Looking down, she sees how the island is enfolded, how each thing is watermarked. She kneels, presses her face against the soil and drinks, because it is the sea and only intermittently the land. Something expires, something is born. Now Sun-ja Uanoe Sung dissolves in mist that settles in the lowlands, that rolls down to the beaches. Mist that jewels green veils of rootless plankton, like marine pastures on the face of the sea . . .
And into that sea she pours. Down, down to the arms of mele chanters and tale weavers. To that army of young women swaying on the ocean floor. Women who died voiceless, and will never stop telling. Women whose memory ripples the skin of soldiers’ dreams. Women whispering at our nerve ends. A hand on each other’s shoulder as they walk away from time.
HAWAI‘ IAN-ENGLISH GLOSSARY
‘AHI (ah-hee) . . . Yellow-fin tuna fish
AKU (ah-koo) . . . Skipjack, Bonito fish
AKUA (ah-koo-ah) . . . Spirit, ghost
AKAMAI (ah-ka-my) . . . Smart, clever
‘INA (eye-nah) . . . Land, earth
ANAHOLA (ah-nah-ho-lah) . . . Hourglass
‘AUMKUA (ow-mah-koo-ah) . . . Family gods, deified ancestors
‘AUW! (ow-way) . . . Alas!
‘AWA (ahh-vah) . . . Tea, mildly narcotic
BENTO (ben-toe) . . . Japanese word. Box lunch
CHAR SIU (char-soo) . . . Chinese word. Bits of roasted duck
DA KINE (da kind) . . . Pidgin for “You know what I mean”
E HO‘I MAI! (ey-ho-ee-my) . . . Come back, come back!
E KIPA MAI! (ey-kee-pah-my) . . . Come, enjoy hospitality!
FLIP (flip) . . . Pidgin for Filipino
GO FO’ BROKE (go-fo-broke) . . . Pidgin for “push to the limit”
HANAFUDA (hah-na-foo-dah) . . . Japanese card game
HNAI (hah-ny) . . . Adopted
HANOHANO (hah-no-hah-no) . . . Dignified
HAOLE (how-lee) . . . Caucasian, white. Literally, one without breath
HAOLEFIED (how-lee-fied) . . . To act white, to have airs
HAPA-HAOLE (hah-pah-how-lee) . . . Half-white. Also, “touristy”
HIGH MAKA MAKA (hi-mah-kah-mah-kah) . . . Pidgin for pretentious
HILAHILA (he-lah-he-lah) . . . Bashful, shy, shamed
HH (ho-hey) . . . Coward
HO’O PONOPONO (ho-oh-po-no-po-no) . . . Restore balance of heart, mind
HOWZIT! (howz-it) . . . Pidgin for “hello.” Common local greeting
HP (hoo-po) . . . Ignorant, stupid, a fool
HUH (hoo-hoo) . . . Angry
HUIKAU (hoo-ee-kow) . . . Confused, mixed-up
HUKILAU (hoo-kee-lau) . . . Net-fishing party
‘IWA (ee-vah) . . . Frigate, or man-o-war bird
KAHIKI (kah-hee-kee) . . . Tahiti
KAHIKO (kah-hee-ko) . . . Ancient, long ago
KAHUNA (ka-hoo-nah) . . . Sorcerer, seer
KALAHALA (kah-lah-hal-lah) . . . To ask forgiveness. Also KALA MAI
KALO (kah-lo) . . . Taro. A yamlike corm with large, green heart-shaped leaves. The staff of life for Hawai‘ians
KLUA (kah-loo-ah) . . . Baked in earth oven
KANAKA (kah-nah-kah) . . . Hawai‘ian person, human being (Plural: K NAKA)
KANAKA MAOLI (kah-nah-kah mah-oh-lee) . . . True native Hawai‘ian. Both terms of great pride to Hawai‘ians
KNE (kah-nee) . . . Male, husband
KAPA (kah-pah) . . . Tapa cloth made of pounded mulberry bark
KAPAKAHI (kah-pah-ky) . . . Partial to one side. Also bent, askew
KAPU (kay-poo) . . . Taboo
KEIKI (kay-kee) . . . Child, offspring
KIKEPA (kee-kay-pah) . . . Sarong
KOA (ko-ah) . . . Bold, fearless. Also large, native tree
KK (ko-ko) . . . Hammock
KO‘OLAU (ko-oh-lau) . . . Sawtooth mountain range separating windward side of Oahu island from leeward side
KUA‘INA (koo-ah-eye-nah) . . . Country, rural
KKAE (koo-ky) . . . Excrement
KUKUI (koo-koo-ee) . . . Candlenut, from that tree. Also lamp, torch
KULIKULI! (koo-lee-koo-lee) . . . Be quiet!
