Spirit of Self Sacrifice
Emily Linko (Hauppauge High School)
When I was in eighth grade, I moaned and groaned along with the rest of my classmates as I was
assigned yet another research project; this one having to do with World War Two. After pondering over
possible research topics, I decided to look into something I had heard about many times before yet never
truly understood; the kamikaze. Sure, I’d heard the word used as a figure of speech, or even as a cocktail
drink, and I had a general grasp on what the kamikaze were, but what I had never been able to comprehend
was why.

Finally, after weeks of scouring the internet and library, I thought I had it figured out. The kamikazes,
the Special Attack Unit, were the last efforts of Japan towards the end of the war as signs of its defeat
approached on the horizon. War is war; the loss of life is always inevitable, and this method seemed to be
an efficient way to make the most of each death. The kamikaze provided higher chances of destroying a
target than conventional methods, and a blow to an enemy outweighed the cost of an aircraft and a pilot.

From a military standpoint, the refusal of a duty such as that would have been a great dishonor. Finally, I
understood. Or, at least, I thought I did.

The next year, in my history class, we started from the beginning, looking at how civilizations evolved
and changed, and how different factors shaped their cultures into what we recognize today. We learned
about Japan’s geography, its culture, its emperors, its wars. Then one day we learned about the Mongols,
and our class listened with rapt attention as our teacher told us the story of the island they weren’t able to
conquer, and the sudden typhoon that had destroyed their fleet. “The Japanese people called this typhoon
the kamikaze, meaning “divine wind”; they believed it was sent by the gods, the kami, to protect them”.

And with that one sentence, I realized that I had not, in fact, understood, not in the least. The kamikaze, I
suddenly realized, were motivated by much more than a sense of duty toward their superiors. They were
spurred by the honor and loyalty that had been deeply ingrained in their culture for centuries, positioned to
protect the island as the next “divine wind”. And then, I was sure, I understood.

The earthquake in Japan had hit in 2011, and people were hearing about it in phases; first the
emergency response, then the short-term fixes, then the inevitably daunting long-term cleanup. Along the
way stories trickled in of the kindness and bravery of people there and from all around the world. The one
that hit me the hardest was the tale of a group of elderly citizens who volunteered to help clean up the
nuclear waste. They elicited a mixed response; some people finding them inspirational and others feeling
they should enjoy their retirements in peace. When asked about their motives, the citizens replied that they
didn’t have long left to live anyway, so they should take the risk of contracting a disease from the radiation
instead of the younger citizens, who still have their whole lives laid out in front of them.

I was floored. At their ages, most would want to settle down and take a well-earned rest, letting the
younger and more able bodied members of the population take care of new problems. But these people
were willing to go out and put their lives and health on the line for others, others that most of them had
probably never met. That was when it became clear to me; making such a tremendous sacrifice is about
much more than just duty or honor; it’s about loving your country and the people in it with every fiber of
your being. It’s about wanting to protect it and its citizens in any way possible, be it piloting a plane or
trudging through toxic waste. And I realized, I had never really understood. Maybe I still don’t. But maybe
someday, I can figure out what runs through the minds of those who will willingly give up everything for
duty, for honor, and for love of their country.

Bibliography Dillow, Clay. "Japanese Elderly Offer to Take Over Fukushima Nuclear Cleanup."
Popular Science. Popular Science, 31 May 2011. Web. Dec. 2012.

.

Stearns, Peter N. World Civilizations: The Global Experience. 4th ed. New York: Pearson Longman, 2004.

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Understanding Impermanence
Melissa Rose Kavanah (Stony Brook University)
The cherry tree is a favorite subject of Japanese art and poetry. Its blossoms, while extraordinarily
beautiful, can also seem tragic; the delicate flowers bloom for a short while, a period of perhaps two weeks
at most, before they fall from the tree. The flowers burst open, blossom like fireworks, and fade as quickly.

How sad, one might think, that these blossoms should be so beautiful for such a short time, only to fall to
the ground and decompose. One scarcely has time to fall in love with its beauty before the blossom is gone,
and only the memory remains, like the afterimage of a firework in the sky.

I was not always able to accept the notion of impermanence being a beautiful thing. Shortly before I
turned seventeen, my friend Ava passed away. Her death was sudden and unexpected, blindsiding friends
and family alike in the way that only meningitis knows how. Being a headstrong teenager, I was furious at
and terrified by the idea that things could just disappear.

I had lived my life up to that point secure in the notion that if I could only gather the things I loved
towards myself, if I could only hold on to everything at once, I would be perfectly content. To have
someone I loved torn away so swiftly, then, was shocking. When I came to terms with the fact that her loss
was real, I felt compelled to re-examine my world view. I discovered a sort of vanity in the idea that I could
bend the world to my will, using only the force of my own passions. I realized that I cannot and should not
expect things to be permanent just because I would like them to be, and I began to try to accept that
realization. To the Zen practitioner, cherry blossoms and fireworks are beautiful in part due to their similarity to
the human experience. People shape their happiness around temporary things, from material objects, to
relationships, to simply being alive. Buddha teaches that suffering occurs when those things, which have
always been temporary, are inevitably torn from the people who cherish them, much in the same way that
cherry blossoms inevitably fade. To avoid suffering, Buddhists strive to eschew attachments. While it may
seem that this would lead to a life without appreciation for joy and beauty, quite the opposite occurs;
practitioners of Zen Buddhism become adept at perceiving a particular sort of beauty, the beauty of
impermanence. Cherry blossoms are emblematic of this quality; they fade quickly, but they are no less
beautiful for their transience. In fact, their beauty is intensified by the brevity of their existence; one must
appreciate them deeply and immediately, fully experiencing the moment, in order to appreciate them at all.

By understanding cherry blossoms, one can come to understand the limitations and joys of one’s own
existence; when one accepts that all things in this world are fleeting, the beauty of impermanence itself is
what remains.

It has taken me some time to develop a new way of seeing the world, and I am still fine-tuning my
model. I have begun to see the wisdom in eschewing attachments, although I am still very attached to many
things. I have developed a deep respect for Buddhist thought, and have begun to try to incorporate some of
its principles into my life. Throughout this process, I have come to find the cherry blossom to be a very
appealing symbol. Its ability to embody the essence of Zen makes the flower of the cherry tree so well-
beloved in Japanese culture. To truly appreciate the fleeting blossoms, one must detach oneself from the
concept of the past and the future. To truly appreciate the world around me, I will have to accept that it is
not eternal, and that it may even be illusory. That does not leave the world without beauty; it just means that
I will have to change the way I appreciate beautiful things.

I think that I have come to understand something important through Ava’s death. Ava was more of a
burning firework than a gentle cherry blossom, but her beautiful existence was temporary, and so is mine. If
I cling desperately to concepts, experiences, or people, the anguish will only be worse when they inevitably
fade. Instead, I should will my passions quiet, and appreciate the pure, fleeting beauty in cherry blossoms,
and fireworks, and the lives of those around me, for however long they last.

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