The first kanji in 沈黙, 沈, can be pronounced “chin,” “jin” or “shizu.” It means “to sink,” “to be submerged” or “to be depressed.” Its appearance in a word doesn't necessarily suggest a negative meaning; it shows up in 沈む (shizumu), “to feel depressed” but also in 沈着 (chinchaku), “calmness, composure.”
And as for 沈黙, “silence”? Well, it can be good or bad.
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“Stop that, Laura!” my mother hissed with something between panic and outrage. “Someone's going to think you're back here stuffing books in your bag!”
We were in a Waldenbooks in a shopping mall in West Virginia, having bought something at another store beforehand, and I had rustled my plastic shopping bag too loudly. After that I walked stiffly, holding my arms still, like a deer trying not to be heard by hunters.
I was an adult before it occurred to me that anyone who accused me of shoplifting would have to prove it, or that a white middle-class mother and child would be very unlikely to be stopped in the first place. I live in a different country now, where plastic bags have been replaced by reusable cloth bags and shoplifters are rarely prosecuted. But I still have to remind myself that I'm entitled to make noise.
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沈黙, Silence, is the title of Endō Shūsaku's famous novel about Christian martyrs and missionaries in 17th-century Japan. The violence and cruelty depicted in the book are made all the more shocking by the subdued narrative tone. It left me feeling very much like the kanji 沈, submerged in gloom. The notion that Christ quietly accompanied the victims in their suffering seemed little comfort.
Westerners who take an interest in Japanese culture or Buddhism often avoid discussing this period of history. You can make people very angry by pointing out that Buddhism, like any major faith, has sometimes been entangled with violence and oppression.
But I think silence on this topic is the wrong approach. Loving a culture is like loving a person; to do it well, we must acknowledge both the good and bad, both in the other and in ourselves. A healthy relationship shouldn't have subjects that can't be spoken of.
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I'm terrible at keeping secrets, and I think it's because I've often been expected to keep silent about things that mattered terribly.
When my maternal grandfather was credibly accused of molesting several generations of children in the family, I was warned never to tell. Sure, speaking out might hypothetically protect some children; but it would definitely upset people, and that was the worst thing I could do.
When my research revealed that my great-grandfather had used a false identity to marry my great-grandmother a century earlier, that he'd abandoned a wife and two children in the next state while claiming to be an orphan himself, estranged relatives sent word warning me not to publish it. The fact that my own DNA had led to this discovery didn't make it my story to tell.
And when “gender critical” bullies attacked me professionally and personally, triggering a nervous breakdown, I was expected to keep silent about the Kafkaesque nightmare I was enduring. Meanwhile, the transphobes had a seemingly unlimited platform to promote their views and portray themselves as victims.
When I decided I'd had enough and published an essay and found poem about my ordeal, someone urged me to take it down on the grounds that I should “be the bigger person” and “the reasonable one.” Besides, they argued, I could “get in trouble.”
It's hard to say what “trouble" would even mean for me at this point, but whatever it is, I'll get into it on my own terms. You can't hide in the catacombs and claim it makes you the French Resistance.
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The second kanji in 沈黙, 黙, can be pronounced several different ways: “moku,” “boku,” “dama,” “moda.” It means “silent,” “to become silent” or “to leave as is.” It appears in 黙す (modasu), “to hold one's tongue, turn a blind eye,” but also 黙祷 (mokutō), “silent prayer.”
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Silence can feel sacred to me, but only when it's a positive action, designed not to prevent something getting out, but to invite something in.
I felt something truly profound in the silence of a Quaker meeting. It was when people started talking that the trouble began.
I don't often seek out silence deliberately now. The more I wish for it, the more enraged I'll be when I'm interrupted by the squawks of someone's speakerphone. But sometimes I find it unexpectedly, and I come face to face with something I can't quite name.
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Higashino Keigo's Detective Galileo novel 沈黙のパレード (Chinmoku no parēdo, Silent Parade), like many of his works, explores the effects of secrets kept over many years. Fukuyama Masaharu starred in the film adaptation, reprising his role as physicist-turned-detective Yukawa Manabu. He also wrote the theme song, ヒトツボシ (Hitotsuboshi, Evening Star) and performed it with his co-star Shibasaki Kō under the band name KOH+.
Masha will include a new solo recording of the song on his next album, 超新星 (Choshinsei, Supernova), which will be released on 9 September. He announced the album to his fanclub three weeks before making it public. He asked members not to tell anyone else, and astonishingly (to me), nobody did. Even I restricted myself to a couple of cryptic social media posts that would only be understood by other members. Shared silence can be joyful.