KUPUNA (koo-poo-nah) . . . Grandparent, ancestor
LNAI (lah-nigh) . . . Porch, veranda, balcony
LAUHALA (lau-hah-la) . . . Leaf of the hala (pandanus) tree
LAULAU (lau-lau) . . . Steamed ti leaf–covered fish or pork
LILIKO‘I (lee-lee-ko-ey) . . . Passion fruit
LIMU (lee-mu) . . . Seaweed
LO‘I (low-ee) . . . Taro patch
LL (lo-lo) . . . Stupid, feebleminded
L‘AU (loo-ow) . . . Heart-shaped taro leaves. Also feast
LUA ‘UHANE (loo-ah-oo-hah-ney) . . . Tear duct where spirit hides
MA‘I PK (my-pah-kay) . . . Leprosy. Literally, Chinese sickness
MAKAHIKI (mah-kah-hee-kee) . . . Ancient Hawai‘ian autumn festival
MAKAI (mah-ky) . . . Seaward, in direction of the sea
MAKE (mah-key) . . . Death
MANAKA (mah-nah-kah) . . . Boring, dull, monotonous
MANA PLUA (mah-nah-pah-loo-ah) . . . Possessed of double mana
MANAPUA (mah-nah-poo-ah) . . . Pork-filled bun, popular island food
MAN (mah-no) . . . Shark
MEAHUNA (mee-ah-hoo-nah) . . . Secret
MELE (may-lay) . . . Song, chant
MOE MOE (mo-ee-mo-ee) . . . Sleep
MOLO (mo-lo-ah) . . . Lazy, indolent
NN HONUA (nah-nah-ho-noo-ah) . . . Big, white flowers of the angel’s trumpet tree. Poisonous to eat
NU‘UANU PALI (noo-oo-ah-noo-pah-lee) . . . Literally, the “cool-off cliffs”
‘OHANA (oh-hah-nah) . . . Family, kin group
OIA N (oh-ee-ah-no) . . . So it goes
‘OKOLE (oh-ko-lee) . . . Buttocks
‘KOLEHAO (oh-ko-lee-how) . . . Homemade rice wine, or pineapple wine
‘ONO (oh-no) . . . Delicious, savory, good
‘PAKAPAKA (oh-pah-ka-pah-ka) . . . Blue snapper
‘OPIHI (oh-pee-hee) . . . Limpets, mollusks, a delicacy
PK (pah-kay) . . . Chinese
PALI (pah-lee) . . . Cliff
PANIOLO (pah-nee-oh-lo) . . . Hawai‘ian cowboy
PAU (pow) . . . Finished, ended, all done
PEHEA ‘OE? (pe-hey-ah-oy) . . . How are you?
