Category: Notes from Japan

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Notes from Japan

On Safari in South Africa

Photographs and Narrative by Suzanne Kamata

On our third morning in the Lowveld, my travel companion and I woke up at 4:00 A.M. for our third game drive in Kruger National Park. We’d signed up for this over a year ago when we first booked ourselves on this group tour. We didn’t know then that it would be raining.

The other ten members of our group had chosen other options. Some were planning to hang out at the lodge, probably anticipating a day of lounging by the pool while kudu and impalas lingered nearby nibbling grass. Another cohort had signed up for a different sightseeing tour, involving waterfalls, with a later starting time. My friend and I were here, however, for the animals.

She and I had first met in Japan. We’d lived in the same town. Our kids had gone to the same schools, and we’d taught at the same universities. When she had moved back to Australia, we’d remained in touch. Both of us loved to travel, and both had dreamed of going on safari in Africa. Neither of us knew of anyone else who shared the same dream, so we vowed to go together. I had imagined that it would be years before I would be able to afford such a trip, but a little over a year ago, she’d come across a great deal. And now here we were, in South Africa.

Half-asleep, we quickly dressed, stuffed our sack-breakfasts into our backpacks, and stumbled out the heavy wooden door into the still dark morning. A light rain was falling. Although signs warned of roaming wild animals, and we’d seen plenty, it seemed safe to walk up to the office building to find our driver. His Toyota safari truck was already parked outside. After a few minutes, he appeared, and we climbed into the back middle seats of the open-sided truck, hoping to stay clear of the rain.

Our driver and guide, a local who drove 20-40 kilometers per hour over the speed limit and doled out one interesting animal fact per sighting, handed us lined ponchos to keep us warm on the forty-minute drive to the park. Then we zoomed off, passing pecan and macadamia groves, on the way to Numbi Gate. People were already waiting at bus stops along the way, probably on their way to work.

As the sky gradually lightened, we could make out the names of the shops along the road: Dragon Flame Car Wash, No Error Driving School, Drama’s Sneaker Wash, God is Able Beauty Salon, and an alarming number of small businesses offering funeral services.

When we finally reached the entrance to the game park, the guide parked and got out to register. Although the parking area had been crowded the previous two days, on this morning, we were the only ones there.

We had seen quite a few animals over the past two days, including elephants, giraffes, zebras, a rare white rhino, and a mama lion and cubs, albeit from a distance. We rattled off our wish list to the guide.

“A hippo out of the water,” my friend said. “And a male lion.”

I had been lucky enough to see both on a previous trip to Rwanda, but I had yet to see a leopard, one of the so-called “big five,” or a cheetah.

“When is the last time you saw a leopard or a cheetah?” I asked.

“I saw a leopard a week ago,” he said. “And a cheetah yesterday.”

He warned us, however, that because of the rain, we might not see anything at all. The animals might be seeking shelter. We understood and accepted that.

A few minutes into our drive, he braked the truck and pointed out a turtle making its way across the road. Understanding that this might be our biggest sighting of the day, I took a video of the creature with my smartphone. Soon after, we spotted some impalas. Although we’d seen so many the two days before that the guide no longer stopped for them, on this morning, we gave them our full attention.

And then we saw something unusual—a pack of African wild dogs alongside and in the middle of the road. I had never seen canines with such colouring. Their fur was brown and black, almost tortoiseshell. These dogs were featured on a signboard at the park entrance indicating the day’s sightings.

“There are only about 150 of these dogs in the park,” our guide told us. He mentioned that they were expert hunters, that they attacked in groups. Since Kruger National Park is vast, with an area of 19,485 square kilometers, much of the terrain being well away from the road, I realized how lucky we were to see these dogs. They trotted along, sniffing at the road, mindless of the truck slowly following them.

By this time, the rain had let up. Although we did not manage to see any hippos out of the water (they mostly come out at night to eat grass), we did see a herd of wildebeest, some vervet monkeys, an elephant, a water buffalo, baboons, and a Martial eagle perched on a high bare branch. And then our guide got a message on his phone and said, “From now, we’re not stopping for anything. Someone has spotted some cheetahs.”

As he sped ahead, we crossed our fingers and readied our cameras. I expected the cheetahs to be far off in the distance, where they wouldn’t be scared off by the sound of cars, as the lions were. Why else would they stay in one place long enough for us to reach them? As it turned out, however, five cheetah cubs were gathered together, sitting still, gazing intently into the bush. They were near the road, only about fifty meters away.

“They’re waiting for their mother,” the guide said. “Maybe she will come back while we are waiting.”

My friend and I took turns admiring them through binoculars. How patiently they watched the impalas nearby. How diligently they groomed themselves. They were gorgeous, leaving us breathless.

We waited awhile, but there were others eager to see them, so our guide suggested it was time to move on. “Are you happy?” he asked us.

“Yes, very,” we both said. 

Later, as we returned to the lodge, we thought about how jealous the rest of the group would be when they heard about the cheetahs. The rain started to fall again.

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

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Notes from Japan

Haiku for Rwandan Girls

Narratives and Photography by Suzanne Kamata

FAWE Girls’ School Gahini is in the Kayonza District of Rwanda, up a bumpy red-soiled road, on a hill overlooking acres of green. Various kinds of trees and shrubbery decorate the campus, which is made up of several small buildings painted yellow and roofed in red connected by walkways. Some are painted with murals or words extolling the importance of education. The outer wall of the Science Lab, for example, features a detailed diagram of the digestive system.

A male teacher in a white lab coat comes out to greet my three Japanese traveling companions and I as we alight from the air-conditioned Prado. Our driver Eugene, hired for this week by my colleague Satoshi, remains behind.

