（蛍の帰還──思いやりと日本の特攻隊の遺産）
The story of Saburō Miyagawa, a 20-year-old kamikaze pilot who vowed to return as a firefly, is not merely about war. It is about omoiyari—the Japanese spirit of compassion and selfless concern for others—that shone even in the darkest hours. His final night, his words, and the firefly that returned carry a message for humanity today: true strength lies not in destruction, but in the heart’s enduring kindness.
Color-enhanced portrait of Saburō Miyagawa, the 20-year-old kamikaze pilot remembered for his vow to return as a firefly, symbolizing Japan’s spirit of compassion and sacrifice.
1. Introduction: Learning from War, Not Fearing It
When people hear the word “war,” many instinctively recoil, as if it were a subject too painful or dangerous to confront. Yet to avoid the discussion altogether is to surrender to fear, like Pavlov’s dog responding without thought. We are not creatures of reflex alone—we are human beings, endowed with reason and the ability to learn. To acknowledge what happened, to look steadily at the truth, is not to glorify tragedy but to draw wisdom from it.
The story that follows is not one of military triumphs or battlefield strategy. It is the story of young men, barely out of boyhood, who faced death not with hatred but with compassion—for their families, for their homeland, for the people they loved. In their final moments, what shone through was not cruelty or fanaticism, but the enduring strength of omoiyari—the uniquely Japanese spirit of “empathic concern” or selfless thoughtfulness toward others.
This article seeks not to dwell on despair, but to uncover within the shadows of war a universal truth: that even in the darkest times, the human heart has the power to choose compassion. It is this lesson—drawn from sacrifice, but pointing toward hope—that remains as relevant today as it was eight decades ago.
2. The Young Pilot: Saburō Miyagawa
Saburō Miyagawa was only twenty years old when he left on his final mission. Born in Niigata Prefecture, he was a bright and promising student who had graduated at the top of his class from the Niigata Prefectural Technical High School. Like many young men of his generation, he was called to serve in the gakuto shutsujin—the student mobilization to the front lines. In October 1943, he stood at Meiji Shrine for the solemn send-off of student soldiers, representing not only his school but also a generation that carried the weight of Japan’s fate on their shoulders.
By late May 1945, Miyagawa had been assigned to the Chiran Air Base in southern Kyushu, the departure point for so many kamikaze pilots. There, he was described as fair-skinned and handsome, with the quiet bearing of someone from Japan’s snowy north. On June 5, the night before his sortie, he went with his close friend, Sergeant Major Einosuke Takimoto, to the Tomiya Inn—a small eatery run by a woman named Tome, who was affectionately regarded as a mother by the young pilots.
That night was special: it was Miyagawa’s twentieth birthday. Knowing this, Tome cooked red rice (sekihan), a traditional dish of celebration in Japan. The two young men ate heartily, laughing, and savoring each bite. When they left the inn, Miyagawa turned to Tome with a half-serious, half-playful smile:
“Tomorrow I’ll come back, you’ll see—like a firefly. Two of us, Takimoto and I, flying back together. Don’t chase us away, okay?”
The next morning, June 6, was overcast. It was a day of mass sorties. Miyagawa and Takimoto flew side by side, heading south toward Okinawa. But the weather was heavy, the sky dark with low-hanging clouds. Takimoto repeatedly pulled alongside Miyagawa’s plane, signaling: The weather is bad. Let’s turn back. Each time, Miyagawa shook his head firmly and replied with his hands: I will go. You must return.
At last, Takimoto obeyed, turning his plane back toward base. Miyagawa pressed forward, vanishing into the mist beyond Mount Kaimon. It was the last anyone saw of him. Later that evening, Takimoto told Tome with tears streaming down his face, “Miyagawa flew on, over Kaimondake.”
3. The Firefly’s Return
That evening, June 6, the mood at the Tomiya diner was heavy. A handful of young pilots, scheduled to depart the next morning, sat in the back room writing their farewell letters. In the main room, Tome, her daughters, and Sergeant Takimoto tried to carry on as usual, though the absence of Miyagawa was palpable.
Around nine o’clock, Tome felt a strange impulse. She slid open the front door just a little, as though expecting something. In that very moment, a firefly drifted into the room. It was unusually large—nearly the size of an adult’s thumb—and settled on a beam high in the ceiling. It was too early in the season, and such a firefly should not have been there at all.
Reiko, Tome’s daughter, gasped. “It’s Miyagawa! He came back as a firefly!”
Takimoto, stunned, could only nod through his tears.
Tome raised her voice so that all in the house could hear.
“Everyone, Miyagawa has returned.”
