Pathway to Japanese Literature

I knew nothing about prosecutorial matters.
I had handled various affairs through academic and other approaches.
Yet whether by fortune or misfortune, I possessed neither experience nor knowledge regarding prosecutorial administration.
As for why I came forward—setting logical explanations aside—my heart harbored profound unease.
To speak without understanding constitutes a grave transgression.
I advocate upholding justice through tears, yet social justice cannot endure upon frigid rationality alone.
Having weighed all aspects, we must pursue justice with hearts brimming with tears—this I firmly maintain.
While listening to specialists in criminal administration, a fundamental doubt took root within me: does true justice indeed prevail in our world?
For even when crimes occur, punishment seldom follows swiftly.
Only when irrefutable evidence emerges and exhaustive investigations render the matter unavoidable does justice finally ascend the stage.
Many have grown convinced they might evade consequences unscathed.
During my ministerial tenure, a query arose in parliament directed at the then Minister of Justice: “When transporting black-market rice via military vehicles to feed their relatives—though merely conveying sustenance—why do police authorities confiscate these provisions and impose penalties?”
“This is intolerable!” he protested.
Such was the inquiry’s nature.
The Minister of Justice declared: “In such instances, we shall never conduct investigations.”
“I shall personally ensure such actions cease”—this proclamation met near-applause from committee members.
Hearing this left me deeply disturbed.
For here stood formal parliamentary endorsement that even violations of national law would go unpunished by the Justice Minister—a stance committee members applauded.
My position diverges slightly.

Although arriving at a final judgment of right and wrong was difficult—to put it succinctly—even though national laws existed in reality，the then Minister of Justice declared on the parliamentary floor that they would not uphold them.
And representatives of the people applauded this.
Given this situation，from my perspective—what value does the law truly hold? We established a National Diet，created laws，published them in the Official Gazette，and declared that people must uphold these statutes，that laws above all must be obeyed—yet everyone trampled upon them nonchalantly.

Even a certain judge who starved to death after adhering to the law and reducing his food intake may have initially received everyone’s sympathy, but later on, there might have been those who secretly thought him a foolish sacrifice to the law.
In the end, it is either the strong who prevail or the majority who prevail.
Is that majority not rather the words of entrenched forces—those wielding strong influence in certain quarters—that prevail?
In such circumstances, I cannot help but consider that a country which strips away the greater part of its laws may indeed be superior.
However, this is nothing more than a scholar's personal opinion.
But I sense that this contains various significant problems.
The reasoning is complex, and I will not attempt to resolve it here, but even though there are laws, there is order, and there are principles that should be upheld, people cast these aside without reflection, and the state does not uphold them either.
This is not solely a matter of food supplies.
Even if more significant laws were enacted, it cannot be denied that there may be instances where not observing a single one of them seems correct.
For example, despite there being a rule that if even a fraction of members from either house of the Diet demand a session, the National Diet must be convened without fail, to this day it has never once been opened in straightforward compliance.
Legal professionals are skilled at debate.
Unlike honest individuals like myself, clever explanations emerge everywhere, and even what the law has earnestly required ends up vanishing as it stands.

Compulsory education was to be provided free of charge.
This existed within the Constitution I had helped draft, but when asking where true free compulsory education could be found—should a legal layperson consider it—they would see that no matter which school one entered, considerable fees were invariably being charged.
It seemed possible to say there was no such thing as free compulsory education.
Though born into a nation that loved order, I doubted whether I truly lived within that order.
This was but one example—though mentioning this matter was not to dwell on it—but rather to say that at its root, we might not be a people who truly cherished the law.
My true heart believed we must uphold order.
A nation that did not uphold order could not be a good nation.
If there came to be no upholding of order, then what we believed to be order would be nothing more than fleeting bubbles on water—would it not?
To put it differently, what we called law had not coalesced into order.
Even if something was written as law, in reality it was neither order nor anything of substance.
In reality, it was what was called a drawn rice cake.
It was possible such an ideology might take hold.
To some extent, I might have been saying something that sounded petulant.
In truth, that was not the case—because we Japanese people were destined to prosper eternally into the future—we strove by all means to establish a true path.
Over roughly the past ten years, the Japanese people had made efforts and in any case built today's social order.
We had built it—but that was all—in ancient China they had built roads.
At their creation they had been splendid.
I worried there might be a tendency for them to become impassable due to cow dung piling up afterward.
What thoughts should we ordinarily hold toward things called law and order?
Was it wise to think we need not uphold them, or should one adhere to them with foolish honesty?