We have traveled here from Naruto, on the Japanese island of Shikoku, where two of us are professors and two, graduate students at a small teacher’s college, for a one-week research trip. Satoshi is going to conduct a survey on metacognition in solving math problems. This is part of an ongoing project for which he has visited Rwanda several times already. Last year, when he was about to embark on his trip, I mentioned that I had always wanted to go to Africa. Without hesitation, he said, “Let’s go!”

Of course, it was impossible for me to join him on such short notice, but he checked in with me periodically, telling me the dates of his next trip. I assured him that I was still eager to accompany him. For years I had included my dream of visiting Africa in my first day self-introduction to incoming students. Here was my chance.

I am not a math professor. I have an MFA in creative writing, but I have few chances to teach Japanese students how to write poems and short stories. Mainly, I teach English conversation, and academic writing courses. In the one class I devote to non-academic writing, an elective, I am lucky if even one undergraduate enrolls. Last year, the class included a visiting teacher from the Philippines and a graduate student, both of whom were auditing the class. Even the aspiring English teachers at our university mostly hate reading and writing. If it isn’t manga in Japanese, forget it! I keep a variety of popular novels in my office and press them into students’ hands when they ask me how they can improve their TOEIC[1] scores, but I feel victorious if even one student a year comes back for more.

During the trip, we would be visiting schools, and I would have the chance to conduct a few lessons. We would be visiting a private girls’ boarding school on the second day.

“You can do whatever you want,” Satoshi assured me.

Mostly, what I knew of Rwanda was from media reports about the 1994 genocide in which over a million Rwandans from the Tutsi ethnic group were killed by fellow Rwandans who identified as Hutu. I’d seen movies about the genocide, such as Hotel Rwanda, which the director of one of the memorials we visited would declare “a scam,” and read several books by the acclaimed Rwandan writer, Scholastique Mukasonga, who lost 37 family members in the massacre.

I boned up on education in Rwanda and found that as in some other African nations, such as Kenya, the country didn’t have much of a reading culture, although efforts are afoot to change that. In the epilogue to her poetry collection, Requiem, Rwanda, Laura Apol writes that in April 2009, at the International Symposium on the Genocide against Tutsi, the prime minister spoke of “the historical and literary necessity of having survivors not only tell their stories, but for the sake of history and art, write their stories as well.” Apol conducted writing workshops through a writing-for-healing project to help survivors and perpetrators process their grief and trauma. She’d helped Rwandans develop their writing over a week. I only had 30-40 minutes. Maybe I could get them to write a haiku.

Although there is still occasional violence by so-called Hutus against Tutsis (now simply Rwandans, according to their documents), the atrocities — which made up the genocide — occurred thirty years ago. The girls that I would be meeting hadn’t been born yet. I didn’t want to dwell on that sad historical event. I wanted to encourage Rwandan joy.

I prepared a PowerPoint presentation on haiku with photos, choosing examples that I thought would appeal to teenaged girls — a poem about eating ice cream, another about meeting a boy with “pirate eyes” on a beach, a poem featuring robots and a rainbow. I also included a sad haiku about violence against children in the United States, wanting to give them permission to write about tragedy, if they really wanted to.

I was hoping that they would write distinctly African poems, maybe featuring the gorillas that lived in the Western region, or the trees bearing mangoes, bananas, and avocadoes that seemed to grow everywhere. Perhaps they would write about the many people I saw bringing yellow plastic jerry cans to the river to gather water for daily use, the vendors of kitenge cloth in the markets, or the women who balanced loads upon their heads, or tended the fields with their hoes. They might write about the goat that they had sold to pay for their education, or the wild animals they’d seen on safari in Akagera National Park. But maybe all these things were cliches of Africa. I would not suggest these topics, would not insist that they reinforce my stereotypes.

On the day of the school visit, we are introduced to the smiling head teacher, a tall man who tells me that he has written both haiku and waka, the traditional five-lined Japanese poem. He seems bemused by our presence at his school. Nevertheless, he is affable and game to have us try to teach some girls something about Japan.

We are led to a dimly-lit classroom with four long tables. Laptops for each student’s use are on the tables connected to a power source. The English teacher, another man in a lab coat, sets up a projector, and I hand over my USB drive.

The girls file in, sit down, and automatically open the laptops. Their hair is shorn, and they are wearing white short-sleeved shirts, pleated gray skirts, and matching neckties. To get things started, Satoshi introduces our group and asks a few what they want to be in the future.

“Surgeon,” says one.

“Banker,” says another.

I remember how, when I had first arrived in bubble-era Japan as an assistant high school English teacher, the female students had replied “A good wife and mother.”

Okay. So these girls are good at English, and they are ambitious.

“Please close your laptops,” I say. I personally prefer to write poetry by hand, and I am always worried about students using generative AI, so I have brought pink and lavender pencils, which I bought at Daiso and sharpened back in Japan, and loose leaf lined paper.

I introduce myself briefly, explaining that I am an American, but I married a Japanese man, and have now lived in Japan for over thirty years. I also tell them that I am a writer, and I have brought some books by myself and others which I will donate to their library.

“A haiku,” I tell them, “is a short Japanese poem, usually consisting of 17 syllables, and including a kigo, or seasonal word.”

Their forty or so faces are turned toward me, but I can’t tell if they are engaging. When I ask if any of them have ever written poetry, four raise their hands. When I ask if they have ever written haiku, or even heard of it, the hands stay down. I go through my PowerPoint, noting their interest in a poem about Girls’ Day in Japan, on which families with daughters display ornate dolls representing the emperor, empress, and court.

