My era, 1979!

Chapter 192 I, Xu Chengjun, cannot represent anyone (High-energy~)

Ryotaro Shiba's pupils contracted slightly, but his face showed no emotion. He simply said in a deep voice, "Oh? I'd like to hear more."

He wanted to see what gave this young man the audacity to make such a statement.

Xu Chengjun remained calm and composed. He knew that his next words had to be both penetrating and go beyond simple criticism in order to convince people and even... shock them.

“Mr. Sima, I say this not out of any malice, but based on a historical observation and… perhaps what we might call the ‘paradox of the development of civilization.’” His tone was calm, with the composure of a scholar.

"What I see in Japan is a path that seems to be one of prosperity and success. Rapid economic growth, rapid technological advancements, and abundant material wealth—this is undoubtedly a remarkable achievement that deserves serious study and emulation from the whole world, including developing China."

He first offered full recognition, which was both a strategy and a display of good manners.

“But,” he changed the subject, his tone becoming serious, “when a building rises at an astonishing rate, the pressure on its foundation and the potential cracks are often hidden by its surface splendor.”

“What I am worried about is not that Japan’s economy or technology will stagnate. On the contrary, I am worried about the ‘spiritual emptiness’ that will result after their rapid development.”

He began to elaborate, offering novel and incisive viewpoints.

"First, there is the loss of a sense of belonging. Highly developed urbanization and standardized life are diluting traditional community ties and regional culture. People are like parts of a precision instrument, operating efficiently, but may feel unprecedented loneliness in the vast urban jungle. When a person's deep connection with the land and with their neighbors is severed, where will the roots of their heart take root?"

"Secondly, there is the shift in value coordinates. After material desires are largely satisfied, what will the next generation of young people strive for? When 'survival' is no longer the most pressing issue, the meaning of 'life' itself will become a new dilemma. Economic miracles can be created by the hard work of one generation, but the phenomenon of 'satiated poverty' in the spirit may become a more intractable problem in the next era."

"Finally, and what I think is the most crucial point," Xu Chengjun's gaze seemed to pierce through time and space, looking towards the distant future, "is the attitude towards history and the role we play in Asia and the world. A nation that cannot truly reconcile with all aspects of its own history, a country that always has internal tensions in its identity, will face a severe test of its internal cohesion and sense of direction when its external economic advantages are no longer so absolute."

"In the future, what will test a civilization will not only be how much wealth it can create, but also whether it can settle the hearts of its members and find its unique and responsible voice in the chorus of the world."

After he finished speaking, the studio fell silent.

His predictions did not involve specific political or economic data, but rather pointed directly to the core of social psychology and culture, depicting a "future Japan" facing spiritual confusion, loneliness, and a crisis of identity behind material abundance.

This argument transcends ideology and touches upon the deep-seated dilemmas that any developed country may face in the process of industrialization and modernization.

Ryotaro Shiba remained silent.

The muscles in his face twitched slightly.

Kenzaburo Oe took a deep breath and nodded slowly, as if to say, "Look, this is the challenge that our generation of writers must face."

Tetsuko Kuroyanagi also recovered from her initial shock. She looked at Xu Chengjun with a complex respect in her eyes.

She said softly, "This is indeed... a very heavy, but also very thought-provoking topic. Mr. Xu's vision has certainly seen far ahead."

To be honest, Xu Chengjun is not afraid at all of the immediate impact his words might have on Japan at present.

A country that is intoxicated by its economic miracle and overflowing with confidence is like a gambler who has gone crazy, only staring at the ever-increasing chips, and ignoring the warnings from onlookers about the risks.

Moreover, for a country to have truly profound and nationwide reflection, it must first be a sovereign nation that can fully control its own destiny and dare to confront all of history, rather than a tenant who is subject to others in some aspects.

The audience members who pay attention to in-depth cultural interviews like "Tetsuko's Hut" are mostly insightful members of society, rather than just entertainment fans.

At this moment, a murmur that could not be suppressed rose from the audience.

"That's... a very bold statement."

“‘Spiritual emptiness’, ‘well-fed poor’… these words may sound harsh, but upon closer reflection, there do seem to be signs of this around us.”

"To be honest, although I don't know exactly how to solve it, I think the problems he pointed out hit the nail on the head."

"Yes, that feeling of loneliness amidst the hustle and bustle... I think I can understand what he's talking about."

"I suddenly became incredibly excited for the publication of his novel 'Red Silk' in Japan. I really want to see what kind of world a writer with such insightful views would create."

As a representative of the left-wing intellectual community, Kenzaburo Oe listened to Xu Chengjun's words, his fingers unconsciously tapping his knees as he fell into deeper thought, which coincided with his long-standing criticism of the ills of Japan's modernization.

In his masterpiece, "The Football Team of the First Year of Man'en," he depicts the spiritual dilemmas and violent revelry experienced by young people who fled Tokyo and returned to their hometown forests amidst the tearing between modernization and local traditions. This in itself is a literary warning about the "inner emptiness" of Japanese society during the period of rapid economic growth.