But to speak truthfully—while there were indeed ambiguous aspects to what we called law, matters that could not be clearly determined like a child's essay—I believed we had to consider that even if we could not achieve it concretely, we should cherish order in our hearts.

This was how, after the war's end, the minds of the Japanese people had become hollow—society had grown nihilistic and existentially void, creating laws with one hand while negating them with the other.

There had existed a kind of transitional period phenomenon.

But the law-abiding spirit was gradually recovering.

Therefore, I felt inclined to sincerely hold the idea that we should maintain order with tears.

I had to confess I was now but a humble librarian—ordinarily one who did not touch upon such difficult matters—but when considering what our library truly contemplated, my library possessed but a single law.

There existed a single standalone law created solely for one library, and within that law’s preamble—laws with preambles being relatively uncommon—there existed a foreword.

What did it say? It proclaimed, as a maxim: “Truth gives freedom.”

What significance creating maxims within law actually held—this too presented an intriguing question—but those who crafted this law must have been convinced that truth gave birth to freedom.

Though whether truth truly granted freedom remained questionable, I too was convinced of it—this was not invented in Japan, for such words existed in Europe as well.

Not only did the Orient likely possess similar expressions, but the Gospel of John in the Bible also contained the phrase “truth grants freedom.”

That was to say: “Truth grants you freedom”—so it was written.

However, I believed there had been a recent tendency to discard truth into the dirt without truly loving it.

Now, I did not intend to expound upon truth that day.

By slightly repurposing the word “truth” into other terms: justice grants us freedom.

While I perceived there being some difference in meaning between truth and justice, it was justice that I wished to consider as the main principle which fundamentally granted us freedom.

Today I shall first discuss matters pertaining to prosecutorial administration, but I suspect the actual operations follow lines of thought like: "Handling things this way seems expedient for current circumstances," or "Adjusting that approach would better serve social convenience."

Ultimately, to manifest justice upon this earth—this readiness to charge forward sacrificing all for righteousness—I am convinced prosecutorial administration must embody such resolve as part of its essential purpose.

Here emerges the fundamental question: What precisely constitutes justice?

We give voice to "justice" with our lips, yet in truth grasp it but dimly.

In Japan, this court is said to properly establish justice's very foundations in all matters.

Law itself is regarded as justice's essential substance.

The word for "law" in Latin is *jus*.

This *jus* signifies justice itself.

Thus while proclaiming "law is justice" rings true in principle, practical application reveals disquieting discrepancies—breeding contempt for statutes themselves, then scorn for legal compliance, culminating in disdain for enforcement. Moreover, Japan's Code of Criminal Procedure explicitly states that wrongdoers need not invariably face prosecution.

Reasons exist for this, naturally—yet they intertwine with problematic ideological undercurrents.

Let me clarify—I do not mean to wholly reject discretionary prosecution systems—but these matters remain interconnected.

Therefore we must ask: What fundamentally comprises this thing we call justice?

A tiger ceases being tiger without its striped pelt.

Similarly, though humans may treat many matters lightly depending on circumstance throughout life's course, I believe we must tenaciously safeguard justice alone.

What then constitutes justice's essence?

Though unable to fully explicate it, I perceive equilibrium lies at its core.

Viewed from one angle it appears just; observed from another perspective equally so.

Not through opportunism, but through harmonized interests within human society.

Such must be its necessary condition.

Thus between individuals—if one borrows money, repayment stands as natural obligation.