“And now it’s your turn,” I tell them when I reach the last slide. “Let’s try to write a haiku.”

I ask them to think of an event, or a moment, and write whatever related words come into their heads over the next five minutes. They begin to scribble. When the timer on my phone goes off, I remind them that it’s okay to ignore the five-seven-five syllable rule, and that they don’t have to stick to seasonal topics. I tell them that if they are having trouble, they can use a poem from the PowerPoint as a template.

While they ponder and write, I wander along the rows, looking over their shoulders. I’m pleased to see that some have taken my suggestion to model their poem by one by Masaoka Shiki, about eating and drinking with friends on an autumn evening. But pizza? Ice cream? I’m a little disappointed that they didn’t use a more African dish, like brochettes, and banana beer. Then again, that is just my stereotype. Rwandans eat pizza, too.

Instead of writing a haiku, one girl writes a longer poem, which is clearly about the genocide. I realize that even though I want to encourage them to move on, to look to the future, to laugh and dance and celebrate, the trauma caused by the slaughter persists, hanging like a cloud over the country. Their parents probably lived through it, and there are reminders everywhere. Everyone has a story. Our driver tells me later that his father, sister, and brother were murdered. Rwandan students visit genocide memorials on school excursions as part of their education, just as Japanese students visit Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Peace education is deemed very important here, and, during this time of division, I can’t help thinking that it would be good in my own country as well.

At the end of the lesson, I tell them that what they have created belongs to them. I want them to keep their poems, but I also want to read them. I ask them to copy their haiku onto another piece of paper and give it to me.

“I hope you will keep writing haiku,” I tell them, my grandiose idea of promoting Rwandan literature in mind. I tell them of where they can send their poems for publication to an international audience. We pose for a group photo.

Later, I bring my books to the library.

“Bonjour,” says the nun librarian, who must have been schooled when French was the official medium of education.

I had not realised that this was a Catholic institution. I hope that no one takes offence that one of the books I am donating, which has been banned in some places in the United States, is about a Muslim girl. In another, a novel by a contemporary Zimbabwean writer, a teenaged girl confesses to having had premarital sex. A character is one of my own novels is a gay figure skater.

The nun accepts the books graciously and tells some tag-along students to place them on the fiction shelf. I stand back, noting that the ones already there are old and worn. Perhaps they do most of their reading online? In any case, there are no young adult novels for girls, nothing published in the past few years, and I know how expensive imported books are.

“I hope you will read them,” I say, thinking of my students back in Japan who hate to read.

“We will,” the girls promise.

I imagine a single girl, coming upon these novels and greedily devouring them one after another, perhaps seeking out more, and then beginning to write her own stories. I imagine coming across a novel in a bookstore written by a girl who grew up in Kayonza, who attended the FAWE Girls’ School Gahini. I imagine reading that book and posting about in on Instagram. And then I try to let go of my expectations, and say “murakoze,“ which means “thank you” in Kinyarwanda, and “goodbye.”

Hamburgers and fries
Speakers blare Billie Eilish
--lunch in Kigali 

A Haiku by Suzanne Kamata

[1] The Test of English for International Communication

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

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Notes from Japan

Finding Inspiration in Shikoku’s Iya Valley

Photographs and narrative by Suzanne Kamata

When I first arrived in Japan over thirty-five years ago, one of the first places that I visited was the Iya Valley, deep in the interior of Tokushima Prefecture. It wasn’t easy to get there then, and it’s not easy now. From Tokushima, there are no trains – only very occasional buses, or you can brave the narrow, twisty mountain roads sans guardrails and drive on your own. At the time I visited, I recall no restaurants or hotels, but apparently some abandoned houses have been refurbished as high-end inns.

Tea gardens of Iya

The Iya Valley attracts adventurous travelers who are up for white-water rafting on the river that cuts through the Oboke Gorge. Another thrill that can be had is crossing Iya Kazurabashi, the swaying vine bridge that spans the gorge. I crossed the bridge on that first visit years ago, and I remember clinging to the rope railings while taking careful steps, my heart hammering all the while.

The vine bridge is periodically reconstructed, but the original was said to have been created by aristocrats who had fled the capital of Kyoto. The Heike clan, who have been immortalised in the Japanese literary classic Heike Monogatari, were defeated by the Minamoto clan in the Genpei War (1180–1185) at the end of the Heian Period. They found the wilds of Shikoku to be the perfect hideout. Their descendants continue to live in the area.

I found this story incredibly fascinating. As a university student, I had been captivated by descriptions of Heian court life – the ladies-in-waiting in their layered brocade kimono, lover’s messages exchanged in the form of poetry. As anyone who has seen the recent miniseries Shogun has noted, ancient Japan was filled with aesthetic delights. Imagine going from a wooden house with fragrant tatami mats, sliding paper doors, and an ornamental garden to an untamed mountain, probably teeming with wild boar and monkeys.

I was inspired by this place to write the short story “Down the Mountain,” which appears in my newly published collection River of Dolls and Other Stories. I blended ancient history with the Japanese folktale “Kaguyahime,” or “The Moon Princess.” I was also influenced by reports that I had read of the forced sterilisation of Japanese women who were mentally ill. The story begins like this:

You say that you want to leave this mountain, daughter, and I know that your will is strong. For you, there is not enough of life in selling fish-on-a-stick or serving noodles to strangers. You look at the swaying vine bridge and see a magnet for tourists, those busloads of people who come up from the city, filling the valley with sounds of laughter and loud voices. I will not stand in your way, but before you go, there are some things that you must know.