PELE (pey-ley) . . . Goddess of fire and volcano
PIKO (pee-ko) . . . Umbilical cord
PILAU (pee-lau) . . . Foul, rottenness, to stink
PILIKIA (pee-lee-kee-ah) . . . Trouble, distress
PHAKU (po-hah-koo) . . . Rock, stone
POI (poy) . . . Paste made of pounded, cooked taro corms
PONO (po-no) . . . Goodness, balance, morality
PUA‘A (poo-ah-ah) . . . Pig
PUA SADINIA (poo-ah-sa-dee-nee-ah) . . . Gardenia flower
PUKA (poo-kah) . . . Hole
PP (poo-poo) . . . Snacks, tidbits
PUPULE (poo-poo-lee) . . . Crazy, insane
SAIMIN (sy-min) . . . Japanese noodle soup
SHOYU (shoy-oo) . . . Japanese word for soy sauce
TITA (tee-tah) . . . Pidgin for sister
TT (too-too) . . . Grandmother (informal)
UANOE (oo-ah-no-ee) . . . Misty rain, fog
‘UHANE (oo-hah-nee) . . . Spirit, soul, ghost
‘UKULELE (ook-oo-lay-lay) . . . Literally, leaping flea. Hawai‘ian guitar
‘ULI ‘ULI (oo-lee-oo-lee) . . . Seeded rattle gourds for dancing hula
WAHINE (vah-hee-nee) . . . Woman, lady, wife
WAHINE U‘I (vah-hee-nee-oo-ee) . . . Beautiful woman
WIKI WIKI! (wick-ee-wick-ee) . . . Hurry up!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Eternal gratitude and affection to my distinguished agent, Henry Dunow, who championed the book in its early drafts, and to Peter Borland, my brilliant and intrepid editor, whose sensitivity and perseverence carried me through the final revisions. For patience and caring, thanks also to Emily Grayson and Jennifer Carlson.
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sp; For generous support and assistance, I am indebted to the Lila Wallace–Reader’s Digest Travel Fund, and the staff of the Schlesinger Library, Radcliffe. I salute my sisters of the Bunting Institute, Radcliffe, especially Dr. Janet Talvacchia.
Mahalo ‘a nui to the following for their love, support and encouragement:
On the U.S. mainland: Patricia Powell, Isabel Allende, Alix Kates Shulman, Dr. Joseph Chang, of Honolulu and the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, Lois Rosenthal of Story magazine, Lis Harris, Anne Greene of Wesleyan University, Tina Howe, Gretchen Simpson, Polly Kreitz, Sara Reinbold, Patsy and Harry Harsh, and especially my daughter and son-in-law, Anita and Robert Yantorno.
And to the Boston Hawai‘ian Club, Wahi Ku Moku, especially Al Kuahi Wong, Pat and Joe Neilson, Lei-Sanne Doo, and Vernon Freitas for reading my manuscript, and for his love of literature and jazz.
In Hawai‘i: Special alohas to my Houghtailing family, especially cousins Evelyn Liu, Raenette Kauwealoha Ing, Rosemond Kahau Aho, and Aunty Carrie Chang, for their memories of World War II. And to Sister Malia Domenica for strength.
Holomua to my fellow artists and educators of Hawai‘i Nei, who have fed, housed and inspired me, and who are reviving and advancing our people, n kanaka maoli: Puanani Burgess, Dr. Manu Aluli Meyer and family, Polly Roth, Su-su Hokulani, “Brash” Nainoa Cobbs, Napoleon Keawe, Balthazar Makua, Luana and Craig Busby-Neff, Auli‘i Mitchell, Leo Akana Anderson, Laka Morton, Elizabeth Lindsey, Steve Soone, Lani Kealoha, Karin Williams, and many more. And to Kupuna Mikala Kekahu and “Butch” Kekahu for their onipa‘a.
Also thanks to the staffs of the Hawai‘ian State Archives, and of the Hawai‘ian Historical Society Library.
In Shanghai: For help in researching the mills, internment camps, and the “comfort stations,” thanks to Robert Chu, Tommy Lou Tong, Letitia Lum and family, and LuLu Savage. And to Sam Sam Soong, Cheng Yueqiang, and Mr. Zhou for their memories of Shanghai jazz bands in the 1930s.
