Anna Matsushita

There was a deafening bang, followed by a deep, rumbling tremor that shook the ground beneath me.   The elderly pedestrians all dropped to the pavement in unison, as if rehearsed.   Across the street, an old man lay flat on his stomach, waving urgently in my direction. “Down!” he bellowed.   Instinct took over. I flung myself onto the pavement without a second thought.   Moments later, the wail of sirens filled the air—fire engines, ambulances, police cars, all racing past in a blur of flashing lights.   And then, just as swiftly as they had dived for cover, the prone figures around me picked themselves up, dusted themselves off, and strode away as though nothing had happened.   I had arrived in Britain in the 1980's at the age of fourteen, dragged along by my parents on account of my father’s job. I hadn’t wanted to come. Life had been perfectly fine back home, thank you very much. Germany was still split into East and West, Marga...

    Permit me a moment of reminiscence, an old woman's soliloquy, if you will. This is a story from some forty years ago.   For a brief three-year period, my family found itself living in Britain in the late of the 1980’s. It was the height of Japan’s bubble economy, a time of exuberance and affluence. Britain, in contrast, was grappling with economic stagnation. Not only was the economy sluggish, but the sudden influx of Japanese imports and the expansion of Japanese businesses left many in Britain feeling uneasy. Some, particularly those who had lived through a different era, harboured a deep resentment towards the prosperity of Japan.   A significant undercurrent to this tension was, of course, the legacy of the Second World War. Britain, once master of the seven seas, had held colonies across Southeast Asia, including Burma and Singapore—regions where it had clashed directly with Japan. Even in the late 1980s, the memory of that conflict persisted amo...

   **** CAUTION : Strong racist language is used *********** Around forty years ago in the late 80's, in the heart of London, I, then a teenager, was standing with my family, waiting for the traffic lights to change. It was in this moment that a white woman, standing beside me, suddenly erupted into a loud exclamation, as if she had witnessed something deeply unsettling. "Chinaman has got a kid!!!!" she cried, her voice brimming with a strange sense of astonishment. Her companion, the white man, responded nonchalantly, "Apparently, yes," as if to acknowledge the statement, albeit with a sense of resignation. Yet the woman, seemingly struck by some unseen force, continued to voice her disbelief.   “But… a Chinaman! They are animals! They can’t have a family, can’t they ？ ”   The man whispered something to her. However, she did not stop yelling.   “But it’s impossible! They get married and have a kid? Oh, yes, they don’t have freedom to get marri...

  Permit me to indulge in a bit of nostalgic musing, a reminiscence from nearly forty years ago. At the time, my family had relocated to London due to my father’s work. As a result, I found myself attending an international school in the city, and, after a spell, transferring to another one. London, even then, was a vibrant mosaic of cultures, a veritable melting pot of peoples. Yet, these two schools, both ostensibly “international,” had strikingly different demographics. The first school I attended had only a sprinkling of British students. The rest of the cohort hailed predominantly from the Middle East, Asia, and Africa, with a significant number adhering to the Islamic faith. This was, of course, decades ago, and one imagines the mix has shifted since. At that time, however, it was clear: the school’s corridors echoed with a rich blend of accents and languages from these regions. What struck me most was how forthcoming everyone was about their origins. It was as if announcing ...

A few years ago, in a tucked-away corner of Tokyo, we found ourselves burning the midnight oil, utterly engrossed in researching Cyprus. At the time, we were working for a small travel agency, and one of our clients had approached us with a request to create a bespoke tour for this enigmatic island. Determined to craft a memorable itinerary, we threw ourselves into the task, pooling resources with our local Cypriot partners and scouring every bit of information we could find in Japan. Cyprus, a sun-kissed island adrift in the Mediterranean, sits tantalisingly close to Turkey. With connecting flights conveniently offered from Japan, it’s an accessible yet slightly offbeat destination. The island’s history is a mosaic of cultures and empires: from the ancient Greeks who settled there, to the Hittites, Assyrians, Egyptians, Romans, Crusader knights, Venetians, Ottomans, and, finally, the British. It’s no exaggeration to say that Cyprus is a crossroads of civilisations, much like many of i...

  Allow me, as an old-timer, to share a small anecdote from nearly 40 years ago. Back then, I was a student at an international school in London. This institution was known as the American International School, and its curriculum offered two distinct paths: the SAT qualification for middle schoolers, and later, the choice between the International Baccalaureate (IB) and the American ACT for high school students. Students in the ACT track—primarily Americans—had little to no interaction with the rest of us. Our classes didn’t overlap, and our paths rarely crossed. One winter day, a new American student joined our school. Among the lively group of American students, one of them decided to introduce me to the newcomer, likely as part of the routine pleasantries. “This is my Japanese friend,” she said. The newcomer’s reaction caught me off guard. With a grimace, he blurted, “Japanese? No way. I have nothing to do with them. They are animals” Taken aback, I initially planned to let it s...

  “Look, Mummy, a Chinaman!” “And a child.” “I didn’t know that a Chinaman has a child.” “I’m going to write an essay about it.” These words were spoken by a young white girl about my father. It was the most overtly racist remark I had encountered at that point in my life. Our family had moved to the outskirts of London from Japan, due to my father’s work transfer. It was the late 1980s, and I must have been around 16 years old. One day, while waiting with my father at a tube station, a white British mother and her daughter were nearby. Suddenly, the young girl began calling my father a "Chinaman." Her mother looked on with pride, as if her daughter had made some insightful observation, beaming at her with a face full of approval. I immediately approached the mother. “My father isn’t Chinese,” I said. “And it’s perfectly normal for any human being to have children. If your daughter can make such blatantly racist remarks, it’s your duty as her parent to correct her. Instead, y...

  Approximately 40 years ago. During my time at school in the UK, an incident occurred that has lingered vividly in my memory.  One day, as I sat reading a newspaper in the classroom, a senior student—a year above me—spotted me. Later that day, he approached me in the hallway and said, “Will you bring the newspaper of yours?” Without much thought, I responded, “Roger, wilco,” before heading off to fetch the newspaper, which I had left behind in the classroom. No sooner had I uttered the phrase than a Canadian teacher nearby interjected, visibly startled: “What did you just say?” I replied, slightly perplexed, “I said, ‘Roger, wilco.’” “And what does that mean?” he demanded. “It means the same as ‘Aye aye, sir,’” I explained, hoping to clarify. To my surprise, this only seemed to deepen his confusion. “If ‘Aye aye, sir’ is a naval term,” he pressed, “then ‘Roger, wilco’ must surely be an Air Force expression. Why would a Japanese student like you know military jargon?” I couldn...

  Allow me, as someone of an older generation, to offer a reflection. This is a story from nearly 40 years ago.   When I had been attending an international school in London for about a year, at the age of 15, I developed a small ritual: a monthly visit to the nearby McDonald’s with my classmates. It was one of the few indulgences we allowed ourselves.   It was a bitterly cold winter, and despite the weather, we all ordered milkshakes. Naturally, holding the icy cup chilled my hands to the bone.   “ Oh my God, my hands are freezing!” I exclaimed without a second thought.   Suddenly, an adult passing by—a Black man—grabbed my elbow and asked sternly, “Who are you? Why are you, someone who doesn’t seem Christian at all, saying ‘Oh my God’?”   What a lookism.I was bewildered, left staring at him in silence, unsure what was happening. At that moment, another man, who appeared to be of Middle Eastern descent, joined in.   “ Are you...