Barbed Wire and Cherry Blossoms by Anita Heiss Page B

killed in action. I know reading this will be even harder for you to accept than losing your son at war. But here I am, writing to you, which means I am alive. I am in a place called Cowra. In Australia. I am living with a family here, until I can see you again. I beg you for forgiveness. I have become a prisoner of war. I am sorry I am not the brave warrior you wanted in a son. I do not want to bring shame on the family, on you, my lovingparents. I honour my family, my nation, and you have my loyalty, but I am a better man in life than in death. Mother, please do not cut your hair in mourning, for I am alive.
    I will not tell you who the other men were in the POW camp in Australia, for it is for them to let their families know. We all understand the shame our presence as prisoners of war will bring you, but I hope, as I know many others will, that you will be happy to see your son alive regardless of circumstances.
    I once vowed to complete my mission and destroy the enemy, but I have met some of the enemy. They are called Australians. They have fed me better than my own government when they sent me to war. I have been treated well by the Australian guards, who I have grown to respect. And now I am being cared for by an Australian family. If I ever have a son, I will send him here to visit these kind people. He could live his dreams here. He would not be beaten in training to be a better soldier like I was. He could be a poet if he wished. He could be free.
    I hope I will see you again soon, and then I will spend the rest of my days making you proud.
    Your son,
    Hiroshi

7
    M ary and Hiroshi sit side by side on a dirty blanket that Joan managed to get from the church. It’s been six weeks since Hiroshi found himself at Erambie. Aside from Mary’s almost daily visits, the newspapers and brief visits to the lavatory where he steals a few seconds of moonlight and fresh air, it has been his Shinto faith that has sustained him and helped him believe that he will see his family again. But it is his Shinto faith that has also caused him grief.
    His family’s faith means they will be practising the culture and tradition of respecting and worshipping his death. Understanding this practice upsets Hiroshi even more. He knows his father will be hurt but proud that his son has died at war, died with honour in the name of the Emperor. His mother will be heartbroken and distraught that her only son died at all.
    Hiroshi jumps up suddenly, startling Mary. ‘We Japanese,’ he puts his hand on his chest, ‘believe that the spirits of the dead live forever on earth and guard their descendants. My family will think I am their guardian deity. They will be worshipping me for my effort in the war and the honour I have brought myself and them.’ Hiroshi shakes his head, knowing that such worshipping is misplaced, given he is alive, but there is nothing he can do. The letter he wrote to his parents sits on the ground near where he sleeps. He has not asked Mary to post it – he knows that a Japanese address on an envelope will make someone suspicious. And what if she drops it, or worse still, gets caught carrying it? It is too risky for both of them. Writing the letter helped soothe his mind and his heart, but the words are still there, near him, and not where he wants them to be.
    â€˜What religion are the Aboriginal people, Mary?’ Hiroshi asks, knowing that there would be no Shinto followers in Australia outside of his army peers.
    â€˜I am Catholic, my family are Catholic. There are only Catholics and Protestants in town. And people who don’t believe in God at all. Uncle Kevin calls them atheists. My mother calls them heathens. Do you have a god, Hiroshi?’
    â€˜We don’t have one god,’ he says, ‘we have many gods, called kami. They are sacred spirits that represent important elements like the trees and mountains, rivers and the rain.’ He stops, wondering if what he is saying