Wordcatcher Tales: Japonica


Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.

What particular plant did Henry Reed intend to refer to in this poem? (I remember reading it in an English lit class during my freshman year at the University of Richmond in the spring of 1968—before I dropped out of ROTC, and then out of college altogether, ending up in the Army anyway.) I’m guessing either camellia or Japanese quince, both of which bloom in the spring.

My Canon Wordtank edition of Reader’s English–Japanese Dictionary lists three Japanese entries for English japonica, each telling its own story: ツバキ (camellia), ボケ (Japanese quince), and サルスベリ (crape myrtle).

椿 tsubaki, Camellia japonica – The cherry blossoms are getting all the attention in the Kanto (Greater Tokyo) area these days as they reach their peak, but the light pink to dark crimson camellias have been in full flower for a few weeks already. A great variety of cultivars of Camellia japonica are all over the place, often in hedges.

木瓜 boke, Chaenomeles speciosa – Japanese quince is also known as Chaenomeles japonica. The normal Sino-Japanese reading for the name of the plant should be mokka (< moku ‘tree’ + ka ‘melon’), the name owing something to its melonlike fruit. Another name for a flowering tree formed on the same pattern is 木蓮 or 木蘭 mokuren (lit. ‘tree lotus’ or ‘tree orchid’), Magnolia liliflora or lily magnolia. A slightly different variety of Magnolia, Magnolia kobus—from its Japanese name 辛夷 kobushi—is in full, brilliant white bloom these days.

百日紅 sarusuberi (lit. ‘monkey slide’), Lagerstroemina indica – The native Japanese name for crape myrtle describes its smooth (guavalike) trunk and stems, while the Chinese characters describe the flowers, but the two names bear no relation to each other beyond referring to the same plant. You can pronounce the name of the plant according to the characters as hyakunichikou (lit. ‘hundred day red’), but I’m not sure how many Japanese speakers would recognize it by that name on first hearing it. (I would have spelled the name in English as crepe myrtle, but the spelling crape myrtle generates a much larger number of hits on google.co.jp.)

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Sour Views of Vinegar Joe Stilwell

Joseph ‘Vinegar Joe’ Stilwell was determined to avenge the defeat that his American and Chinese forces had suffered during the withdrawal of 1942. His ostensible aim was to capture the aerodromes in far northern Burma, especially the one at Myitkyina …. There were two problems about this. The first was Stilwell’s aggressive and misanthropic character and, in particular, his contempt for his allies; the second was that neither move was particularly strategically desirable.

Stilwell was professional soldier who had spent much time in China, but his long service had not instilled in him any great respect for the Chinese. As commander-in-chief of Chiang Kai Shek’s nationalist armies he carried on a running war with Chiang’s other commanders. His disagreements with Chiang over strategy soured relations between the two to the point where the continuation of Stilwell’s command was constantly in question. In Stilwell’s letters home, Chiang became ‘Peanut’, corrupt, obstinate and dominated by his wife, ‘Madame’, and later by his mistress, a nurse several decades his junior. Stilwell portrayed Chiang as hesitant and defensive, unwilling to commit his troops to an attack against the Japanese on the Burma front, afraid of both the Chinese communists and of his own generals. In fact, Chiang was a more astute general than might have appeared. He knew that the real danger to his government lay in a Japanese attack from the north against embattled Chungking. He did not want to send his best troops off to Myitkyina and was perfectly correct in his assessment of the communists, who were hoping to infiltrate into Nationalist China’s territories from the north in the rear of any Japanese advance. Chiang refused to do anything much in Burma until the Allies agreed to put in an amphibious expedition on its southern coast. This again was sensible….

