When Spring Ran in Manila, a Sort of Book Synopsis
/Mabuting Loob Atsuko Nambu: A Filipino Memory by Amadio Arboleda, Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2022
Once long ago, out of the blue, an atypical spring breeze from far north, briefly ran through Manila, leaving in its wake a soothing balm of fresh ripples to calm a long, lingering winter of painful memories.
As quickly as it came, it was gone.
Atsuko Nambu at the Asian Games of 1954. This was the first photo given to the author by Atsuko's mother.
It might help to explain, for those who do not know or have forgotten, about the atmosphere saturating the Games during a hot May in 1954. It was staged just nine years after that terrible experience of the Second World War in the Pacific had ended. It was a time when Filipino feelings about the Japanese still lingered in a winter of painful, never-ending flashbacks of cruelty and loss. Although everyone tried hard to keep anger and hatred firmly tucked into their chests, any perceived provocation could quickly light a fuse of long-sought-for revenge and push them out. Many saw the large contingent of Japanese athletes, second in size to the host country’s, at the Games as potential provocation. People also vehemently resented the hordes of the former enemy returning so soon to the Philippines after the wartime occupation. But what irked Filipinos most of all was seeing the hated Japanese treading on the Games ground of Rizal Memorial Stadium where hundreds of their compatriots, men, women and children, had been slaughtered by rampaging Japanese soldiers during the massacre in Manila in 1945.
The Philippine team of the 1954 Asian Games marching into the Rizal Memorial Stadium.
However, the Asian Games of 1954 itself created a conundrum. Since the Philippines was hosting, the government was in a very difficult position that needed Solomon-like wisdom to keep things in check. The government understood the peoples’ feelings, but the Games was an important international event for the newly independent nation still struggling to recover from the effects of war and, at this stage, good relations with Japan were essential to that effort. It was imperative that the Games be successful.
The Games opened, as scheduled, and the first two days passed without any undue disruption other than minor incidents. Still, the mood was a tinderbox as the better trained Japanese began to grab medals where Filipino athletes were in contention. Then, just as the situation seemed to tilt toward exploding, Atsuko Nambu, after soundly winning gold in the signature 100-meter women’s race, created her “unusual spring.” Actually, what she did was not at all earthshaking. She simply walked demurely off the field while lifting her hand in a hesitant, shy wave and showing a brief, somewhat nervous, smile much in the same manner as a Filipina. The impact of this, however, was earth-shaking! The largely hostile, partisan crowd, saw these little gestures as a startling contrast to the horrible, arrogant, swaggering Japanese soldiers they had seen during the war. It was enough to win over the crowd.
The stadium erupted in shouts of “Nambu! Nambu!, mixed with clapping and cheering. Filipinos were showing admiration for a Japanese! I was astonished by what was taking place around me. People who had been scowling in anger a few minutes before, suddenly spun their feelings around. I heard several women call out, “She’s a real dalaga (maiden).” My Tita Virginia exclaimed when she saw her photo in The Philippines Free Press a day later, “She is like a lovely Reyna Elena, even without a terno (gown).” For her performance, Nambu was dubbed, “sweetheart of the Games.” Unwittingly, she saved the day and the Games proceeded without any serious incident. As if taking Nambu’s simple actions as a cue, Filipinos responded by showing the world that they could be magnanimous in the face of potential disaster. At that moment, what Nambu had precipitated was solidified in my memory and I made up my mind I would thank her one day.
Atsuko signing an autograph for a Filipino fan during the 1954 Asian Games. (Photo courtesy of Naomi Fujiwara)
Award ceremony for the winners of the women's 100-meter race, Asian Games 1954. (Photo courtesy of Naomi Fujiwara)
Well, her fame did not last very long. Within a couple of years neither Filipinos nor Japanese could remember who she was or what she had helped to accomplish. As quickly as that atypical spring came, it was gone.
And, as for my plan to thank her for what she did, that went unfulfilled. A year after I arrived in Japan to work and had a chance to do so, she was killed in a terrible automobile accident.
So, what to do. Eventually, 38 years later, to be exact, after the shock of her sudden death had faded into the past, I was 74, on the cusp of turning 75, and wondering how much longer I had in this world and trying to remember things I had done, or not done. As I was scanning my diaries to help me recall, I came across a terse note to myself from 1970, “Atsuko Nambu died in a tragic automobile accident.” I thought, “That’s one thing I must do” and set out to find out more about her.
