entering Ohnishi’s home, once at the front door and again in the elevator. Her verbal assurances were superfluous.
“I must say this is an amazing home,” Jill remarked to break the silence.
“Believe it or not, this structure was designed in 1867 by an obscure Tokyo architect, long before the technology was available for its construction. He took his own life only a few months after completing the drawings, knowing that his genius would never be appreciated in his time. It is supposition on my part, but I believe he thought his suicide would give his work the immortality it would never receive through construction.”
“I did not know that you were such a student of history.”
“Everything we know, Miss Tzu, is history. Just because it is not taught in schools from dusty texts does not lessen any information’s importance.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“Allow me to explain. The latest piece of information, no matter how current, is already history. I can look at a stock ticker as the trading goes on and already the information I’m seeing is history. Maybe it’s only a second old, but the events have already happened and nothing in my power can change them. If I decide to buy or sell based on that information, I would be basing that choice on history. All knowledge is like that and all decisions are made that way.”
“What if I decide to do something on a whim?”
“Such as?”
“I don’t know, say, quit my job.”
“In that case, you would have a history of job dissatisfaction, a knowledge based on past performance that you could find another job, and confidence that you have put sufficient money in a bank to ensure security until you begin working again. All of these factors make your decision not whimsical at all, but rather calculating in fact.”
“I never thought about it in that way,” Jill said, intrigued.
“That is why you are not worth eight billion dollars and I am,” Ohnishi remarked, not boastful, just stating the truth.
“I asked your assistant if there were any taboo subjects for this interview and he assured me that you would be candid about anything I asked.”
“That is true.” The servant cleared Jill’s fruit plate and brought a silver salver of raw fish and thinly sliced beef. He placed some on her plate along with rice and several varieties of seaweed.
“Aren’t you eating, Mr. Ohnishi?” Jill asked after the servant vanished, again leaving his plate empty.
“My stomach and some of my small intestine were removed several years ago after I was diagnosed with cancer, Miss Tzu. I’m afraid I must eat intravenously. I may sample some of these dishes later, but I can’t swallow them. It is an unpleasant sight I assure you.”
Jill was thankful he did not get more graphic.
“I know your basic biography, Mr. Ohnishi,” Jill began the formal interview, a Waterman pen poised over her notebook. “You were born in Osaka, but your parents immigrated to the United States with your two older sisters when you were an infant. Your father was a chemical engineer working for UC at San Diego.”
“Correct,” Ohnishi interrupted. “My family all died during World War Two when Roosevelt imprisoned all Japanese nationals. My sisters died of typhus; they were barely into their teens. My mother died soon afterward of the same disease. The day he took his own life, my father told me to never forget them. I was seventeen years old.”
“You had an uncle who became your legal ward?”
“Yes, his name was Chuichi Genda.”
“If I read this correctly,” Jill said looking through her notes, “he was released from an internment camp in January 1943, arrested one week later, released again at the end of the war and spent the remainder of his life in and out of prisons on various charges.”
“Yes, my uncle had very strong beliefs about America and her treatment of our people both during the war and after. He often led violent campaigns against various policies. He was charged with inciting riots three times and convicted twice. He was, without a doubt, the most influential person in my life.”
“In what way?”
“His ideas on race, principally.”
“And what are those?” Jill asked, uncrossing her long legs. She knew that this was the most important part of her interview.
“You are a journalist — surely you are aware of my views.”
“I know you’ve been called a racist by nearly every social group in the United States and that your hiring policies resemble Nazi purity laws.”
Ohnishi laughed, a high thin note that startled Jill. “For lack of a better word, Miss Tzu, you are very naive. There is no such thing as racism.” Before Jill could voice a protest, Ohnishi continued. “According to anthropologists, there are only four races on this planet: Asian, negro, caucasian, and aboriginal. Yet there is tension and fighting between hundreds of different groups. Correct?”
He did not wait for a reply. “If race is a motivating factor as you in the press imply, why is there so much fighting in the nations of Africa, why do the English and Irish bomb each other on a regular basis, why did the Nazis gas six million Jews? The answer is not racism, it’s tribalism.
“There may be only four races, but there are hundreds of different tribes, maybe thousands. Many groups still maintain a tribal name, such as the Apache or Zulu. But numerous groups no longer have distinct names, the white Anglo-Saxon here in America, the Northern Irish Protestants, or the upper class of Brazil.
“Each group is fighting to maintain the integrity of their tribe. The French and Germans are two separate tribes of people, culturally and religiously different, yet each falling into the caucasian race. There is only one way to account for the four wars they have fought since the middle of the last century: tribalism. The need to protect and ensure the security in perpetuity of one’s immediate group.
“Just because interracial strife makes good press does not make it the most common form. I will deny until my death that I am a racist. I care nothing for race. I am a tribalist. And my tribe, the Japanese, is all that I care for.
“Tribes are basically extended families, so when I give a top position to a fellow Japanese, I am merely helping one of my kin. That is no different than a man turning over his business to his son, a common practice all over the world. I have fought nearly three hundred court cases defending my right to hire and promote who I wish, and to date no one has been able to deny me.”
“If you have such a pro-Japanese view of the world, why is it you recently took up residence in the United States?” Jill asked, trying to remain calm and professional despite her revulsion.
“I had this home built six years ago,” Ohnishi pointed out.
“Yet you only moved here three months ago,” Jill retorted.
“I feel that I am most needed here. As you know, the Japanese are now the largest ethnic group in Hawaii, and if you’ll pardon my arrogance, I believe that they need my help.”
“Your help?”
“I wish to see Japanese prosper wherever their work takes them. While the media focuses on material trade imbalances, they completely ignore the amount of brain power that Japan exports each year. We send only our brightest people to work in foreign countries, strengthening our position overseas year by year. Let America send wide-eyed college students to build huts in Africa. We send CEOs to build corporations. I just want to do my part and ensure the success of this program.”
“And do you see your help extending to Hawaii’s native population?”
“They have suffered under the yoke of a white government far longer than we, so of course I wish to see them gain more power here on the islands. After all, tribally speaking, they are closer to us Japanese than to their current white overlords.”
“Surely you exaggerate when you use a term such as overlord to describe the state government,” Jill said a little nervously.
“On the contrary. How else would you describe a governing body that does not speak your language, does not understand your culture or religion, and has done nothing to bridge the socioeconomic gap? If the true Hawaiians are so satisfied with the current system, why do you think the island of Niihau, with its strict language and culture