Stilwell’s view of the British was scarcely better than his view of the Chinese. He regarded them as effete, defensive and disorganized. In a later visit to India he marked down [Viceroy] Wavell as a beaten man. The India of which the British were so proud was a pit of famished inefficiency, even more backward than China…. Mountbatten, who assumed the position of Supreme Commander Southeast Asia in the summer of 1943, was simply a ‘glamour boy’, a matinee idol with ‘nice eye-lashes’. This was ironic since Stilwell’s own reputation in America and outside was partly a media creation. He was the gritty American fighter struggling against Chink and Limey obstruction to take the war to the Japs, a poor man’s General MacArthur. The disdain was mutual. Alan Brooke recorded: ‘Except for the fact that he was a stout hearted fighter suitable to lead a brigade of Chinese scallywags, I could see no qualities in him.’ He was an inept tactician and ‘did a vast amount of harm by vitiating the relations between the Americans and British both in India and Burma’. The British high command were very dismissive of the Chinese, too. They suspected them, as Wavell had done in 1942, of having ‘imperial’ designs on north Burma.

SOURCE: Forgotten Armies: Britain’s Asian Empire & the War with Japan, by Christopher Bayly and Tim Harper (Penguin, 2004), pp. 270-272

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Foreigners Excel at National Sport: Sumo

Overlapping and eclipsed by Japan’s tortuous but exciting road to victory in the first World Baseball Classic and the start of Japan’s national high school baseball tournament at storied Koshien Stadium has been a rather exciting Spring Grand Sumo Tournament, where the foreigners were cheered as robustly as the Japanese—and did better, too.

The Estonian Baruto (the “Balt”) won the Juryo division (like North American baseball’s AAA league) with a perfect 15-0 record, the first rikishi to do so in over 40 years (since Kitanofuji).

Going into the final day, two Mongolians were tied for the lead in the Makuuchi division (the “majors”), with records of 13-1: yokozuna (grand champion) Asashoryu and sekiwake (junior champion) Hakuho. Moreover, Asashoryu’s only loss was to Hakuho, who had also beaten him in the previous tournament, so they were not scheduled to face off again—unless both lost on the final day. And, sure enough, both did lose. Hakuho fell to veteran Kaio, who was once again on the verge of demotion unless he maintained a winning record (the win put him at 8-7), while Asashoryu fell to ozeki (champion) Tochiazuma, who had been bucking for promotion to yokozuna, but whose 12-3 record—without a tournament win—won’t be good enough. So after all the regular bouts of the final day, Asashoryu and Hakuho had to come back and fight a deciding match, which Asashoryu had to struggle to win. So Asashoryu wins his 16th tournament, and Hakuho wins his 3rd outstanding performance award (and probably a promotion to ozeki).

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Wordcatcher Tales: Shinobazu Ike

The other day, this Outlier took his in-laws down to Ueno station to pick up our 1-week JR rail passes and take a peek to see how the cherry blossoms were coming along at Ueno Park. The blossoms were just beginning to appear, and so were the snack and sake vendors.

One spot we lingered at was 不忍池 Shinobazu Ike, the name of which illustrates two troublesome aspects of Japanese attempts to write their own language using only Chinese characters.

The name of the pond is written in kanbun, a contorted method of rendering Japanese by means of Chinese syntax. The written Chinese characters, in order, translate as ‘not hide pond’, but the spoken Japanese, in morpheme order, translates as ‘hideth-not pond’. (The verb 忍ぶ shinobu has a range of meanings and, frankly, I’m not sure which one was intended by the placenamers.) The -zu ending is just a more formal and archaic version of the negative -nai. Wikipedia explains the contortions of kanbun rather succinctly, wherein Chinese sentences are read as Japanese in a sort of simultaneous translation (saving the verb to the end, and so forth).

The term 池 ike for the body of water is sometimes translated ‘lake’. As kids in Kyoto, we used to ride our bicycles up to a then rustic reservoir called Takaragaike ‘Treasure Lake’, now the site of a fancy international conference center. But the usual Japanese term for larger lakes is mizuumi, which is transparently composed of 水 mizu ‘(fresh)water’ + 海 umi ‘sea’ but written with a single Chinese character, 湖 (pronounced hu in Chinese and ko in Sino-Japanese, as in Biwa-ko ‘Lake Biwa’). A similar bit of Japanese morphology obscured by a single Chinese character is 雷 ‘thunder’ (Chinese lei, Sino-Japanese rai), which probably could have been rendered as 神鳴り kami-nari ‘god-sound’.