His earlier works, such as "Nurturing," also profoundly touched upon the fragility of humanity and civilized order in closed environments.

Tetsuko Kuroyanagi, as a humanitarian, focused more specifically on the question of whether children can have a truly happy childhood in a potentially "hollowed-out" society.

Ryotaro Shiba, a relatively peaceful nationalist, had his complex emotions fully stirred.

Xu Chengjun's diagnosis pinpointed the same underlying concern he had about the Japanese national character.

He remained silent for a moment, his sharp eyes fixed on Xu Chengjun, before asking the most crucial and difficult question:
"So, Mr. Xu, in your opinion, how should we get out of these predicaments you mentioned?"

Xu Chengjun slowly shook his head, his face not showing the savior's expression of holding a universal key, but rather a solemn expression of knowing the difficulty of the task.

“Mr. Sima, this is too grand a topic. As an outsider, I have neither the ability nor the right to provide a specific roadmap. Ultimately, the path of each country must be explored by its own people.”

He paused, his tone becoming incredibly clear and firm, like a boundary marker being cast through the fog:
"However, there are some fundamental principles that transcend national borders. The most crucial one is to face history squarely and achieve genuine reconciliation with the past. This is not just a verbal apology, but a deep-seated reflection and reckoning."

His gaze turned to Kenzaburo Oe, filled with genuine respect:
"In my view, the more intellectuals like Kenzaburo Oe who dare to criticize their own society and uphold their conscience and universal human values, the more hope this country has of penetrating the fog and finding a spiritual way out. Because a healthy society cannot have only one voice, especially it cannot silence those voices that remind it to be wary of its own dangers."

Finally, he uttered a resounding statement that shook the entire audience:
"Because historical nihilism is essentially two sides of the same coin as militarism—both stem from the fear and distortion of the truth, and ultimately lead the nation astray, even into the abyss. Only a nation that dares to gaze into the abyss of history can truly be qualified to move towards the light."

Upon hearing this, the entire room fell silent.

Xu Chengjun did not provide a simple answer, but he pointed out the most fundamental problem and direction.

His words struck like a hammer blow to the hearts of all the discerning people present, showcasing a perfect blend of elegance and intellectual depth. While everyone was still reeling from Xu Chengjun's earlier assertion about the essential connection between historical nihilism and militarism, and their thoughts were in turmoil, Xu Chengjun unexpectedly let out a soft laugh.

The laughter was soft, yet it was like a needle piercing the heavy atmosphere in the studio.

He turned his gaze back to Ryotaro Shiba, whose expression was extremely unnatural. His tone was calm, even carrying a hint of scholarly sincerity, but the question itself was like a drawn sword:

"So, Senior Sima, based on our discussion just now, the tide of history is overwhelming, and those who follow it prosper. In order for Japan to truly have the mentally healthy future that you desire, one that can meet the challenges of the future, I would like to ask you a very personal question: Are you willing, and dare to, make a clear and sincere apology to the countless victims and their descendants for the numerous heinous crimes committed by the Japanese army during that war, such as the massacre of 300,000 civilians and prisoners of war in Nanjing, the 'purge' in various parts of Asia, and the Manila massacre?"

Time passed, second by second.

The camera clearly captured the moment when fine beads of sweat appeared on Ryotaro Shiba's forehead.

His lips moved a few times, and the simple answer of "yes" or "no" now felt incredibly heavy, involving too many considerations of his personal stance, historical perspective, and even the gazes of countless people behind him.

He ultimately couldn't say it immediately.

Xu Chengjun watched his struggle, his face devoid of victor's smugness. He simply let out a soft "heh," and said in an almost compassionate tone, "It's alright, Senior Sima. History may forget, but memory will never be absent. An individual's silence or words may temporarily obscure the truth, but the judgment of history is never absent because of anyone's avoidance. It will tell everything, at the appropriate time, in its own way. And the future of a nation often lies in its attitude towards the heaviest page of its past."

Tetsuko Kuroyanagi was already restless. She was fed up with this suffocating and powerless topic and was preparing to forcefully intervene to steer the conversation back to the "safe" realm of literature.

However, Xu Chengjun did not give her that chance; his gaze turned to Kenzaburo Oe, who had been silently pondering beside him.

"So, Professor Dajiang, if it were you, how would you answer this question?"

Kenzaburo Oe hardly hesitated.

"Although I cannot represent my ethnic group, let alone my country,"

His voice was clear and firm: “However, as a Japanese person, a person with basic conscience and common human morality, I am willing to apologize and have been deeply repenting in my heart. I extend my deepest and most unreserved apologies to the Chinese people, the Korean people, and all the victims in Asian countries who have suffered unimaginable pain because of Japan’s past wars of aggression. We must face this history, no matter how heavy it may be.”

Xu Chengjun looked at Oe with genuine respect in his eyes: "If Japan could have more intellectuals and citizens like Professor Oe who dare to face history and uphold human conscience and morality, then Japan's future would undoubtedly be bright and worth looking forward to."