This is of course unproblematic, but it does not mean people live solely among individuals.
When living collectively as a nation and as part of humanity, justice undoubtedly assumes a more complex form.
For instance, while companies offering discounted goods to customers typically pose no issue, one would sense something amiss if the state were to declare, “We’ll sell you tobacco at half price.”
Even if individuals may be permitted to accept bribery-like favors in private lives, there can be no doubt it would be wrong for public officials to accept bribes.
When considering what truly lies at justice’s foundation—the standard of justice between individuals I mentioned earlier remains broadly comprehensible.
Balancing credits and debits makes this easily graspable—but justice in social life originates from a broader vantage point, touching upon how a single person integrates into the whole while exerting influence across its fabric.

Individuals do not enter society in isolation; ultimately, they live within society and the world.
Therefore, one must not act too selfishly.
One must not become too deeply involved.
It is precisely in matters settling neatly that the problem of justice lies.
Ultimately, we must think that it must be so.
For example, public officials must not accept bribes; this runs counter to the fundamental principle of communal life.
When conducting an election vote, even if someone takes money, it does not mean that the election itself will vanish simply because money was taken; they conduct the election—a public right—while taking money.
That fundamentally destroys the principle that the masses create proper representatives.
Justice between individuals has means of resolution available to us.

"Why did you destroy my house? Repaint the wall as it was before—most people would find this reasonable."
"If no request were made, there would be no particular need to repaint it."
"If asked by the other party to paint it for them,custom would dictate repainting it in return."
"Yet social justice proves somewhat more elusive."
"This stems from those entitled to lodge complaints remaining undefined."
"A person kills another."
"The murdered individual lacks any mouth to voice grievances."
"That outcry must nevertheless arise from somewhere."
"It falls to society to voice these complaints."
"But through what mouthpiece this entity called society might cry out—one must ponder rather circuitously."
"In some instances laws materialize; in others emerge those tasked with enforcement."
"Police officers would conduct searches."
"Prosecutors would wield investigative authority to initiate charges."
"It is through such synchronized activation—prison staff tidying aftermaths here and there—that social justice claims preservation.Yet should any among these multitudinous limbs and mouths of state neglect their charge,I fear social justice might never fully manifest."

For example, if a prison staff member tasked with executing death penalties thought, “I lost a child this morning; out of reverence for Buddha, I will halt today’s execution,” then the state’s order could not be maintained and human justice would go undefended—this was what I believed would occur.

Yet when I observed people these days—now that this so-called era of democracy had arrived—we found ourselves unregulated by any power.

At a time when we wished to freely paint bright lives according to our own designs, I sensed that those who strove through personal effort to uphold social justice had grown somewhat scarce.

I too wondered—in those five or six years since the war’s end—what sort of lives Tokyo’s residents had been living.

For those like us dwelling in burrows, we grew distant from worldly affairs; but having received counsel urging me to investigate firsthand, I ended up touring several locations starting around five in the evening.

First, I went to see the strip shows in Shinjuku.
I had heard about them but had never seen them.
When I entered a certain theater, women were also watching.
There were men, older people, younger people—all watching.
They were making very serious, gloomy faces, their eyes wide like saucers.
I again examined their attitudes in detail—what psychological state lay at their core, what relationship existed between life and strip shows—and though I couldn’t quite grasp it, I had gathered material.
Next, I hailed a one-yen taxi and went to Asakusa to take in a bit of vaudeville.
Ankoku-bushi—this is an old tradition, and is relatively wholesome.
However, even this is not so wholesome.
In the olden days, it was regarded as somewhat unhealthy.
There is also the aspect of customers pressing their heads close in eager anticipation and gazing up; however, that is not something one can criticize today.
I listened carefully to an elderly woman who had long performed Ankoku-bushi and inquired about the relationship between Ankoku-bushi and society.
I will stop beating around the bush.
After wandering around various places—and though I am ashamed to admit my ignorance of cabarets—I ended up going to a large cabaret by Shinbashi’s waterfront, thinking I should at least give it a try.
In any case, it boasted three hundred women, and customers of all sorts came there.
A person handling money at an office I know took a friend there, and they embezzled over 100,000 yen within two or three days.
At that office, responsibility issues arose, and they caused various incidents.
So, thinking to visit one of these alluring cabarets, I went to see for myself—and indeed, there before my eyes were things we elderly had never even dreamed of, bringing us immense happiness.
The act of finding happiness comes in many forms with many meanings.
A woman climbed onto my lap as I sat on the sofa and settled herself there.