William Wetherall has a lot more on happenings around 不忍池 in a fascinating compilation on Bakumatsu and Early Meiji Newspapers. Here’s how he explains why he translates the 1868 experiment 江湖新聞 (Koko Shinbun, lit. ‘riverlake news’) as World News:

Though “koko” (C. jianghu), literally “rivers and lakes”, is nearly a dead word in Japanese today, it was a fairly common expression in the mid-19th century. It is the keyword in the title of the column that reported stories of social and human interest in Tokyo nichinichi shinbun in 1872. It was part of the title of a popular book in 1873. And it appeared in the inaugural issue of the news nishikie in 1874.

In references to classical China and Zen, “koko” it is pronounced “goko”. [With regard to] China, it refers to the world of the Yangzi river (Changjiang) and Dongting lake, and in certain Chinese folklore it alludes to the fighting spirit of outcasts who protect themselves with martial arts. As a Zen term, it signifies a place where monks and other practitioners gather from all quarters. If all roads lead to Rome, then the whole world is in Rome.

In the title of Koko shinbun, “koko” signifies the “world” or “society” one lives in — much like “sanga” (mountains and rivers) is a somewhat nostalgic reference to one’s country as a homeland. In this sense it is very close to its general usage in Chinese today to mean the wide (and sometimes an idealized) world.

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Nature of Japanese Settlers in Korea

Andrei Lankov in The Korea Times profiles the early Japanese settlers in Korea.

Japanese newspapers and booklets made it clear that a move to Korea would be different from, say, migration to the United States (a very popular option in the Japan of the early 1900s). Those Japanese who moved to the United States could expect to find only low-level manual jobs. Those who chose Korea were to form the privileged colonial elite. As a book for prospective migrants frankly said: “In Korea one can carry on an independent enterprise with oneself as master, freely able to employ Koreans at low wages and tell them what to do”. A colonizer’s dream, indeed….

A majority of the Japanese migrants did not come from the privileged classes. For many a misfit adventures in a new colony looked like an attractive proposition. However, not all the newcomers were losers. In the 1900s and 1910s, Korea also was an attractive market for Japanese skilled labour. The Koreans provided cheap unskilled labour for a number of projects undertaken by the colonial administration, but they worked under supervision of the Japanese clerks and foremen. The number of Koreans who had modern technical skills was minimal, and the Japanese artisans and craftsmen enjoyed good wages. Around 1909, a shoemaker would earn on average 0.75 yen daily in Japan, but in Korea his average wage would be twice as high (about 1.4 yen) while the costs of living would be much less.

Most of those men were bachelors or moved to Korea without their families, so the country attracted a number of Japanese full and part-time prostitutes. In 1907 there were 4,253 women whose official occupation was politely described as ‘geishas’ or ‘waitresses’. Their arrival marked the introduction of the mass-oriented sex industry in Korea (for earlier Korean courtesans, known as kisaeng, did not perceive the sex-for-cash component as major part of their vocation ㅡ and their services, sexual or otherwise, were too expensive for the average commoner).

via The Marmot

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Japanese Habits Strange to Burmese, 1942

Face slapping became a major issue. In the following year, the Japanese command, rather than prohibiting it altogether, forbade anyone below the rank of lieutenant-colonel to behave in this way.

Japanese troops indulged in other offensive activities: they bathed naked by water hydrants on the streets, to the horror of Burmese women. In some cases they were surprisingly cavalier with Buddhist shrines, stripping them of wood for cooking fires and otherwise violating them. As he escaped overland to India, Thein Pe viewed the eating and living habits of the Japanese soldiers with disgust: ‘we cannot say whether or not they knew what a bed pan was. They were seen eating rice from one’, he reported. A later British compilation of anecdotes noted ponderously, ‘The Japanese gastronomic habits had served them ill: that they ate dogs was observed to their discredit.’ But Japanese soldiers were extremely popular with the Burmese young. The troops were genuinely fond of children. The ‘had made much of Burman boys and girls, given them sweet meats, taught them baseball, played football with them and taught them Japanese songs.’ It was to be a ‘golden age for children’. Parents worried that their offspring were being alienated from them and that the Japanese were using their children to spy on them.