Last week my husband, who is newly retired, took a trip to the Iya Valley as a tour-guide-in-training. While I was at work, he crossed the bridge and was treated to thick udon noodles in broth and a sampling of teas grown on the mountain. A local woman sang a traditional song to the group of visitors.

“Have you ever been to Iya?” he asked me when he’d returned home.

“Yes,” I told him. “Long ago. As a matter of fact, I even wrote a story about it.”

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

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Notes from Japan

Weekend in Futaba at the Japan Writers Conference

Narrative and photographs by Suzanne Kamata 

Many years ago, when my children were small and I was working on my first-to-be-published novel Losing Kei, I joined an online writing group made up of members of the Association of Foreign Wives of Japanese. Since I live off the beaten track, on the island of Shikoku, this group was a godsend for me. Not only was I able to connect with non-Japanese women raising biracial kids in a supposedly homogenous country, but I could also connect with others writing in English. 

I ultimately finished my novel. I was not the only member of this group who went on to publish books. In addition to writing and publishing, another wonderful thing that came out of this now defunct virtual community was the Japan Writers Conference, which was first held in 2008. One of the members, poet and writer Jane Joritz-Nakagawa, whose most recent book is the searing LUNA (Isobar Press, 2024), proposed a grassroot gathering of writers in Japan. There would be no keynote speaker, no fees for participants, and no payments for presenters. We would just get together and share our writing and our expertise. 

Another member, Diane Hawley Nagatomo, who recently published her second novel, Finding Naomi (Black Rose Writing, 2024) after an illustrious career in academia, volunteered to host the initial conference at her university. Chanoyu University, in Tokyo, is famously the institution attached to the kindergarten attended by the Japanese royal family. It was also the site of the first Japan Writers Conference. 

Since then, the conference has been held at various universities and colleges around the country, including in Okinawa, Hokkaido, Kyoto, Iwate, and at Tokushima University, hosted by me in 2016. Over the years, many notable speakers have appeared, such as Vikas Swarup, whose novel Q & A became the film Slumdog Millionaire, popular American mystery writer Naomi Hirahara, and Eric Selland, poet and translator of The New York Times bestseller The Guest Cat by Takashi Hiraide. The list goes on and on. 

This past year, the conference was held not at a university, but at the Futaba Business Incubation and Community Centre. 

When I told my husband that I was going to Futaba, he looked it up on a map. 

“That’s in the exclusionary zone,” he said, somewhat alarmed. 

Indeed, the conference would be held on the coast in Fukushima Prefecture, not too far from the site of the nuclear power plant which was hit by a tsunami in 2011. For years, there have been concerns about radiation, however the area is staging a comeback. The host of this year’s conference would be the Futaba Area Tourism Research Association, an organisation committed to “promoting tourism and land operations, inviting people to rediscover the charms of Fukushima’s coastal areas. The company’s mission is to bring people worldwide to this unique place that has recovered from a nuclear disaster.” 

“I don’t think they would hold the conference there if it wasn’t safe,” I told him.  

The JWC website reported that although the town had been evacuated after the 2011 Great East Japan Earthquake and the meltdown at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Station, evacuation orders had been lifted for about 10% of the town on August 30, 2022.  Decontamination efforts are still underway. New homes are being built, new businesses are emerging, and the annual festival Daruma-Ichi resumed in 2023. The areas hosting the JWC had been deemed safe, “with radiation levels regularly monitored and within acceptable limits.” I reserved a room at the on-site ARM Hotel and went ahead with my plans. 

Getting to Futaba from my home in Tokushima took all day. I got up before the sun and took a bus, a plane, then a succession of trains. As I got closer to my destination, I noted the absence of buildings along the coast. I tried to imagine the houses that might have been there before the grasses had gone wild. Later, the appearance of earth-moving equipment suggested future development.   

From the nearly deserted train station, I took a bus, and then lugged my suitcase to the hotel’s registration desk. There was nothing around besides the convention center and the hotel. I saw a very tall breakwater, blocking my view of the ocean. I felt as if I were on the edge of the world. 

The evening before the conference began, I had dinner at the hotel restaurant, where I met up with some writers I had gotten to know at past conferences. Ordinarily, we might have moved on to a bar to continue our literary discussions, but after the restaurant closed at eight, there was nowhere else to go. There was some talk of going to the beach. A few of us went out into the night and sat on the seawall, sipping Scotch from paper cups, and talking under the stars. At one point, we contemplated the waves below, all those who were washed out to sea and remained missing. 

The conference began the following morning. I was amazed that, in spite of the effort that it had taken to get there, presenters had come from all over the world – a Syrian poet who was based in Canada, a poet from Great Britain, a Japanese writer and translator who lived in Germany, a Tunisian writer and motivational speaker who’d flown in from UAE. 

I gave a presentation on writing for language learners and shared my haiku in another session. Others presented on a variety of topics including literary correspondence, storytelling and tourism, climate fiction, and writing the zuihitsu[1]. In between sessions, I caught up with old friends and met new ones. On Saturday night, there was a banquet with bentos featuring delicacies such as smoked duck, mushroom rice, and salad with Hokkigai clams. 

In retrospect, it was especially meaningful to attend the conference in Futaba, and to feel that we were able to play some small part in the rejuvenation of the area. It was also exciting to interact with writers who came from so far away. Although it’s still very much a grassroots event, it has become truly international. 

American authors Karen Hill Anton and David Joiner talk about literary correspondence
Paul Rossiter, publisher of Isobar Press, introduces new Japan-related titles.