In Australia: Thanks to the staff of the Australian War Memorial, the Victoria Museum, Melbourne. And again to Peter Kafcouladis, of Brisbane, indefatigable researcher and friend.
In Papua New Guinea: Thanks to the staff of the Papua New Guinea War Museum, Port Moresby. And in Rabaul, New Britain: Deepest affection and gratitude to the Toimanapu and Sanka-Sanka families, their elders and friends, for their hospitality, memories of World War II, their correspondences, and their guidance through the tunnels of Rabaul.
I am also indebted to Dr. Alice Chai, former Professor of Women’s Studies, University of Hawai‘i, for her lectures and materials on “Comfort Women, the Chongshindae Movement.” And to the “Asian Pacific Women in Solidarity for Human Rights, Justice and Peace,” and the “Korean Council for Women Drafted for Military Sexual Slavery by Japan” for their materials, suggestions and guidance during my stay in Seoul, Korea.
Many books were helpful to my research, most especially Native Lands and Foreign Desires, Pehea L E Pono Ai? by Lilikala Kame‘eleihiwa, Sisters and Strangers, Women in the Shanghai Cotton Mills, 1919–1949 by Emily Honig, Japan At War, An Oral History by Haruko Taya Cook and Theodore Cook.
For inspiration while writing this book, for their Slack-Key Guitar brilliance, and for taking our music out into the world, mahalo to: Ray Kane, Keola Beamer, Cyril Pahinui, Ledward Ka‘apana, George Kahumoku, Dennis Pavao, the golden-voiced Loyal Garner, and Robi Kahakalau. Hana Hou! to Gabe Baltazar, alto saxaphonist non pareil. Also thanks to Mick Mason for dusk-to-dawn trumpet lessons.
Last and most important, my deepest gratitude and love to those women who were imprisoned in World War II, and who have survived to bear witness. I thank them for their time, and their courage in resurrecting painful memories. Though most choose to remain anonymous, this book could not have been written without their words.
E Ppkahi
A Conversation with Kiana Davenport
Q: A number of narrative traditions coalesce in Song of the Exile. You seem to interweave strands of Greek mythology, Christian mythology, regional folklore, and, most prominently, the enduring myths of Hawaii. What sort of challenge did you encounter in spinning many stories into one?
KD: The challenge for me is always restraint. Hawaiians come from an oral tradition, so for generations, nothing was written down. Now my generation is writing and being published, and the stories are just pouring forth, based on our oceanic history, our families, our spiritual beliefs.
It’s a constant struggle to stay focused, and not incorporate some of these fabulous stories into each book I’m working on. This was an issue with my last novel, Shark Dialogues, which is a bigger book than Song of the Exile. Exile, by the way, is based on an actual story. Had I made it up, I would have simplified it. Fewer locations, for a start.
Q: Please comment on the interplay of experience and imagination vis-à-vis the genesis of Song of the Exile.
KD: My Hawaiian mother died when I was around ten, and one of her older sisters raised me. My Aunty’s husband, Ayau Kam, was pure-blood Chinese, so I was raised in a Hawaiian-Chinese family. Uncle Ayau, who died recently at the age of ninety-five, had played drums in a jazz band in Honolulu in the 1920s.
As an old man, he used to walk me up and down the lane, talking about that era when jazz was big in Honolulu. Occasionally Uncle mentioned this Hawaiian musician who had taught himself guitar and trumpet. A real jazz virtuoso.
Evidently, the man was so talented, he played with black musicians at the army bases. When they mustered out, they gave him a ticket to New Orleans. Eventually he joined them, and they all ended up playing in Paris in the 1990s. The story goes that this man returned to Honolulu after World War II, and spent the rest of his life traveling around Hong Kong, Shanghai, and Singapore, searching for the sweetheart he’d left behind. He had been told that she was “taken” by the Japanese in Shanghai, where she had gone to find her sister.