SOURCE: Forgotten Armies: Britain’s Asian Empire & the War with Japan, by Christopher Bayly and Tim Harper (Penguin, 2004), p. 234

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Along the Road out of Burma, 1942

By the middle of May [1942], with the monsoon beginning, the situation was desperate. Thousands had already died and the survivors were almost all diseased, starving and totally demoralized by the constant rain. The route through the Hukawng valley to Assam was the worse of the two remaining escape routes. It was a green hell of mud, human excrement and chaos snaking through the hills. The lower parts of the valley consisted of huge tracts of thirteen-foot-tall elephant grass or stretches of near impenetrable jungle, broken up by small paddies which quickly became lakes of mud. Higher up, the track became more precipitous and the jungle thicker. Near-starving people ate poisonous fruits from roadside shrubs or rotting food from tins. If they collapsed with diarrhoea, they were left behind to perish. Even healthy males could travel no more than eight miles a day in a sea of mud which stretched for mile after mile across the mountains. The only way to make progress was to slither along the roots of trees by the side of the track. Women and children collapsed and drowned in the mud. Cholera became epidemic as exhausted people sheltered in bivouacks to escape the rain and relieved themselves on the floors. Porters refused to touch the dead so they lay decomposing until medical staff arrived with kerosene to burn them. The butterflies in Assam that year were the most beautiful on record. They added to the sense of the macabre as they flitted amongst the corpses….

Some brave people helped others. Frank Sinclair Gomes, an Anglo-Indian telegraphist from Maymyo, three times rescued people from the river at Mogaung, on the southern edge of the valley, saving a Gurkha and a Madrasi woman and her child as their boats overturned. Two Gurkhas died as they tried to rescue starving people on the far side of another river by putting a rope across. All along the route hundreds of Kachins and Naga villagers helped, providing food and transport. They were the mostly unacknowledged heroes of the civilian evacuation, as they were to be the heroes of the later military resistance to the Japanese. Hundreds of thousands of refugees tramped through their lands, polluting their homes and bringing disease and death with them, but their traditions of hospitality were too strong to wither even in this crisis….

Pathetically weak in social services of all sorts, the Indian authorities had to fall back on one of the few efficient organizations in the subcontinent: the Assam Tea Planters Association. Alongside forest officers it was the planters who gave a semblance of order to the chaos….

These people, many of whom were Scots, seemed to come into their own in the crisis. ‘Planters,’ one wrote, ‘are practical, early rising, hard-working people,’ good at dealing with scholarly government officials as well as ‘mobs of ignorant workers’. Many had fought in the First World War and were from factories and business, not from universities. They were particularly adept at handling ‘men, materials, money and motor transport’. Despite their reputation, they had long since given up polo and fishing trips. The planters supplied their greatest resource, labour. As early as February 1942 the government asked the Tea Association for assistance on military projects in the northeast, 25,000 men for the Manipur road and 75,000 for the northerly road from Ledo into Burma. By March every small railway station had its contingent of tea-garden labourers ready to entrain. Each one was equipped with a hoe, two blankets, sufficient food for a fortnight and a hurricane lamp. They were sent off to build roads and carry supplies but many never returned, dying of cholera and exhaustion.

SOURCE: Forgotten Armies: Britain’s Asian Empire & the War with Japan, by Christopher Bayly and Tim Harper (Penguin, 2004), pp. 182-185

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Wordcatcher Tales: Shiomori, Gibo, Atsumono

塩盛り shiomori ‘salt pile’ – The other night, as we were leaving our favorite local fish restaurant in Ashikaga, my recently arrived Minnesota in-laws noticed what looked like a small pile of snow beside the door as we left. It turned out to be salt, and there was a matching salt pile on the other side of the entranceway, so I went back in and asked the very friendly and talkative sushi chef (who trained 3 years in San Francisco and 1 on Maui) what the story was. There were no customers at the sushi bar at that moment, so he came outside in the chilly wind and told us the story. The salt has two functions. The most commonly recognized one is to purify the premises by keeping evil spirits out. But the more interesting one is to attract customers in. The latter function apparently goes back to the days when goods traveled by oxcart. The idea was to tempt the oxen to stop and lick the salt, whereupon the traveler might also decide to stop for food or rest. The salt piles were called 塩盛り shiomori ‘salt helpings’, a term which is otherwise chiefly found in restaurant menus for assorted salty dishes.