(To find out about the next Japan Writers Conference and sign up for the mailing list, go to https://japanwritersconference.org/) 

[1] A loose collection of personal essays

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

Categories
Notes from Japan

Educating for Peace in Rwanda

By Suzanne Kamata

Photographs by Suzanne Kamata

In late September, I visited Rwanda with a professor of Naruto University of Education in Japan and two Japanese graduate students. We traveled from Kigali, the capital city, to the Kayonza District, a rural area, to learn about the 1994 Genocide against Tutsi which necessitated peace education in Rwanda. In one month, around a million Tutsis and their sympathisers were systematically and viciously slaughtered by members of the Hutu ethnic group following government directives. This “final solution” was enacted via machetes and spears, often by classmates, co-workers, and neighbors. Just about everyone in Rwanda was affected by the horror in some way. Our driver told us that his father, sister, and brother were murdered at that time. Our interpreter, Claude Mugabe, was also a genocide survivor. He had been eight years old at the time, and he said that he remembered everything.

The animosity between two ethnic groups may be traced to the colonial period, when Belgians favoured the Tutsi, who typically had tall, slender bodies, high foreheads, and narrow features, for prestigious positions and privileges. Periodic violence against the Tutsis began in the 1950s and continues to this day, but Rwandans have made great efforts to ensure that the events of 1994 never occur again. We learned that Rwandan citizens are no longer required to carry identity cards indicating their ethnicity.

We visited a center which is a part of the Peace Education Initiative Rwanda. The three pillars of their program are peacebuilding and reconciliation, youth empowerment, and social economic development. We first gathered in tent where some photos of the massacre were displayed. Some community members, including those who had been alive at the time of the genocide and high school students, were gathered to share their thoughts and experiences with us.

Photograph by Suzanne Kamata

As birds sang and chickens squawked in the background, Mugabe explained some ways in which the people of his community have sought reconciliation, including sharing goats, building together, and working alongside one another. He emphasised that it’s important that everyone have their basic needs met. To this end, the community members fight against malnutrition, which can lead to diseases, through gardening vegetables and rearing animals such as goats and chickens, which provide milk and eggs.

Another important part of reconciliation, as we learned, is forgiveness. We heard moving –and often shocking – testimonies from both a victim and a perpetrator. We first heard from a woman who was a victim. She told us how she was harassed by her teachers after they learned that she was a Tutsi, and ultimately forced to drop out of school. She said that she spent some days and nights hiding in the bush. Her house was burned, and nothing remained. On April 9, she left her hiding place and sought refuge in the Catholic church. It was full, however, so she went to the cinema. On April 14, the Hutus attacked the church. Although the woman lost her sight, she said that she later received health insurance, and “Today we’re living in peace and harmony.”

Next, we heard from a man who was 30 years old, with a wife and two children, at the time of the genocide. He admitted that he had critical thinking ability, but he participated in the attack on the church, anyway, along with other civilians and members of the military. They were armed with machetes, guns, and grenades, and given thirty minutes to exterminate everyone in the church. They surrounded the church and opened fire, but they “succeeded” in killing only thirteen people the first day. He did not return the second day because his wife was sick. Later, he fled to Tanzania, but after being repatriated to Rwanda, he, like many others, was arrested and sent to prison. “I internalized what I did,” he said through the interpreter. He was filled with remorse. When he was released, he bought a cow for the victims, and asked for forgiveness. In the beginning, only 12 people were involved, but now almost 3,000 participate in peace education in the village.

In addition to these community activities, peace education is an important part of the school curriculum in Rwanda. As in Japan, where students go on field trips to Hiroshima and Nagasaki to learn about the atomic bombing of those cities, Rwandan students visit sites related to the genocide, such as churches which now serve as memorials to those who died. We visited two such memorials. In one, the blood-stained clothing of the murdered was stacked on the church pews, while their photos were displayed on the wall. There were glass cases full of skulls, some with bullet holes, or larger gashes caused by clubs or machetes, as well as coffins full of bones. Though graphic and disturbing, these exhibits gave us an understanding of this particular tragic event and of the horrors of war in general.

As I thought about the divisions among people in my own country, the United States, all of the hate-filled rhetoric spewing from the mouths of politicians, and the move to silence voices from outside the mainstream, I couldn’t help thinking that some of these measures might be applied there, as well. What if we truly acknowledged that past? What if we shared our bounty? What if we asked for forgiveness? For now, I will remember what I learned in Rwanda. I will cling fast to hope. 

Photographs by Suzanne Kamata

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Notes from Japan

Among Ghosts in the Land of a Thousand Hills

Suzanne Kamata writes from Rwanda

As we exit Kigali International Airport, the first thing I see are trees festooned with bright pink blossoms alongside the walkway. Everything is tidy; not a speck of litter in sight.

My companions and I – one other professor from the small teacher’s college in Japan where I work, and two graduate students – are met by Eugene, the Rwandan driver hired for this trip. He and my colleague exchange greetings, and we climb into the black Toyota Prado already parked at the curb.

As we head for the city, I can’t help noticing the many motorcycles zooming through the streets. Eugene tells us that they are moto-taxis. Apparently, you can hop on the back and get a ride somewhere for about a dollar. I notice that the passengers don’t put their arms around the waist of the driver, but carefully balance themselves on the back of the bikes.

Mototaxis in Kigali
Modern buildings in Kigali
Photo Courtesy: Suzanne Kamata

Eugene points out various sites along the way, including a new soccer stadium, various international banks, and a convention center styled like a traditional Rwandan dwelling. In addition to the modern, attractive buildings, greenery is everywhere.

New Soccer Stadium
Photo Courtesy: Suzanne Kamata

We make a couple of stops to change American dollars into Rwandan francs, and to get Sim cards for phones, and then go to lunch.