"My knees are not seats, but I didn't mind."
"That must be part of their business protocol."
Then I confronted her: "You're still young—how can you work in this profession that lures youths to ruin?"
"It's my unfortunate habit to spout moralizing remarks whenever I speak."
I had done it again.
After staring at me awhile, she snapped, "You're not even seventy yet," and stormed off.
At half past eleven, when I went to Chuo Line station, women from the entertainment district—each pursuing side ventures—were heading home. Near Kanda Station's platform stairs, a quarrel erupted.
A man and woman were fighting.
It began as an argument about whether she'd visit him, but soon both glared fiercely and turned violent.
As the man bullied the woman through force, spectators formed a ring around them—no advice given, no intervention made.
They simply stood gawking vacantly.
All this lengthy explanation has been merely preamble.
To put it plainly: when ordinary weak people suffer unlawful oppression from the strong—when violence crushes them—no one intervenes.
Legally speaking—though I can't claim expertise—this national tendency to watch indifferently like roadside stones filled me with profound unease.
Let me offer another illustration.
Once I rode a Chuo Line train.
Smoking is prohibited there.
Yet several young men were smoking.
I suspect they were police officers.
An off-duty officer returning home appeared to admonish the smokers.

“You mustn’t smoke here—it’s prohibited on trains.” There was an incident where those two or three boisterous young men who had been smoking then seized this off-duty police officer, inflicted considerable violence upon him, and disembarked at some station.
I was not riding there at the time.
It so happened that my friend was riding there.
He was quite an unusual sort of principled person.
When those rough youths disembarked, he secretly followed after them.
He ascertained where they lived and reported the full details to the police station to which that police officer belonged.
That reportedly brought about a good result for upholding justice.

At Kanda Station, despite violent actions being carried out, the general citizens remained unperturbed.
In the latter train case—where there was some danger involved and one couldn’t resist immediately—he followed them, thoroughly investigated the matter, and reported it. This raised the question: which should be praised?
When examining Edo-period documents, we find that townspeople as a class were once considered weak.
A samurai was complaining to townspeople on the road.
"Why did you touch my sword? You insolent fool! Sit down there!" he barked.
It was a scene often seen in plays.
The townspeople were trembling in fear.
The other townspeople surrounding them, though in their hearts they thought this samurai was an insolent wretch, did not utter a single word in the interest of self-preservation.
I imagine this is likely what feudal society looked like—when in that play’s plot, a fixer like Banzuiin Chōbei would appear, say something like “Pardon me,” and ultimately defeat the samurai.
Many people praised this and felt refreshed.
It was a story from the Edo period.

There must have been circumstances for this.
In our era, as culture had advanced, people gradually came to largely discard others' suffering without reflection and adopted self-righteous attitudes.
I too had witnessed youths on Ginza's streets apparently threatening another boy by pressing a dagger against him, but recalled being too weak-willed to rise indignantly for justice—a memory that shames me to this day.
Seriously considering this—who would uphold social justice in such situations? Who would risk even slight danger to provide salvation?
First, I thought frontline police officers would step forward.
However, there existed some who did not step forward.

This matter dates back some time, but there were people conducting peculiar gambling operations on the streets. Remarkably, they did this right before the very room where police officers congregated, yet the officers rather averted their gaze from that direction—appearing to shirk their responsibilities through willful blindness. This occurred approximately ten years ago along the thoroughfare before a major Shinjuku theater, a situation one cannot categorically dismiss as implausible.

While there were extenuating circumstances arising from postwar social conditions and complex human psychology that made such outcomes inevitable, had there been no one to take action during ordinary times, life could never have been lived with fairness or security. In this present age, I wish to express particular respect for those who personally shoulder such duties.

