I have a mirror. I always keep it with me. Actually, it is nothing more than a piece of broken glass about the size of my palm. A piece of broken mirror, somewhat on the thick side, the kind you could probably find on any trash heap.

But to me, it is anything but trash. When my mother married, she brought as part of her trousseau a mirror stand fitted with a very nice mirror. How many times it must have clearly reflected her face as a young bride! Twenty years later however, the mirror somehow got broken. My eldest brother, Kiichi, and I sorted over the fragments and picked out two of the larger ones to keep.

Not long after that the war broke out. My four elder brothers went off one by one to the front, some to fight in China, others in South-east Asia. I felt very strong feelings of revulsion against the war effort. My four brothers, who were in the prime of life, ready to work and contribute to our family, were taken from us, each by a single piece of paper – the conscription notice…

When my mother received the news of Kiichi’s death, she turned her back to us, shuddering with grief. This was the greatest loss, the deepest sadness she experienced in her life. I felt, in the depths of my being, the tragedy and waste of war. War, which brings such suffering to a mother who is guilty of no crime whatsoever, is an absolute evil.