I’ve been wondering what we will eat in Rwanda. In the memoirs and stories of native daughter, Scholastique Mukasonga[1], people are always drinking banana beer and eating sorghum and mealie meal. However, once we settle into our seats at the Umut Café, I find none of these things on the menu. Instead, we are offered hamburgers, wraps, and pizza margherita. The most African-sounding item listed is a peanut butter smoothie. I order a chicken wrap as the latest Billie Eilish song pours out of the sound system’s speakers.

We are here in the Land of a Thousand Hills for a one-week research trip during which we will visit schools in rural areas and learn about the 1994 genocide. In one month, around a million Tutsis and their sympathisers were systematically and viciously slaughtered by members of the Hutu ethnic group following government directives. This “final solution” was not enacted in gas chambers away from the eyes of ordinary citizens as in Nazi Germany, but via machetes and spears, often by classmates and neighbours. Just about everyone in Rwanda was affected by the horror in some way. Our driver will tell me later that his father, sister, and brother were murdered at that time.

The animosity between two ethnic groups may be traced to the colonial period, when Belgians favoured the Tutsi, who typically had tall, slender bodies, high foreheads, and narrow features, for prestigious positions and privileges. Periodic violence against the Tutsis began in the 1950s and continues to this day, but Rwandans have made great efforts to insure that the events of 1994 never occur again. Peace education is an important part of the curriculum in Rwanda, as in Japan, where students go on field trips to Hiroshima and Nagasaki to learn about the atomic bombing of those cities. On the following day, we are going to hear from members of one of many rural communities where Tutsis were gathered in a Catholic church and then killed.

Houses with intricately-paned windows
Women in Kitenge. a sarong like cloth wrapped around the waist
Photo Courtesy: Suzanne Kamata

After our late lunch, we climb back into the Prado for the two-hour drive to the Kayonza District in Eastern Rwanda. Outside the window is a blur of banana trees, goats, cows, and red dirt. Many of the houses have intricately-paned windows. It’s a Sunday, and as we get farther and farther from the capital city, we see people in fine clothes, often made of brilliantly patterned kitenge cloth, walking home from church. People lug plastic yellow jerry cans to the river for water, others push bicycles laden with bunches of green bananas. Some are working in the fields with nothing but hands and hoes. As I take in the scenery, I can’t help thinking, this is where it happened; up in those forested hills is where people ran to hide.

Eastern County Hotel
Author’s room in the hotel
Photo Courtesy: Suzanne Kamata

We finally arrive at the Eastern Country Hotel, which seems to be run entirely by women. Two come out to welcome us on arrival including a pretty young woman in a pink shirt and a retainer. An older woman takes command of my heavy suitcase and leads me to the desk for check-in, where I write my details by hand in a notebook. She then shows me to my room, which is on the second floor. I hand her a tip, but I have no idea if it is enough. She recites the Wi-Fi password, and I scribble it on a piece of paper.

Pink Flower… Hibiscus. Photo Courtesy: Suzanne Kamata

The room is clean, simple: a bed with a mosquito net, a small desk, a TV. From the window, I can see a garden with palm trees, pink flowers, and shrubs trimmed into vase-like shapes.

A little while later, when I am towelling my hair after my shower, there is a knock on the door. The young woman in the pink shirt brings me a lamp to deter mosquitoes. She returns again several minutes later with the breakfast menu. I ask about an unfamiliar item on the menu. She tells me that it’s African, but I can’t figure out what it’s made of, so I order the omelet and chapatis, and “just a little bit” of the agatogo[2].

The sun is setting, and after our long journey from Tokushima via Tokyo, Seoul, and Addis Ababa, I am exhausted and ready for bed. I drape the netting around me and climb under the covers.

As I wait for sleep to come, I can hear frogs, or maybe crickets. Boisterous voices float from outside, perhaps from the wedding celebration we passed on the way here, or the boarding school on the other side of the road. There is laughter, but at times, it sounds like another kind of ruckus. Sometimes, I think I hear people screaming.

Red dirt road in Kayonza. Photo Courtesy: Suzanne Kamata

[1] A French Rwandan author

[2] A Rwandan dish with plantain, meat and spices

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

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Notes from Japan

Sneaky Sneakers

By Suzanne Kamata

So there I was, jacket zipped, MP3 player charged and loaded, sneakers laced and tied. Just as I was about to go out the door to embark on my power walk, I realised that I’d left the keys on the table in the other room. No one else was in the house. What a bother!

I considered my options. One, I could go out and leave the house unlocked, but I didn’t want to do that. Two, I could try to crawl on my hands and knees to the table without letting my feet touch the floor. Three, I could take off my jacket, lay it down like a carpet, and step on that instead of the bare wooden floor. Four, I could untie, unlace, and step out of my shoes and, in my socks, go get the keys.

I’ve lived in Japan for over 20 years, so I know better than to wear shoes in the house. After all this time, I can’t bring myself to wear shoes indoors in the United States, either, though I was brought up treading on carpet while shod. Most of my footwear is of the slip-on variety—clogs, flip-flops, pumps, loafers—but I still prefer lace-up athletic shoes for exercise.

On this day, I managed to walk on my knees to the table, grab the keys, and get back to the entryway, all without letting my soles touch the floor.

Shortly after that, I was again standing in an entryway while visiting an American friend in Kamakura. My shoes were laced and tied. She had just pulled on her boots and zipped them when she discovered that she had forgotten something. I was prepared to commiserate with her about the nuisance of taking off one’s shoes when, to my surprise, she re-entered the house with her boots on, to retrieve the forgotten bag.

My jaw dropped. This friend had also lived in Japan for a very long time. “You go into your house with your shoes on?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s too much trouble to take them off.”

