Shinjuku, 1945, a scene right after the end of the war

Shinjuku, 1945, a scene right after the end of the war

The backside of Shinjuku Station just after the war. Hamonica Yokocho," a small alley that stretched along one corner of the station, had a peculiar odor that was a mixture of mud, urine, and vomit. This alley, born in the ruins of a burnt-out building, seemed to symbolize everything that the war had taken away. In order to survive, people created a black market here, opening stalls and exchanging goods. The narrow aisles lined with stalls appeared to be full of life at first glance, but behind them were the shadows of exhausted people.

I wandered down this side street with my head aching from a hangover. Yesterday's alcohol still lingered in my body, making my stomach churn. But even so, I keep going because this is Shinjuku, the city that I live in. My feet were caught in the mud, and I could hear my footsteps echoing in the cold air of the burnt ruins as if they were the only sound I could rely on.

The war was over, but the city was still in ruins. Supplies were in short supply, and wandering around the black market to get food was the order of the day. The area around Shinjuku Station was particularly central to this, with a mixture of rural migrant workers, demobilized soldiers, and orphans with nowhere else to go, creating a peculiar kind of feverish atmosphere. However, there was also a sense of emptiness in the heat. At night, the side streets became even more chaotic, with fights, stealing, and drunkenness filling the alleys. In the midst of all this, I seemed to be searching for my place in the world.

I suddenly realized that I was lying in an unfamiliar room. My head was pounding and memories of last night were blurred. I lifted myself out of the dirty futon and looked around. There was only one old shelf in the small four-and-a-half-tatami-mat room, and a paperback book in the corner caught my eye. As I picked up the book, which was blackened with hand stains, something resonated in my heart like a whisper from the past.

Every time I step into this alley, I ask myself what I am looking for. I felt that there was something more than a devastated landscape in this burnt-out town. Hopelessness and hope, clamor and silence are mixed together, and the energy of people searching for a way to regenerate this place is probably what is moving this place. And I, as a part of it, just keep walking to live.

Every time I step in the mud, I wonder why I am drawn to this place. Am I trying to get back what I lost? Or am I trying to find something new? Amidst the chaos that this town presents, I am searching for my own answers again today.