September 1, 2009
Dear Colleague:
The Japanese use the word amae to describe the psychological state of a person who has complete confidence that another will always protect and care for him or her in all situations. Don't you wish that we in the West also have such a word to denote that psychological state of complete confidence? On this question of total trust in another's help, what do the savants of the West have to say? Here is Samuel Johnson: "Life has no pleasure higher or nobler than that of friendship. On the other hand, there is no human possession of which the duration is less certain." If only the wise doctor didn't feel compelled to add "on the other hand"! Here is the distinguished essayist Joseph Epstein: "A friend, a cliche definition has it, is someone who, when you are in a crisis, you can call at 4 a.m. I'd say that's true, but with the qualification that one is permitted only one such call." Wish Epstein didn't feel compelled to add "but"! And here is J. M. Coetzee, Nobel Laureate in literature, who presumably is an expert on human nature: "One holds on to the belief that someone, somewhere, loves one enough to hold on to one... But the belief is false. All love is moderate in the end. No one will come with one." There, again, is that "but," which takes so much joy out of life.
I used to be puzzled by veterans who, after the horrors of war, would meet one another in peace time over a glass of beer and talk of the "good old days." How can they feel nostalgia for the hardship and ubiquitous death of the battlefield when they now live in the bosom of their family, enjoy marital bliss in the bedroom and barbecue on the porch to shouts of children in the background? Can it be that they feel no amae, no real confidence that their nearest and dearest, all the hugs and smiles notwithstanding, will come to their aid in a real crisis? Minor contretemps, sure, but a real crisis, one that can require the ultimate sacrifice?
The army has a creed—no soldier left behind. The soldiers of the Second Platoon, 10th Mountain Division, lost one of their own on Saturday in an effort to follow that creed. Sergeant ("Ski") Wisniewski, 22, died at the start of a ten-mile trek through farms and canals with the goal of finding the three missing Americans. Ski was young for a platoon sergeant. A winner of the Bronze Star and a Purple Heart, he was promoted by his commanders because he had the ability to inspire and goad. Losing Ski and seeing three other friends wounded brought out a mix of uncharacteristic honesty and anger in the platoon. Immediately after the explosion, the soldiers swore and kicked whatever they could find. One said he wanted vengeance.
But "I love you, man" was far more common. Huge, strong men hugged, tears streaming down their faces. When it was not clear whether the seriously wounded soldier on the ground would make it, "I love you," was said repeatedly, blurted out as if it was something they wished they had told Sergeant Wisniewski. When one of the wounded soldiers insisted that the mushy stuff had gone too far, there was friendly resistance. "What, I can't love someone now?" a soldier said. "I love you," he said. "I can say I love you if I want to" (New York Times, May 23, 2007).
Strange as it is to say, we need disasters—floods, droughts, and earthquakes—to remind us that we are not just products of Richard Dawkin's Selfish Gene, that we are capable of heroism, of the most profound love for another, of making the ultimate sacrifice. The human contradiction and tragedy lie in that even a manmade disaster—war—can bring out the best, not just the worst, in us.
Best wishes,
Yi-Fu
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