Immediately afterward, before anyone could react, Xu Chengjun turned his gaze to the host and the audience, posing a broader question: "So, Ms. Kuroyanagi, and friends here today, are you personally willing to express your apologies for the innocent lives lost in that period of history?"

A heavy, suffocating silence fell over the scene for half a minute.

Some viewers, mainly leftists or relatively neutral, reflective ordinary people, began to stand up one after another, expressing their support for Oe's position, or rather, their recognition of historical truth and morality, through silent actions.

Tetsuko Kuroyanagi appeared extremely conflicted and distressed. Her hands were clenched tightly, and her voice was choked with sobs: "I... I know that war brings immense disaster, inflicting indelible pain on countless people, especially children... But... I really cannot, and am unable to, speak for anyone to judge the war itself..."

"Miss Kuroyanagi,"

Xu Chengjun interrupted her directly.
He knew that sometimes more concrete, more raw facts were needed to break down emotional barriers.

His tone was not aggressive, but rather full of a poignant narrative. He steered the conversation toward his new work and brought the abstract guilt back to the concrete and subtle lives of individuals that anyone could empathize with.

"In my new book, 'The New Box of Hope,' there is a character named Da Niu. He is only fifteen years old..."

Xu Chengjun's voice deepened, as if he were carefully holding a fragile treasure, instantly capturing everyone's hearts and bringing the entire studio into the space-time he constructed with words.

His storytelling ability has reached a level of perfection.

He didn't use any vehement accusations, but rather a calm, almost cruel touch, meticulously depicting the tenderness torn apart by war and the vitality annihilated by violence. He deliberately avoided grand narratives and national labels, focusing only on the most fundamental human tragedy—the slaughter of innocence, the contempt for life, and the systematic destruction of all beautiful things.

He recounted how Da Niu and a pen pal named "Hope" exchanged information about two completely different worlds through a magical black box amidst the smoke and dust of war. He described how the boy, wading through muddy, icy trenches, had to stand on stones to aim at a rifle taller than himself, yet when he read Hope's letters about bicycles, braised pork, and manned airplanes, his eyes shone with a light befitting his age. He depicted the wild lily Da Niu planted in a shell crater—a tiny, unquenchable flame of hope for the future in the soil of despair.

When he left, he was still a young man... When he returned, he was already a man of sixty years.

Xu Chengjun's voice was tinged with an uncontrollable, genuine sob. This sob was not for performance, but stemmed from his empathy for that enormous sacrifice. "Before he sacrificed himself, he seemed to really see the hope painting, the blue sky without trenches, and the children running and flying kites on the grass... He exchanged his tomorrow for our today."

He paused, letting the heaviness fester in the silence, before speaking in a softer, yet more piercing voice:
"But please remember, Da Niu... is just one of the countless dreams crushed in that catastrophe, a microcosm that we happen to know. There are countless other 'Da Niu,' whose names are unknown, whose stories are sunk in the dark river of history—they may have been infants, just learning to smile at the world, when the cold bayonet forever robbed them of their right to gaze into the future; there were countless women called mothers, daughters, and sisters, whose bodies and dignity were ruthlessly trampled by the machine of war, their suffering and cries still ache faintly in the depths of the nation's memory..."

When he spoke of Da Niu carrying that letter painted with a kite and imbued with hope, rushing headlong into the all-consuming artillery fire; when he read aloud that final letter with crooked handwriting and stars drawn in blood—"I may not live to see the day of victory, but I know what you said is true..."—the studio was no longer filled with soft sobs, but with uncontrollable, sorrowful wailing.

Tetsuko Kuroyanagi covered her face with her hands, tears slipping through her fingers.

Those stories about children, promises, and crushed youth and dreams are like the most precise key, unlocking the softest door of empathy in everyone's heart.

With a "plop," Tetsuko Kuroyanagi's tears burst forth. She stood up abruptly, her voice trembling with sobs: "I apologize! I apologize to those children... to all the innocent lives lost in that disaster! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry...!"

As she led the way, more and more people in the audience stood up, many of them already in tears. A sense of empathy and repentance based on the most basic human emotions permeated the studio.

However, just as his emotions reached their peak, Xu Chengjun waved his hand, and the sorrow on his face quickly faded, returning to his previous calm, even with a hint of aloofness.

"I was deeply moved when I saw this scene."

His voice regained its clarity and calmness, "However, I must emphasize again that I, Xu Chengjun, do not represent anyone, nor do I represent my country or my nation. I am also not qualified to represent the deceased and accept anyone's apology."

He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping across the room, as if he were pulling a runaway emotional horse back onto the track of reason.

"Excuse me, let's get back to the topic of 'Red Silk'."

For a moment, the entire studio fell into an extremely complex silence. Only low sobs and heavy breathing echoed in the air.

Everyone was stunned by the sudden shift in emotions and by the grand historical perspective that Xu Chengjun ultimately displayed, which transcended personal feelings, and remained silent for a long time.

(End of this chapter)