Though people might earn substantial incomes by risking their lives in other professions, when I observe those who bear grave dangers for meager pay—achieving through their zeal only modest good—I find myself compelled to feel profound reverence indeed. Surveying groups from this perspective allows one to discover various admirable individuals.

Relating this to today's gathering—beyond police personnel—consider those handling prosecutorial duties, managing prisons, undertaking judicial responsibilities, even those executing sentences: viewed comprehensively, these are truly people deserving respect. While I hold this view, does society at large truly honor them?

To speak candidly, I suspect I may have been tormented by a snake long ago—nay, I was indeed tormented by a snake long ago. It seems some ancestral memory persists of being bitten millennia past, for even now at the sight of snakes I recoil with visceral discomfort born of latent emotion.

A similar sensation arises when hearing someone described as "Prosecutor So-and-so from the Public Prosecutors Office"—an instinctive unease takes hold. Though fully versed in legal procedures and disbelieving such absurdities myself, this represents common folk sentiment.

Personally acquainted through legal knowledge and regular interactions as I am—participating even in police recruitment examinations—I maintain cordial relations with officers.Yet paradoxically persists this societal tendency toward instinctive aversion toward those upholding justice through their labors.

If I were to impose my views upon others, many citizens would still instinctively dislike those charged with upholding justice and show reluctance to rent homes to prosecutors. While there may not be many such people today, in our student days there were instances where people wouldn’t even rent houses to lawyers. That such sentiments persist remains deeply regrettable. Those who devote themselves to justice—who live to safeguard social order without seeking personal advantage—are truly worthy of reverence. It is through these individuals’ endeavors that we are able to sleep soundly with our pillows stacked high, or so I believe.

In reality, there exists such a thing as justice—the name of abstract justice—but what constitutes concrete justice remains unclear.
Proof trumps theory—before losing this war, there were those who had unexpectedly upheld justice yet were punished.
I believe there were scholars who stirred up various controversies.
"Your book is outrageous."
"What you wrote is outrageous."
Consequently, among our acquaintances were those who ultimately faced punishment and had their lives cut short by hardship.
They became sacrifices to the justice of that era.
Through modern eyes, it remains profoundly difficult to judge whether that was truly just.
Therefore, concrete justice resembles a cat's eyes.
That it transforms moment by moment—I find myself wanting to make such an ironic observation.
This is an exceedingly complex matter.
A mere prosecutor—though this phrasing may seem discourteous—can readily discern right from wrong regarding ordinary matters within certain domains, given the existence of the Penal Code and other frameworks; yet in some respects, these distinctions prove far less clear-cut.

I myself was in Showa 10 or 9 [1935/1934], when a book I wrote was judged inappropriate; though it was not punished, it provoked significant controversy approaching that level.
Moreover—not that this book sought to settle grudges or anything of the sort—I was at that time serving as Director of the Cabinet Legislation Bureau.
Furthermore, this constitutional text I authored was deemed improper.
I do not know who invoked the law, but it appears to have been debated under provisions like the Publication Law or charges of lèse-majesté.
A senior Home Ministry official came and said: “Given your position as Director of the Cabinet Legislation Bureau, banning this work would prove somewhat awkward—halting its distribution through official channels would likewise present difficulties.”
He had come to discuss methods for appropriate handling.
How labyrinthine are the ways of bureaucracy indeed.
Where does justice reside?—I found myself pondering.
Additionally, the then-Vice-Minister of Education brought me a mimeographed document compiled within his ministry—a synthesis of various scholars’ opinions—remarking: “Your arguments appear here.”
Though he showed it to me saying, “See how they’re analyzing this!”, I could only think—the world defies simplicity.