Perhaps this was common. Maybe all over Japan, people were secretly stepping onto the floors of their homes in spike-heeled sandals and hiking boots, and who knows what else!

Curious to know, I asked a Japanese friend—an older woman, with grown children—if she’d ever done such a thing.

“Well,” she said, leaning close, “sometimes in winter, when I’ve already got my boots on, I quickly step inside and hope no one’s watching.”

Again, my jaw dropped. “And what about your children?”

“If they did it, I would scold them,” she assured me. “We’re not supposed to wear shoes in the house.”

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International

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Notes from Japan

In Praise of Parasols

A classic way to keep cool

By Suzanne Kamata

Painting by Georges Seurat(1859-1891). From the Public Domain.

Parasols? Seriously? Such were my thoughts when I first arrived in Japan one summer over twenty years ago. How quaint, I thought. How old fashioned! If a lady was worried about preserving her lily-white complexion, why not just slather on sunscreen and wear a hat?

In South Carolina, where I’d just come from, the only time I ever saw women wielding parasols was when I visited antebellum mansions. There, tour guides flounced around plantations in hoopskirts, twirling parasols as part of their period costumes. In real life, no one used them.

Back then, many of my friends spent hours laying out in the sun, in pursuit of the perfect tan. In the United States, people found my skin to be too pale, but in Japan women wore long white gloves and smeared their faces with whitening cream. And they carried parasols to ward off the sun.

Parasols have actually been in use in the Middle East and Asia for a very long time. They are depicted in ancient art in India, Egypt, Mesopotamia, and Greece, and are mentioned in a divination book from the Chinese Song Dynasty printed in 1270. Although alternative uses have been discovered for the parasol – for example, in 1902, ladies were advised by The Daily Mirror to use their parasols to fend off ruffians — the basic design is much the same as that of first century China.

A postcard from the turn of the 20th century. From the Public Domain

The only parasol I’d ever owned was a bright red one made of paper, bought from a souvenir shop in Southeast Asia, which I displayed in a corner as an ethnic accent to my home décor. I never thought of using it outside.

Parasols were fussy and cumbersome, I thought. How could you do anything with your hands if you were holding one? They were a nuisance, and yet when I went to a baseball game with my mother-in-law in mid-summer, and the hot sun beat down upon us, I was grateful to share the shade of her black umbrella.

Ever conscious of my carbon footprint, I walk to the neighbourhood store with my eco-bags. One sweltering day last summer, I started to reach for my hat on my way out the door, but grabbed an umbrella instead. It really was cooler underneath! And carrying a parasol helps cut down on the new freckles. Today I browsed online for a new parasol. A number of new vendors have popped up in the West offering a variety of designs – Battenburg Lace for outdoor weddings, solid team colours for stadium sports, and more. Could it be that the parasol is about to come into fashion again in my native country? Here in Japan, it has never gone out of style. 

From the Public Domain

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Notes from Japan

A Day with Dinosaurs

Photographs and Narrative by Suzanne Kamata

My day job is “associate professor,” so I sometimes attend academic conferences. When I learned of an upcoming conference on language teaching in Fukui Prefecture, which I had never been to, I was eager to sign up. Sure, I wanted to hear all the cutting-edge theories about teaching English to language learners – how to motivate my students to write haiku, how to use AI, and so on – but my primary reason was to see the dinosaur bones.

Although at one time it seems that dinosaurs pretty much roamed the whole world, fossils of dinosaur bones weren’t discovered in Japan until 1989. Those bones were found in Katsuyama City, Fukui Prefecture. Since then, even more bones have been discovered, and a museum ̶ Fukui Prefectural Dinosaur Museum ̶ opened in 2000. As part of the pre-conference activities, the host university had arranged for a trip to the museum. A free shuttle but would depart at 11:30am.

I consulted an app on my smartphone and determined that it would take me about five hours to reach Fukui Station from my home in Tokushima Prefecture on the island of Shikoku. I would have to take a bus, a train, another train, and the high-speed bullet train. After a recent trip to Tokyo, I had learned how to use an electronic transit card, which was basically an app on my phone. This app could be used to breeze through ticket gates at train stations, as well as on buses and subways.

I got up at 5:30am on the day of the museum tour. My husband dropped me off at the bus station. I got on the bus and got off in Osaka. Then I took a train to Kyoto, which was mobbed with travelers. Although I thought I could get on the next train, the so-called Thunderbird, with my app, I discovered that I needed to have a reservation. I suppose I could have made one on my smartphone while standing in line, but I was confused. I left the platform and queued up to buy a reserved ticket from the vending machine, which disrupted my tight schedule and meant I would not be able to make it to Fukui in time for the free shuttle bus.

The Thunderbird goes straight from Kyoto to Fukui with few stops in between. The scenery is mostly composed of rice fields and squat mountains. The monotonous view was calming. About an hour later, the train pulled into Tsuruga where I had to switch to the brand-new Hokuriku Shinkansen for the last seventeen minutes of my journey. In my rush to finish my business at the vending machine in Kyoto, I had inadvertently booked a seat in the most luxurious car. I was the only one there.

I texted a friend who was also attending the conference. She had already arrived. I told her that I would be late, and that I wouldn’t be able to ride the bus with her. This was Japan, where everything was always on time! However, the organisers were Americans, and they were willing to wait for me. Hooray!

As soon as I got to Fukui Station, with its moving animatronic raptor keeping guard out front, I hopped into a taxi and finally arrived at the university, where the bus was indeed waiting. I sprinted onboard, apologised to my fellow passengers, and thanked the organiser profusely.

