 83, 178
Tokyo War Crimes Tribunal (aka International Military Tribunal for the
Far East) 109, 177, 194, 196
Tomomatsu Entai 127–9, 156–60, 243 n.67
Torio Tokuan (Lt. Gen./Viscount) 81
total war xiii, 18, 64, 72, 129, 152
Tōyama Mitsuru (father) 39, 43, 50, 179, 214
Ryūsuke (son) 50
Toyoda Dokutan 80
True Pure Land sect/tradition/school (J. Jōdo Shin-shū) 150–2, 178,
181, 185, 192, 197, 199–200, 206, 221–2, 226
 Nishi Honganji (temple/branch) 150
Song of True Faith (Shōshin-ge) 181
Tsuji Masanobu (Colonel) 95–6, 172–7, 196–8
Tsunoda Fusako 115, 200

Uda (Emperor/Dharma King) 195

Ugaki, Kazushige (General) 32, 58–9
Underground for Three Thousand Leagues (Senkō Sanzen-ri) 176
see also Tsuji Masanobu
United Nations 185
United States 37, 66, 69, 101, 191
Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) 197
Joint Chiefs of Staff 141
Office of Far Eastern Affairs (State Department) 102
Ushijima Mitsuru (Lt. Gen.) 165, 168
Vajracchedika Prajñāpāramitā Sūtra (J. Kongō-kyō) see Diamond
Sutra
Vietnam 90, 197
Hanoi 175, 197
North Vietnamese 197
war in 197, 240 n.39

Wada Kameji (Lt. Gen.) 123–6

Wang Yangming 179–80
War and the Responsibility of the Accused [Sensō to Zaiseki] 133
War Ministry (Japanese) 30, 54, 190
Way of the Subject [The] see Shimmin no Michi
Wen (Emperor) 161
Western Paradise (of Amitābha Buddha) see Pure Land
World War I 111
World War II 58, 88, 190 see also Asia-Pacific War

Xinjing see Manchuria

Yagyū Tajima no Kami Munenori 26

Yahara Hiromichi (Colonel) 141
Yamada Jirōkichi 40
Yamada Kōun 97, 240 n.10
Yamada Mumon 39, 85, 90
Yamada Reirin 155–6
Yamaguchi Saburō (Navy Commander) 48
Yamamoto Gempō 3, 4, 7, 9, 14, Chpt. 6 passim, 167, 210, 212,
216–17, 237 n.27, 240 n.17
Yamamoto Isoroku (Admiral) 8
Yamamoto Jōchō (aka Tsunetomo) 107, 116, 132
Yamaoka Shigeatsu (Lt. Gen.) 30
Yamaoka Tesshū 41
Yamashita Tomoyuki (General) 96
Yomato (battleship) 135
Yamato-damashii see Spirit of Japan
Yamazaki Ekijū 124, 226, 236 n.5
Yanagawa Heisuke (Lt. General) 12, 187
Yanagida Seizan 76
Yasoji o koete (Beyond Eighty Years) 4
Yasukuni Shrine see Shinto
Yasutani Haku’un xvii, Chpt. 5 passim, 97, 227, 234, 240 n.36, n.39,
240, n.10
Yokoyama Setsudo 40, 60
Yomiuri Shimbun (newspaper) 33
Yonai Mitsumasa (Admiral/Navy Minister) 195
Yoshida Mitsuru (2nd Sub-Lt.) 135
Yoshida Shigeru (Foreign Minister) 103
Yoshida Yutaka xvii, 12
Yotsumoto Yoshitaka 212, 249 n.26
Young Officers’ Movement (J. Seinen Shōkō Undō) 28–9, 49–50, 53
Young Officers Uprising (aka 26 February Incident of 1936) 28, 35,
44, 55–6, 64–5,96, 191, 236 n.l
Youth League for the Construction of the [Imperial Rule] Assistance
Structure (J. Yokusan Taisei Kensetsu Seinen Renmei) 58
Youth League for Revitalizing Buddhism (J. Shinko Bukkyo Seinen
Domei) see Buddhism
Yuangui 136
Yuima-kai (Skt. Vimalakïrti)
True Pure Land-affiliated 150
Zen-affiliated 81

zazen (meditation) 41–2, 50, 57, 62–3, 71, 89, 181, 200, 202, 208,
210–12, 214
Zazen Wasan see Hymn in Praise of Meditation
ZCLA Journal 88
Zen (Ch. Chan)
Blue Cliff Record 42, 125, 209
in China Chpt. 6 passim
Mumonkan 212
Platform Sūtra of the Sixth Zen Patriarch 4
Zen and Japanese Culture 107, 120, 134, 234 n.6 see also D. T.
Suzuki
Zen at War xii, xiii, xvi, xvii, 3, 13, 14, 17, 27, 39, 66, 90, 124, 131,
154, 199, 205, 226, 228, 234
Zen and Western People 62 see also Bernard Phillips
zenjōriki see samādhi-power
Zenkai Sasshin 144 see also D. T. Suzuki
Zenkōji (temple) 189
Zen Master Dōgen Goes to War – The Militarist and Anti-Semitic
Writings of Yasutani Haku’un 66–91
Zen Master Wept [The] 3–16
Zen of Assassination [The] 27–38
Zen “Selflessness” in Japanese Militarism 106–46
Zen to Ken (Zen and the Sword) 40
Zhang Zhonghui (Prime Minister) 94
Zhao-zhou 4
Zōjōji (temple) 223
Zuiganji (temple) 30–1
“Unless the truth is told of the past, its lies and betrayals
will infect the future.”
(Martin Ball, Australian journalist)

“Why didn’t we have the religion of the Japanese, who

regard sacrifice for the Fatherland as the highest good?”
(Adolph Hitler, quoted in Inside The Third Reich
by Albert Speer)

“We too [like the Japanese] are battling to destroy

individualism. We are struggling for a new Germany
based on the new idea of totalitarianism. In Japan, this
way of thinking comes naturally to the people [italics
mine]!”
(Rudolph Hess, Deputy Führer, quoted in
Tokyo Record by Otto Tolischus

Every religion seeks to proclaim a truth which transcends

the world, but is enmeshed in the very world it desires to
transcend. Every religion seeks to remake the world in its
own image, but it is always to some extent remade in the
image of the world. This is the tragedy of religion.
(Dr Robert N. Bellah, Tokugawa Religion)