After that, I think there were various repercussions here and there.
I had only reached a certain stage in this process, while Professor Minobe Tatsukichi alone became the most prominent victim.
Yet even this was done in the name of justice—but at that time, what exactly was justice? Since people's perception of justice shifts according to each individual's judgment, I came to feel that enforcing justice through power was something truly fearsome in practice.
Later—it must have been 1949—when I visited America, I went to see the Massachusetts State Legislature in Boston.
The assembly hall was slightly larger than this chamber of Boston's legislature.
If we imagined my seat being the chairman's position, numerous massive murals over ten feet tall hung above where my head would be.
I noticed something peculiar.
One mural depicted a grand church hall.
There was a figure of a woman wearing a head covering who seemed to be weeping, along with several people wearing solemn expressions.
Beside them stood an elderly man resembling a clergyman, his face grave as he appeared to address the crowd.
What could this be? Why display such imagery in a legislature?
These thoughts crossed my mind.
Upon further investigation—this would have been about two hundred years prior—there existed a town called Salem near Boston, America.
In that Salem town, an idle rumor had taken root.
A certain young woman from a village was said to be a witch.
People claimed that if she glared at you, your lifespan would shorten.
When rumors spread that this girl practiced witchcraft, everyone immediately believed them.
Not only did they believe it, but whispers proliferated that the town teemed with witches.
Eventually authorities mobilized their power, arresting over a hundred individuals.
Most were women.

Generally speaking, witches were women—men apparently couldn't become them.
This was the customary belief in that region.
Thus over a hundred people were deemed witches.
Declaring them outrageous elements spreading harmful poison through society, authorities arrested and brought them in.
They systematically subjected them to what amounted to religious trials.
As proceedings advanced step by step—though I've forgotten the precise count—forty-nine had confessed to being undoubted witches, thereby being found guilty.
When someone around the fiftieth mark insisted "I'm no witch," they resolved to torture them by gradually stacking heavy flat stones on their knees or similar joints.
They kept adding weight until a confession came, but death arrived before any response.
Since these deaths occurred under torture's pressure, it meant all were either guilty or dead.
In total, likely over fifty perished.
While less than a hundred remained imprisoned, alternative thinking gained momentum.
Fundamentally, this world shouldn't harbor witches.
The rumor labeling them witches was utterly mistaken.
As such views strengthened, even New Englanders conceded this reality.
Deeming prior thinking absurd, witchcraft ceased being an issue.
All detained suspects were released.
Yet those already punished or tortured to death couldn't be revived.
Ultimately Massachusetts' governor instituted a "Day of Repentance."
There occurred an instance where judges involved in those trials publicly apologized to church congregations.
That became the painting's subject.

Even when observing this, it became clear how exceedingly difficult it was to concretely determine matters of justice and right versus wrong in this human world.
To avoid repeating such errors in the future, that painting had been hung in the most conspicuous place within Boston’s legislative chamber.
It was said to have been created comparatively recently.
When I saw that, I came to think that judgments about justice in human life were unreliable.
When considered broadly, such instances could be found everywhere.
The right and wrong of matters like theft and robbery were relatively easy to discern, but judgments concerning higher-order problems proved truly difficult.
There had been instances where individuals once denounced as unfit found those labels erased and were instead elevated to positions of high status.
There had also been cases where books once deemed worthy of burning came to be truly valued.

Then where does justice reside?
Therefore, those who should uphold justice—prosecutors, for example—must possess the ability to fully comprehend such matters.
If one is a judge, I came to feel they must be judges who fully comprehend such matters.

I have a novelist friend named Ozaki Shirō who once wrote scripts and novels using Professor Minobe Tatsukichi’s Emperor Organ Theory as source material—work he labored over with great effort to research accurately—yet when observing the words and actions of the responsible officials depicted within it, I still felt a lingering dissatisfaction.