義母 gibo ‘mother-in-law’ – Earlier that same evening, I had introduced my visiting in-laws to the waitress in that same fish restaurant. Both she and the sushi chef are always happy to assuage my curiosity about obscure readings (obscure to me, anyway), especially of fish names and sake brands. After I had introduced my mother-in-law as my 義理の母 giri no haha, she referred to her by a shorter version, 義母 gibo. So I asked her what the shorter version is for younger sister-in-law, 義理の妹 giri no imouto. In comprehensive kanji dictionaries, you can find 義妹 gimai, but she had never heard that term. The only such shorter term she had heard was 義兄 gikei ‘elder brother-in-law’. The longer version is 義理の兄 giri no ani, and my New Nelson’s kanji dictionary lists the full range for siblings-in-law: including the combining terms 義姉妹 gishimai ‘elder and younger sisters-in-law’ and 義兄弟 gikyoudai ‘elder and younger brothers-in-law’. (The 義理 giri here is the same one used to mean ‘duty, honor, debt of gratitude’; and the shorter prefix 義 gi is also used to indicate artificial human components, as in 義歯 gishi ‘artificial tooth’ or 義眼 gigan ‘artificial eyeball’.)

紅き羹 akaki atsumono ‘vermilion broth’ – one of our two favorite coffee shops in Ashikaga is Café de Furukawa, an elegant place whose 12-page menu and guide to coffee history and brewing is titled 紅き羹 akaki atsumono, a purposely archaic and obscure phrase that I’ve translated ‘vermilion broth’. Both elements tell a story. The reading aka for 紅 is archaic in Japanese, and the pronunciation akaki for akai ‘red’ is both archaic and regional, I believe. Nowadays, akai ‘red’ in Japanese is written 赤, while 紅 is normally read beni ‘crimson, rouge, vermilion, lipstick’, as in 紅生姜 beni shouga ‘red pickled ginger’, 紅染め benizome ‘red-dyed cloth’, or 紅鮭 benizake ‘red salmon’. Chinese 紅 hong still means ‘red’ (and shows up in many given names of people born during China’s Cultural Revolution). Its Japanese rendition kou- shows up in many compounds such as 紅茶 koucha ‘red tea’ (= ‘black tea’ in English), 紅海 Koukai ‘Red Sea’, and 紅灯 koutoured lantern, red light (district)’. The much rarer character 羹 atsumono ‘hot soup, broth’ (literally ‘hot stuff’) has a much shorter story. It shows up in a Japanese proverb that matches English “Once bitten, twice shy”: 羹に懲りて膾を吹く Atsumono ni korite namasu o fuku ‘Learning from hot broth, you blow on cold pickles’.

UPDATE: Thanks to Language Hat reader Matt for catching a grammar error in my rendition of the coffee-shop title. I originally wrote 紅きの羹 for what is actually 紅き羹. I’ve made the correction in the text above. Another Language Hat commenter turns up a different explanation for the doorway 塩盛り in a fun Youtube video guide to eating sushi.

