Anna Matsushita

  Even now, when I look back on it, it was a most peculiar encounter. It happened nearly 40 years ago.   To call it an "encounter" may be overstating it, as I merely caught fleeting glimpses of the man in two different places. Yet, to this day, it remains a mystery that lingers in my mind.   In the early 1990s, I travelled to the United Kingdom for a year-long university exchange programme. A friend who had helped me arrange my plane tickets and Eurail pass accompanied me on the journey.   We flew with Aeroflot Airlines. After an overnight stay in Moscow, we set off for Heathrow Airport. Upon arriving at Heathrow, we boarded the Piccadilly Line underground train and headed towards our destination—a youth hostel nestled within Holland Park, right in the heart of the city.   It was late summer, and the park itself was alive with the sounds of music festivals. Simply staying there, one could enjoy operatic performances and concerts wafting through t...

      Allow me to indulge in a little rambling from my twilight years. It was some forty years ago, on an otherwise ordinary day at school, when I was abruptly asked, “Anna, why did you go upstairs?”   It was in late 1980’s, and at the time, my family had been relocated to London due to my father’s job, and I was attending an international school. The weekend prior, we had ventured to London’s Chinatown for a much-anticipated dinner. The memory still lingers—savouring stir-fried greens, steaming noodle soups, fried rice, and tapioca in coconut milk. Bliss.   On the way to the restaurant, I’d run into a classmate and their friends quite by chance. Later, I learned that they had trailed us, curious about where Japanese families dined. Apparently, the sight of us entering a Chinese restaurant had intrigued them enough to follow us inside.   The restaurant, like many in those days, operated on a system of subtle (or not so subtle) racial disti...

  The morning sky was heavy with grey clouds, the kind that pressed low over the city and whispered of snow yet to fall. It was one of those bitter January days when the air seemed to nip at your skin even through the thickest coat. As I drew back the curtains, the faintest blush of sunrise struggled to light the horizon, promising little comfort. It was 1986, the heart of the Showa era back in Japan, but here in London, the year had dawned with the same bleak winter mornings the city was known for. I forced myself out of my warm bed, the comfort of the covers reluctantly traded for the routine of getting ready. Breakfast was quick, a silent ritual shared with my mother before I gathered my essentials: a pencil case, a small notebook, my wallet, and the lunch my mother had lovingly packed. "Off I go," I called as I slipped on my thick, black coat, its padding a small defence against the cold. "Take care," my mother replied. I nodded, stepping out into the frosty air...

  The alarm was ringing. Time to get up. As I pulled back the curtains, the sunlight spilled into the room, dazzling my eyes. Today was Girls’ Day—or at least, that’s what we secretly called it among ourselves. It was just a little in-joke for us girls in the same year. This term, the last lesson every Friday for us 4th form (equivalent to the first year of high school) was PE. Surprisingly, for such a small school, we actually had two options for PE activities. Thanks to Mark and Joseph, our school bus drivers who also happened to have PE teaching qualifications, we could choose between two groups: one went to the nearby park to play football, while the other did whatever sport was available in a hired gym for the day. I’d tried the football class once. Big mistake. Not knowing the rules, I ended up committing foul after foul and getting scolded for it. I quickly decided football wasn’t for me. Besides, being the only girl playing among the boys was exhausting—keeping up with thei...

September, 1988. Mornings in London were beginning to darken, and the air carried that crispness hinting at the onset of autumn. I walked into the kitchen for breakfast, the faint aroma of toast and tea in the air. My father looked up from the table, his face a curious blend of seriousness and routine. “You’ve got to register at the police station within a week of your 16th birthday,” he said, setting his mug down. “It’s for the Alien Registration. Best to tell your teacher—you’ll have to miss a class since they only process applications during the day.” Alien Registration. The word lingered in the air. Alien. It wasn’t a word I was entirely unfamiliar with. It carried two meanings, after all. One, a visitor from another planet; the other, a foreigner. The latter always seemed to sting a little, as though the law had to remind you that you didn’t quite belong. Among the older students at school, the term sparked no end of irritation. “Alien—honestly, what kind of language is that?” I’d...