When I considered such matters, a sense arose of where justice might reside.
What I wish to state here is that societal justice ultimately cannot be clearly discerned.
Since history began, how many have been killed as criminals only to be called splendid figures in later times?
Christ would likely have been no exception.
Socrates drinking the poisoned cup undoubtedly followed this pattern.
Though I cannot list them one by one, there are surely countless others.
Observing these cases made clear we should not condemn individuals singly—the world reveals itself as unfathomable.
It was a difficult realization.
There was nothing more to it.
Therefore, I came to feel those undertaking prosecutorial duties must not only consider laws but possess fundamental qualities beyond statutes—they must aspire to discern right from wrong through personal responsibility.
Yet this remained profoundly difficult.
In practice, we applied laws enacted by the Diet to judge whether matters were wrong or not—this being judicial principle—and could not deviate from such an approach.
But as I noted earlier, laws are merely human creations; justice too is but what each era’s people judge it to be.
Thus expecting prosecutors and judges to make absolutely correct judgments seemed unreasonable.
The modern legal system does not permit such free exercise of personal judgment.
Herein lay a philosophically knotty problem.
I refrained from precise legal discussion due to misunderstanding risks but thought colloquially—true judges do not administer law.
They administer justice lying deeper than law; termed *administration of justice* in English—there true emphasis belongs.
Moreover, I believed prosecutors’ work operating alongside this should likewise focus there.

I cannot help but feel that this responsibility can only be shouldered by an exceptional individual—a person of rare caliber in this world.

Was it last year? An incident occurred where there was an attempt to arrest a certain Diet member on criminal suspicion.
To arrest an incumbent Diet member during a parliamentary session requires obtaining Diet consent.
When seeking such consent from the Diet, it would likely prove extremely difficult for them to pass a resolution approving that member's arrest.
Under these circumstances, those connected with the Public Prosecutors Office apparently planned to request Diet consent.
However, the cabinet at that time halted these requests for arrest consent on their own authority.
Regarding this cessation of consent requests, it is said the then Minister of Justice instructed prosecutors accordingly.
This provoked various political debates, but in essence it meant whether to arrest or not became entirely subject to the personal discretion of that single Justice Minister.
Legally speaking, I consider this entirely proper.
Yet under such an approach arises this weakness: it enables a handful of individuals to decide whether to arrest someone elevated through party-backed elections, thereby implanting in citizens' minds that justice can be arbitrarily adjusted.
From a legal perspective this constitutes lawful conduct.
Nevertheless, I firmly believe two truths remain undeniable—that justice proves susceptible to manipulation by a single party minister's considerations, and that this reality has created profound cracks in citizens' cherished order and political trust.
Since final decisions ultimately rest on political value judgments, approval seems impossible without accompanying additional conditions.
I believe many people consequently develop doubts about justice's true locus.
Among my acquaintances sits a House of Councillors member once dubbed Demon Prosecutor.
He is no demon whatsoever.
While truly an admirable legislator with sound health principles worthy of respect, decades ago during his prosecutorial career he earned that moniker through conducting brutally rigorous interrogations that winnowed out numerous suspects.
Then we have Japan's historical term *akudaikan*—among magistrates serving as shogunate deputies across regions existed truly wicked officials.
Stories persist of them seizing innocent peasants while threatening "Pay your taxes or face harsh punishment," then confining people in water dungeons or even taking daughters hostage never to return them.
Such officials were called *akudaikan*.
Even today I sense a societal tendency toward resisting justice enforcers by presuming them Demon Prosecutors or *akudaikan*.

The appropriateness had to be judged case by case; however, if there existed a sentiment where—out of excessive sympathy for the weak—one harbored unwarranted resistance toward enforcers of justice and even took satisfaction in this, I had to vigorously defend the prosecution authorities. Under today’s system, when individuals with exemplary qualifications and education worked in good faith, I believed it improper to lightly foster resentment or thoughtlessly spread negative impressions. Yet when I recalled my past experiences, various realities lingered behind the scenes. Even those generally praised as upstanding figures and model actors might exhibit tendencies akin to corrupt officials in another aspect, I noted. They would presume someone a criminal from the outset and charge headlong toward them. When interrogations stalled, they employed methods socially equivalent to torture, then skillfully justified themselves when challenged. No proverb declared legal professionals adept at justification, but were one contrived, I felt such a saying might hold truth. From such practices arose public associations of misconduct with prosecution authorities. This could not be said to leave the system’s honor wholly unscathed. Yet times had changed. To my knowledge, prosecutors now stood as nothing but splendid gentlemen. Why did past and present differ so starkly? The question perpetually struck me. At its root seemed to lie a singular cause. Today, power did not steer prosecutors’ actions. But legend told of a prosecution grandee in older days—a shadowy house of influence that exerted its glare through unspoken authority.