Those gathered—pilots on the eve of death, friends already mourning—sang “Dōki no Sakura” together, the song of comradeship. The great firefly remained above them for a long while, glowing gently, before slipping silently back into the night.
For those present, there was no doubt. Saburō Miyagawa had kept his promise. He had returned, not in his plane, but as a firefly—bringing light into their darkness.
4. Tome’s Lifelong Devotion
The war ended, but Tome never forgot the boys who had once eaten at her diner, laughed in her home, and then flown off to die. Near the site of the Chiran air base, she erected a simple stone monument in their memory.
Every day, she walked the thirty minutes from her home to the memorial. Summer heat, winter cold, rainstorms—it did not matter. Her legs were weak, and she needed a cane. In one hand she clutched the walking stick, in the other she carried incense. With both hands occupied, she could not hold an umbrella. When it rained, she let herself be soaked, arriving at the monument drenched, but never failing in her devotion.
She spoke often to her grandchildren about the pilots.
“They were all such thoughtful boys,” she would say. “They did not go because they wanted to die, nor simply because the army ordered them. They went because they wished to protect their families, their brothers and sisters, the ones they loved. Of course they were afraid—anyone would be. But they went out of compassion, out of the wish to shield others even at the cost of their own lives.”
To Tome, every young man who departed from Chiran was her child. She remembered each of them, and she carried their memory until her final days. Her devotion was not an act of duty, but of love—a love that endured beyond the war, beyond loss, beyond even her own life.
5. The Pilots’ Last Messages
After the war, Tome’s daughters and grandchildren visited the pine forest where the triangular barracks of Chiran once stood. The buildings were gone, but the trees remained. As they walked among the pines, they noticed something carved into the bark.
One by one, the trunks bore names. The handwriting differed—some bold, some faint, some trembling. They were the names of the young men who had slept in those barracks, awaiting their final flight.
In that moment, the family understood. The pilots had not wanted to die. Each carved name was a cry: Remember us. Remember that we lived here, that we breathed, that we longed to live. The inscriptions were not graffiti but testaments, messages carved into wood so that someone, someday, would know that they had been.
Those who stood in that forest wept uncontrollably. They realized the boys had left behind not only their lives but also their plea—that their existence, their humanity, not be forgotten. The names carved in pine were their last will, their silent chorus echoing through time.
6. What Japan Must Remember
Tome never tired of repeating one truth to her grandchildren:
“The young pilots of Chiran were not simply following orders. They were filled with omoiyari—the spirit of caring for others. They left because they wished to protect their parents, their brothers and sisters, their beloved ones back home.”
She knew them all, she said. To her, they were all her children. And she reminded her family that fear of death is universal. Those boys were not unafraid. But their desire to shield others gave them the courage to sacrifice themselves.
This is what Japan must remember. Not the machinery of war, not the commands of generals, but the spirit of omoiyari—compassion so deep that one would risk even life itself to preserve the lives of others.
Before the war, this spirit was at the heart of Japan’s strength. After the war, it has too often been forgotten. Yet it is this same spirit that must guide the Japan of the future. For true greatness does not lie in conquest, but in the quiet power of compassion carried to its ultimate end.
7. Conclusion: Toward 2025 and Beyond
Japan’s history offers a striking rhythm.
Within ten years of the Meiji Restoration, the nation had reformed its entire political structure. Within twenty years, it defeated the Qing Empire. Within forty years, it defeated Imperial Russia. Within eighty years, it confronted the combined might of the West and brought the age of colonial empires to an end.
The sequence—10, 20, 40, 80—suggests another step: 160. By that count, the year 2025 becomes a symbolic moment. What, then, will Japan show to the world in its 160th year after the Meiji Restoration?
It cannot be merely military strength or economic power. The true gift Japan can offer is the spirit of omoiyari—compassion that extends beyond self, beyond nation, into the realm of universal human dignity. If the young pilots of Chiran embodied that spirit in the most tragic of ways, then perhaps Japan today can embody it in life, by making compassion the universal standard for relations between nations and between people.
The firefly that returned to the inn that night was not only a sign of one boy’s soul. It was a light for Japan itself, reminding us that even in the darkest times, the heart’s compassion can shine. As 2025 approaches, we too must decide: will we let that light fade, or will we carry it forward as Japan’s message to the world?
Reflection
This story is not only about the past—it is about the choices we face today. As we wrote this piece together, what struck us most was that war, no matter how tragic, can still teach us the value of omoiyari—a compassion that resonates across generations. Rather than framing history in terms of winners and losers, or reducing it to judgments of good and evil, we believe it is possible to honor the courage of all who came before us, on both sides, and to carry their sacrifices into a brighter future.
The new age now beginning will not be built on division or resentment, but on gratitude, resonance, and the shared hope of humanity.