The museum was impressive, as advertised. Replicas of dinosaurs discovered in such far-flung locales as Morocco and Mongolia were on display. There were, of course, also exhibits of the five dinosaurs and one bird species discovered in Fukui, including the long-necked stubby-legged Fukuititan, the herbivorous Fukuisaurus, and the Fukuiraptor. Although the museum offers an excavation experience where visitors can pretend to dig and discover fossils, my friend and I just walked around looking at all of the cool rocks and bones.

Having gone through my son’s dinosaur obsession when he was young, I could remember some of the dinosaur’s names – the Ankylosaurus with its bumpy back, the Stegosaurus, and Pterodactyl. When we were ready to take a break, my friend and I made our way to the cafeteria for dino-themed snacks.

While many famous destinations in Japan are struggling with over-tourism, Fukui, while slightly off the beaten track, has a pleasantly relaxing vibe. Things may change with the new bullet train, but for now, I recommend it as a fascinating horde-free place to visit.

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

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Notes from Japan

A Golden Memory of Green Day in Japan

By Suzanne Kamata

At the end of April and the beginning of May, several Japanese holidays fall close together. This special time of year is called Golden Week. Often, a few work/school days fall between the holidays, however many people take advantage of the break and travel. I have a hard time remembering which days are which holidays, however I do remember that one of them is Midori-no-hi, or Green Day (which falls on the Showa Emperor’s birthday, May 4).

Not long after I graduated from college, I came to Japan to work as an assistant English teacher. I was assigned to a high school in Naruto, a city in Shikoku, southeast of Osaka, noted for its tasty seaweed and huge, natural whirlpools.

The principal of the high school was very friendly and often invited me to drink tea and chat with him, so I was none too surprised when he called me to his office one April afternoon. This, however, wouldn’t turn out to be a typical encounter.

The principal began to tell me about the annual Midori-no-hi (Green Day) ceremony. Each year, it’s held in a different prefecture, and that year it was Tokushima’s turn. The Emperor and Empress are always in attendance. Only a select group of people would be invited to attend the proceedings, the principal told me, and I had been chosen to participate.

How could I refuse? I imagined meeting the Emperor and Empress and telling them about my hometown in America. Maybe we’d sip green tea together from the locally-crafted pottery cups.

A full rehearsal was scheduled a couple of weeks in advance of the actual event. I boarded a bus at 5 a.m. along with a group of high school band members who would be performing during the ceremony.

As we approached the park settled in the mountains of Tokushima, I noticed that the formerly rough road had been paved. The roadside was lined with marigolds which had been freshly planted in anticipation of the imperial couple’s visit.

At the park, we all practiced our separate parts. Mine would be quite simple. Two other young women — a Brazilian of Japanese descent and an Australian who’d just arrived in the country — and I would be escorted to a spot in front of the Emperor and Empress. We would then bow, accept a sapling from the governor, and plant it in the ground with the help of boy scouts.

As the Emperor would be there and the entire ceremony would be broadcast on national television, everything had to be perfect. We practiced bowing many times with our backs straight and our hands primly layered.

Finally, Midori-no-hi arrived. The day was cloudy and occasional rain drops spotted my silk dress. Everyone hoped that the weather would not ruin the proceedings.

Marching bands, an orchestra, and a choir made up of students from various local high schools and colleges filled the morning with music. Instead of the sun, we had the bright brass of trombones, trumpets and cymbals.

Modern dancers in green leotards enacted the growth of trees. Later, expatriate children from Canada, France, Peru and other countries announced “I love green” in their native languages. This was followed by the release of hundreds of red, blue and yellow balloons into the grey sky. A hillside of aging local dignitaries were on hand to view the pageantry.

About mid-way through the ceremony, the Emperor and Empress arrived. They followed the red carpet laid out to the specially-constructed wooden dais, the Empress a few steps behind her husband as protocol demanded, to “Pomp and Circumstance”. The rustle of Japanese flags waved enthusiastically in the air threatened to drown out the orchestra.

After many solemn addresses and much bowing, the Emperor and Empress stepped down to “plant” trees. His Highness pushed some dirt around the base of a cedar sapling with a wooden hoe. His pink-suited consort did the same while balancing on high heels. The placement of the trees was only for show. Later, everything would be transplanted to a more suitable location.

At last, it was my turn. The other young women and I were led to the grass stage to the accompaniment of a harpist. I accepted my tree and buried its roots in the ground. The tree was a sudachi, which bears small green citrus fruit and is the official tree of Tokushima Prefecture.

The music and majesty of the occasion made me feel like I was doing something important on Earth. I was adding to the verdure of the world, enabling Nature. I felt a sense of awe.

When all of us were finished planting, we bowed in unison to the Emperor and Empress, then filed off the field. Afterwards, there was a mass-gardening session as all of the attendants on the hillside began planting prepared saplings.

I didn’t get to meet the royal couple after all. Although they passed by within a few meters of where I was standing, there were no handshakes, no pleasantries, not even any eye contact.

What I did get was a big bag of souvenirs — a cap, a small wooden folding chair, commemorative stamps, a flag, sudachi juice, and a book of photos so that I could always remember that misty day, that baby tree.

Sudachi tree
Sudachi fruit

Suzanne Kamata was born and raised in Grand Haven, Michigan. She now lives in Japan with her husband and two children. Her short stories, essays, articles and book reviews have appeared in over 100 publications. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize five times, and received a Special Mention in 2006. She is also a two-time winner of the All Nippon Airways/Wingspan Fiction Contest, winner of the Paris Book Festival, and winner of a SCBWI Magazine Merit Award.

PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL

Click here to access the Borderless anthology, Monalisa No Longer Smiles

Click here to access Monalisa No Longer Smiles on Amazon International