The Land od the Rising Yen

burned; let them (the citizens of Macao) do the same to us if they find
occasion to do so; we consent to it without demur. Let them think no more of
us; just as if we were no longer in the world.” ’ 1
    The rulers of Japan had many reasons for trying not to exist to the outside world, the main reason being the usual
fear felt by tyrants: the dread of contamination by a freer spirit. As long as
the tyranny was successful, the Japanese, as usual, acquiesced; the country
remained isolated, cut off from Western science, progress, ideas. By the middle
of the nineteenth century, the Tokugawa Shogunate — essentially a
military dictatorship which ruled Japan for two centuries, using the Emperor as
a puppet — was tottering. Its fate became sealed when Commodore Perry opened up
Japan to the foreigners. In Japan no régime — not even an otherwise strong
dictatorship — could survive such a loss of prestige. After this complete
reversal of policy, many other nations would have sulked, turned inwards and
developed numerous chips on their shoulders — as indeed the Chinese did. The
world treated the Chinese abominably and even many of Mao’s determined
opponents must applaud his successful restoration of China to full sovereignty;
yet the silly and largely unjustified conceit of the Chinese has done as much
harm to them as the greed and rapaciousness of foreigners. The Japanese reacted
very differently. They said: ‘If the gaijin (the foreigner) can force us
to do things we do not want to do, then the gaijin is stronger and more
successful than we are. The gaijin, indeed, must be better. So we must
learn his ways, we must learn all he can teach us. If the gaijin has
steamships we have never seen before — then we must learn how to build steamships.
And then we can face the gaijin on his own chosen ground, with his own
weapons.’ And they did, in almost no time. It is hard to believe that Perry
forced the doors of Japan ajar little more than a century ago.
    When fascism seemed to be successful,
fascism was good and Japan became fascist. When the fascist and militarist
war-leaders were hanged in Japan, their execution created less of a problem
than the Nuremberg trials did in Germany. There was no sympathy for them — people
were thoroughly bored by their trials. They had failed — so what did they
deserve? There was no moral indignation in Japan. The Japanese were not
outraged either by the guilt of their war-leaders or by the behaviour of the
Americans who hanged them. The whole affair lacked moral context completely: it
was a question of achievements, not a question of morality. The Americans had
full justification — full moral justification, if you like — to do as they
pleased: they were the victors. The Japanese generals had lost the war, that made
them guilty. Defeat was a traumatic experience; but the execution of the former
leaders of the nation was no part of the trauma.
    Democracy was victorious, so
democracy must be good; let’s try democracy. So now the Japanese are trying it
with earnest devotion, as they would try anything. If they are told that a
sense of humour is a desirable proclivity, they will form serious study-groups
to discover how to acquire a really robust sense of humour. There is no
hypocrisy about their democracy. Democracy has no intrinsic value in their
eyes: democracy is expedient, not a sacred religion. Indeed, they more or less
discarded their sacred religion, Shintoism, after the war: it bore part of the
responsibility for failure.
    The Japanese regard Western systems
as closed and final until they are disproved. The systems are magic pills: you
swallow them and all your ills are cured. For some of them Marxism is the magic
pill. They follow Marxist dogma with faithful earnestness. Neither the
democrats nor the Marxists are prepared to study — let alone criticize — their
creed and try to improve upon it. They do not take notice of what is happening
in front of their eyes: they believe what they have been taught. To criticize,
to try to improve, and thus to question the validity and wisdom of the accepted
creed would go against their deep and inbred respect for authority — one of the
cornerstones of the Japanese social structure. The creed is fully and totally
valid until it is fully and totally discredited, and then it is abandoned as
worthless.
    Do I mean to say that should
democracy fail, the Japanese would give it up? Yes, that is exactly what I am
trying to convey.