Through the years, I half-forgot this story. Then in 1992, I read an article in the New York Times about former prisoners of the Japanese called “comfort women.” After fifty years they were demanding reparations from the Japanese government. That was the first time I heard that phrase, “comfort women.” Reading that article, I felt something tap me on the shoulder. I cut it out and saved it, not sure why.
Then, in 1993, just as I finished Shark Dialogues, I read that several former “comfort women” were speaking at Harvard University. They wanted to educate people to what had been done to them by the Japanese. Of course I attended the lecture, which was very emotional. People in the audience cried. I learned that “comfort women” was a term despised by these women for it suggested prostitution. Since eighty percent of all women kidnapped and raped were Koreans, they preserved the Korean word chongshindae, which means “conscripted worker.”
Of the hundreds of thousands kidnapped, an estimated 90 percent of the women had been killed while imprisoned. These aging survivors were part of the small number who had survived.
That night was an epiphany. Sitting there, I remember the story of the Hawaiian jazz man who had lost his sweetheart to the Japanese. During that lecture, I was already starting my novel.
Q: Given the gravity of the reality in which you situate a significant part of your novel, i.e., the tragedy of the chongshindae’s life, were you caught in a conflict between fidelity to facts and the novelist’s predilection to play, however seriously, with them?
KD: Well, I’m a novelist, I prefer to invent. But in deference to these heroic women—their imprisonment and torture, which had been kept secret for fifty years—I did not want to deviate from what actually happened. I felt a moral obligation to honor them, to portray their lives pretty much as they had described them to me.
I knew I would have more “authorial freedom” in the second half of the novel, more room to imagine and conjure, because I don’t know how the actual story ended. Evidently the real-life musician played in dives up and down the Asian coast, searching for his sweetheart. No one knows how he died.
Q: Would you elaborate on that a little?
KD: For instance, I wanted to bring Sunny back. I didn’t want her to die in the camps. Since many of the survivors I interviewed still feel great rage, I wanted some kind of closure for her. So I brought the Japanese lieutenant back, too. Novelists are always asking themselves, “Is this logical, or probable?” At first, I was afraid his reappearance would not be believable. In my research, however, I discovered several former Japanese officers who had settled in Honolulu after World War II. Readers, certainly critics, could complain that Lt. Matsuharu’s reappearance after the war is too coincidental, but life, like fiction, is full of uncanny coincidences.
Q: That view seems reflected in the structure of the novel. You present us with a narrative that owes its shape more to the fortuitous workings of memory than the simple chronology of a linear telling.
KD: I realized early on that this was not a story I could tell chronologically. The minute these women began talking about their imprisonment in camps, they were back there. They described the smells, the taste of rotting food. They trembled, they broke down. That juxtaposing of past and present is something we do everyday of our lives. You recall something in your past, and instantly you’re back in that precise moment. I tried to convey that in the novel.
Also, I think a story has much more impact when told in the present and in the first-person voice. The camp scenes would not have had such impact if told from the perspective of fifty years later, in the voice of a third person.
Q: How did your past play itself out in Song of the Exile? In particular, how did time away from your home in Hawaii enable you to create it on the page?
KD: Well, the book is about exiles, longing for home. Living apart from my islands, and my “native tongue,” is often painful. Sometimes I don’t feel quite real. I miss talking “pidgin,” the island-Creole language I grew up with. When you give up your native tongue, part of you dies a little. You grieve. But, I think that kind of pain is important for artists. What Shakespeare called “The growth of the soul under stress.”
I try to incorporate that longing into my novels. I think of James Joyce, Milan Kundera, Vladimir Nabokov, and how love for their homelands added enormously to the expression of what they lost. It deepened the humanness of their work. Also, distance has given me enormous perspective. The challenge for me now, is not to write so elegiacally about Hawaii. In recent short stories I’ve attempted something darker.
Song of the Exile Page 39