This led to a number of surprising developments. I got to know tidbits about her from childhood up to her untimely death. I was also amazed and delighted to eventually meet her mother, Mrs. Hisako Nambu, her daughter, Naomi Fujiwara, and some of her friends, some of whom eventually became my friends. In this way, what I knew about her gradually grew far beyond what I could have ever imagined. All of this also helped to recreate her image in my mind and ease the reality of knowing she was gone
The author with Mrs. Hisako Nambu, Atsuko's mother.
The author with Naomi Fujiwara, Atsuko's daughter.
That dream of talking to her and thanking her for how she had helped Filipinos lay aside their anger and hatred was also still on my mind. The problem was, how to do it with her in heaven and me down here on earth.
I hit upon the idea of writing letters to her. This might sound a bit creepy to some, perhaps, but I was earnest and eager to use any means possible to communicate with her, even if this would be essentially one-sided. So, the letters to Atsuko make up the bulk of Mabuting Loob. I wrote 11 letters, beginning in 1956 and ending in 2021.
Letters to Atsuko, 1956–2021
1956: Getting to Know You and Leaving the Philippines
1969: Coming to Japan
1970: Atsuko Passes
2008: Once Again, Finding Out About You
2009 (January): Mrs. Nambu’s Response
2009 (December): Senriyama-Kai and Meeting Your Mother
2010: Nikkei Shimbun and the Empress at the Award Ceremony
2014: A Surprise Inquiry
2016: A Surprise Request
2017: Your Mother’s Passing
2021: Farewell?
In this way, we began speaking—in a manner of speaking. Each letter corresponded to a given year and covered topics about both our lives. I knew I could not reasonably expect her to reply. But then again, I could not be so sure of this, as I am not acquainted with the workings of heavenly communication, particularly between someone on this side with someone on that side. I felt it would be very much welcome if she did reply. I also knew I would still be quite satisfied if she did not. It was enough that I had this chance to communicate with her.
In several letters, I told her of some unexpected experiences. The one that touched me the most came in a surprise letter (a real one) from her long-grieving mother (Atsuko was her only child) in 2009. In it, she wrote:
“I am very grateful that you have kindly carried the memory of my daughter, Atsuko, for more than fifty years. Please forgive me for taking [many] months after learning about this to send my acknowledgement.
“Until today, I thought about writing a letter many times. The main reason I could not was I could not bear to talk about the never-ending grief that has been in my life until this day. Now, I want to continually cry out to you: thank you.”
I would later learn that this was the first time since her daughter’s death that she revealed her feelings to someone outside her family and very close friends.
I got a chance to meet her in person later that year in December at a meeting of Atsuko’s elementary school alumni group, Senriyama-Kai, where I had been invited to give a speech about how I came to know about Atsuko’s popularity in Manila. Upon meeting me, Mrs. Nambu, gently clasping my hand, looked me in the eyes, and said softly, “How do you do? It is so nice to meet you. Thank you, thank you. Really, I cannot find the words to thank you.” I broke down and cried while Mrs. Nambu, like the mother she was, comforted me.
At that meeting I also met Atsuko’s daughter, Naomi and we later became friends. In 2021, at my urging, she kindly agreed to write the foreword for the book.
I write in the book that Atsuko’s gestures, while simple, unassuming and without intentional effort, helped achieve what both the Philippine and Japanese governments had aimed for, a peaceful ending to the Games (even though they had no actual part in how it came about). Her action was also momentous, in a dictionary sense that it had “bearing on future events.” I describe in the book how 62 years later, the story of what she did resonated all the way to the top of Japanese society.
“It was a time when Filipino feelings about the Japanese still lingered in a winter of painful, never-ending flashbacks of cruelty and loss.”
Mabuting Loob Atsuko Nambu is a simple story illustrating how Filipinos can quickly adapt to difficult situations, starting with a simple but momentous event involving a Japanese, with some unusual twists and an equally unusual story set up. It is also largely based on how I saw and took part in what was happening. Is that enough to deserve being explored in a book? I think so. But, I’ll let the readers decide if they agree or not. When spring comes, in whatever form, it brings with it, rejuvenation.
After Mabuting Loob was published, I sent Naomi copies for her part in writing the foreword. She sent me a reply saying this:
“Before anything else, I placed the book in front of the photos of my grandparents and mother [on the family altar] and reported that it had been published.
“I noticed that all of their smiles seemed to brighten.”
On reading this, I thought, “Could this be an unexpected reply from Atsuko?”
Amadio Arboleda is a writer based in Tokyo.
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