A Sacrifice That Should Not Be Forgotten
Duke Atalay (Ward Melville High School)
I awoke to the familiar sounds of radio hosts as my alarm clock went off at 6:30 AM. A leading song
on the Billboard Top 100 began to play as I slowly opened my eyes, wearily turned off the alarm, and
stumbled out of bed. My daily routine in preparation for school ensued as follows; I ate my breakfast,
brushed my teeth, got dressed, and took the bus to school. March 11 th , 2011 began just like any other day.

As the bell rang, I entered my biology classroom and took my seat. The teacher stood up from her
desk and spoke with anticipation. “Did anyone hear about the earthquake in Japan?” A few students
responded and the teacher continued. “I heard it was an 8.9! Can you imagine?!” The class uniformly
thought in silence as we tried to imagine such a natural disaster striking New York, and immediately
returned back to work.

The school day ended and I returned home where I discovered my dad watching CNN stories about
the disaster in Japan. I saw headlines of a tsunami striking the north east of Japan. I stood there astonished
by the footage of the colossal wave peeling buildings into the ocean’s abyss, as if they were leaves being
carried off by a faint wind. Japanese civilians were huddled above the enveloping sea, stoically watching
despite the omnipresent quality of their grief.

Headlines that a meltdown had occurred at a nuclear power plant in Fukushima due to the tsunami
began to emerge. There were reports about nuclear plant workers who stayed behind at the plant in order to
prevent a broader nuclear catastrophe. Pictures of men breathing through respirators in full body white suits
walking into the reactors started to appear on the screen. The men, in the middle of a radioactive zone
where death seemed imminent, were pumping seawater on exposed nuclear fuel in order to prevent a full
meltdown that would spread radiation to the whole nation. These men were heroes, risking their own lives
in order to ensure the wellbeing of their family members and loved ones. I could not help but compare
these brave individuals to the firefighters that sacrificed their lives by entering the World Trade Center on
9/11. All of these men were able to muster up the courage that few men are able to do, to boldly overcome
fear’s perpetual grasp and venture out into the most dangerous of circumstances.

When taught about Japan during the times of the Tokugawa Shogunate, the valiant samurai and their
deep devotion to the Bushido were integral parts of the lesson. We learned that the Bushido was the moral
template composed of seven virtues that the samurai lived by. The one that is most cogent, according to the
author Inazo Nitobe, is Rectitude (46). It is described by him as follows: “Rectitude is one’s power to
decide upon a course of conduct in accordance with reason, without wavering; to die when to die is right,
to strike when to strike is right” (Nitobe 46). These words were the inspiration and essence of the bravest of
samurai, who fought for their masters no matter how bleak the battles may have seemed. They knew that if
there was any moment to leave this world, it would be on the battlefield, the most glorified testament of
their sacrifice and devotion.

As I watched these brave, unnamed heroes enter the nuclear power plant, the virtue of Rectitude
echoed in my head. These heroes knew that this was the right thing to do, to put the welfare of their nation
above their own health and safety. I have always prided myself on my values of choosing the path of virtue
because I believe that the emotional satisfaction you receive in the end is paramount. These Japanese
workers were able to confront the most crippling of fears because they knew that this would be their
moment of Rectitude, their moment to light their eternal shine. We often look to famous names of valiant
war heroes or prominent political heroes for inspiration, but we often forget about the men and women who
do what is right for the advancement of the world around them instead of for self-pride. The Japanese
workers at Fukushima remind us what chivalry really means in a world constantly obsessed with making a
legacy, and should inspire even the most weary of people to take the path of sanctity despite the demons
that stand in their way.

Works Cited:
Nitobe, Inazo. "Rectitude or Justice." Bushido: The Soul of Japan. Tokyo: Kodansha International Ltd.,
2002. 46. Print.

54



To Biwa Lake
Daniel Xu (Princeton University)
Summer was nearing the end of its stay in Kyoto, and so was I. From where I sat at a table in the
second-floor kitchen of the Kyoto Sangyo University International House I could see the verdant willow
branches through the glass balcony door that somebody had forgotten to close, allowing the cacophonous
chirping of the cicadas resting on those branches to waft in on the simmering August air: tsuku-tsuku-boshi,
tsuku-tsuku-boshi! I smiled as I remembered my disbelief when my co-worker at the lab had described to
me the sound made by the cicadas that emerged after the end of the rainy season. “You’ll see,” she had told
me, “You’ll see! They sound just like that.” And she had been right.

I finished my morning tea and washed the mug out in the sink, placing it underneath the sign that
brightly reminded all residents to respect the health and well-being of the dorm community by cleaning up
after themselves. I had grown used to the communal sort of lifestyle in the International House, and it gave
me an odd sort of feeling to think that in a week’s time I would be gone from there forever.

In the stairwell, on the way back to my room, I ran into two other residents of the I-House, Henri the
German and Pae the Korean. They had knapsacks on their backs and full bottles of water stuffed into the
pockets of their shorts, and looked to all the world as if they were about to embark on some sort of
expedition. “Daniel,” Henri said, grabbing me by the shoulders. “Want to come with us on a fantastic adventure?
We are going to Biwa Lake in Shiga prefecture, maybe forty kilos away. Only a three-hour bike ride—both
ways!” I guess it was a testament to how little thought goes into my decision-making process that I agreed
to come along. And so I hurried downstairs to the overpriced vending machine in the lobby and purchased
two chilled bottles of water for the equivalent of five American dollars. Within moments they were jostling
around in the wicker basket between my handlebars as I pedaled alongside Henri and Pae north toward
Shiga prefecture. The tires on my bicycle were slightly flat, so I had to pedal just a little bit harder than my
companions to ride at the same pace.

As a child, my introduction to the land of the rising sun had not been through the conventional
cultural vehicles of Hello Kitty or Dragon Ball but rather through weekends spent with my father and
brother watching patriotic Chinese World War II dramas in which the portrayal of the Japanese were
resigned almost universally to the role of the relentless enemy. And so as an eight-year old I harbored a
slightly irrational and misguided dislike for anything Japanese, and naively equated the entire nation of
Japan with the one-dimensional villains I observed on television locked in gory combat with Chinese
resistance. I look ahead at Pae, who is pedaling a few feet in front of me, joking with Henri about
something, and wonder if his childhood experience with Japan had been of a similar nature—after all,
Korea had also been an enemy of Japan during the war. I wondered what had brought him later in life to
choose to study in Japan.

For me it was a number of things. Even as an eight-year-old, my initial impressions of Japan
evaporated almost immediately when I was introduced arguably the cleverest diplomatic tool ever
conceived, the Nintendo Gameboy Color. How could the nation that had put Pokemon into my pocket be
anything but a benevolent presence on the Earth? And as I got older, experiences like learning to play the
game of I-go, reading introspective Japanese haiku in school, and the afternoons spent quietly folding
origami with the Japanese lady whose son took his piano lessons before mine further taught me to
appreciate the subtlety and beauty of Japanese culture. I was interested enough to study a year of
introductory Japanese during my freshman year at university, and I fell in love with that small sampling of
the Japanese world, and decided I must spend a summer in Japan to see the rest of it for myself.

Part of it also had to do with my parents. Having completed their graduate school studies in Japan
during the 80’s, they often told me about their experiences, and in fact it was actually one of their former
professors who had offered me an internship working under him during the summer. Before I left my
parents gave me some parting advice. “Especially observe the Japanese work ethic,” my mother had said.

“Everyone gives their absolute best effort to any job they do, no matter how large or small. It’s a
philosophy of hard work shared by everyone in Japan. And it wouldn’t hurt to have you learn some of those
55