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Mass Migrations from Burma, 1941-42

From the moment that the first bomb fell on Rangoon on 13 December 1941 there began an exodus from Burma of the Indian, Anglo-Indian and Anglo-Burmese population which was at the time the largest mass migration in history. By the autumn of 1942 in the region of 600,000 people had fled from Burma into India by land and sea. Of these as many as 80,000 may have perished of disease, exhaustion or malnutrition. These events have only paled into insignificance by comparison with the even greater horrors that were to be visited on South Asia over the next six years. They have been eclipsed by memories of the Bengal famine of 1943, by the riots, migrations and massacres that accompanied the partition of India in 1947 and by the Burmese civil war. Two conditions contributed to the scale of the disaster. First, the immigrant population of Burma was very large on the eve of the Japanese invasion because coolies, plantation workers and merchants were all anticipating the Burmese legislation which would restrict the number of new immigrants. People from all over India were desperate to get themselves and their families into Burma before the restrictive legislation was passed so that they would count as old rather than new immigrants. For so many families across India from the Khyber Pass to Cape Comorin, the few extra rupees earned by relatives working in the often appalling conditions of Burmese mines, factories and plantations made the difference between life and death.

The other condition was the vulnerability felt by the whole Indian population. When they fled from the cities, the Burmese could take shelter with relatives among the villages of the interior, or, if they were too far distant, in the hospices of the Buddhist monasteries. The civilian Chinese were on the whole a tightly organized and relatively egalitarian community of traders and skilled artisans. When the death knell of the British began to sound, many of them were systematically evacuated to Yunnan and China by their homeland associations, the regional and sectarian self-help organizations. Many undoubtedly perished in air raids and the nationalist soldiers had to endure appalling conditions, especially if they were wounded. Yet the Chinese devised an effective escape plan. Indians did not have this option. Shelter in India was far distant; with the collapse of industry and agriculture it was doubtful whether they could even find food, let alone a livelihood. They remembered the riots of 1930 and 1938 when large parts of the Burmese population turned on them with savage hostility. The British would not help them. More than one of the vaunted ma-baps, the ‘mothers and fathers’ of the people among the civil servants, had already precipitously fled in their motor cars ahead of the advancing Japanese. The only thing ordinary Indians could do, therefore, was to tie up their pathetic possessions in a bundle and get on the road or make for the ports where they might at least be able to squeeze on a boat as a deck-class passenger. For many, this decision was to prove fatal.

SOURCE: Forgotten Armies: Britain’s Asian Empire & the War with Japan, by Christopher Bayly and Tim Harper (Penguin, 2004), pp. 167-168

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Burma’s Martial Legacy

In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the Burmese had built a reputation as one of the most militaristic of the peoples of southern Asia. They had sacked the Thai capital, caused grief to the Indian Mughals and had seen off the Chinese. In 1824, their great commander, Mahabandula, had sworn to bring the governor general of India back to Mandalay in silver fetters. Lord Amherst had not made that journey, however, and the Burmese had been sharply defeated in three major wars. The final one, in 1886, had seen the end of Burma’s independence and its last monarch packed off into exile near Bombay. After 1886, the British did not recruit ethnic Burmese into their forces, as they had the Sikhs of the Punjab when they were conquered fiercely to resist British occupation for much longer than the Sikhs. Later, all sorts of pseudo-anthropological arguments were used about their unfitness. Burmese Buddhists, the British said, regarded soldiers as beings ‘not very high on the human scale’ because they took life. They, like the Bengalis, were supposedly ‘effeminate’ and could not take extremes of heat and cold.

This was all nonsense, as some British officials realized. A small company of Burmese sappers had done exceptionally well in the Mesopotamian campaign during the First World War where it had been 125 degrees in the shade. They also took the cold of the North West Frontier uncomplainingly. The basic reason that the British did not maintain the slightly increased percentage of Burmese recruits after 1918 was that Indians and recruits from the Burmese minorities were cheaper. All this meant that the vast majority of ‘Burmese’ in outfits such as the Burma Rifles and the Burma Frontier Force were Kachins, Shans, Karens like Smith Dun, or else locally resident Indians and Gurkhas. There were hardly a thousand ethnic Burmese officers or NCOs under arms in 1940. This stored up huge problems for the British in the Second World War. When the Japanese offered young Burmese military training, they leapt at the opportunity. It was a matter of pride as well as politics. How could the Burmese be a people if they did not have an army?

SOURCE: Forgotten Armies: Britain’s Asian Empire & the War with Japan, by Christopher Bayly and Tim Harper (Penguin, 2004), pp. 82-83

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