Looking back about twenty-odd years—from around the beginning of the Shōwa period—I believe an unpleasant atmosphere began permeating Japan's social order.
One might imagine various figures being profoundly influenced by ideological matters.
And it seems each had their own operational bases.
After the war's end came the sorrowful directive for a defeated nation—we were ordered by foreign powers to destroy the central strongholds where such forces had entrenched themselves, resulting in the thorough destruction of these once-powerful centers; in their terminology, they abolished what they called *kanbatsu*.
"The term *kanbatsu* refers not to forest thinning but to bureaucratic cliques, and I believe its abolition has had significant consequences."
Therefore, while such criticism may not apply today, what once occurred in society will inevitably recur across eras.
Though democratic politics appears splendid when viewed favorably, dark clouds still find space to gather within it.
When a handful of people steel their resolve, form cabals, and act vigorously, I believe we have ample cause to fear tyrannical politics emerging within this framework while wearing democracy's guise.

While today’s reality is truly gratifying, I cannot help but sense that seeds demanding future vigilance may lie embedded here.
There is no limit to expounding matters in this fashion, but I wish to conclude by presenting somewhat more of my own decisive convictions.

Ultimately, what I believe is this: in the human world, truth will prevail in the end. At any given moment, we see unjust forces prevail and honest fools made—proverbs take form from such observations—but viewed over time, I believe reason must inevitably triumph among a people endowed with sound judgment. This is, I suppose, something akin to faith. In reality, there may be times when reason does not prevail, but unless we first keep that much in mind, we have no choice but to descend into nihilism. Therefore, I believe we must strive by all means to make Japan a country where justice prevails. At present, this is in reality not the case. For instance, when debates in the Diet reached an impasse, if resorting to physical force by reaching hands forward would incur parliamentary punishment, they instead extended their feet backward. Through such means did they commit violence. In other words, there were instances where they believed it acceptable if unseen—a relationship where procedural law prevailed over substantive law. They manipulated procedures to prevent evidence from being gathered; these actual acts of violence were by no means my fabrication. It was something all of society knew. As for the state's own activities—when considering what these legislators, who supposedly work for nation and people, were actually doing—they kicked their colleagues' right legs before the citizens' eyes, strangled necks, strove through various means to mutually suppress influence, leaving but scant time to properly consider public service. There seemed a widespread perception that they spent excessive time pursuing self-interest. I felt this diverged profoundly from the direction our democratic politics should advance.

Then, if we venture into an even more terrible world, I cannot help but feel there are many instances where politics is abolished by force.
It is not particularly commendable to nitpick words, but there are instances in newspapers where a certain group shouts declarations like, “No matter how the Diet decides or how the cabinet’s policy is set, we will continue to oppose and fight with force”—yet regardless of how formal public opinion may be constituted, I myself remain resolutely opposed.
Even if there are laws, do not obey such things—we citizens cannot lightly overlook assertions of this kind.
It may be due to my narrow-mindedness—having spent decades drafting laws or lecturing on legal matters, my mind may have become unhinged—but I cannot help feeling there are multitudes today who calmly violate laws and resist with force, who even if something like the Land Expropriation Law exists, wear expressions saying, “Where does such a thing exist?”
Why has it come to this? This is not true democracy.
The act of violence boldly advancing in place of justice—this is nothing short of utmost barbarity, a complete portrait of national ruin, I believe.
Who will defend this justice?
Depending on the case, the defenders will undoubtedly differ.
Each should strive according to their respective duties.

When broadly considering other aspects as well, part of society appeared almost nihilistic; the sense of respect for justice had waned, people yielded to various forces, and the tendency for violence to prevail over truth was quite glaring.
One manifestation of this became what had already been discussed by Professor Masaki as the so-called "Sun Tribe."
The Sun Tribe did not exist as an entity in itself.
Since it only appeared in dramas and literature, it was somewhat unreasonable to immediately seize upon and make an issue of it, but the thought behind it was sorrowful.
The other day when I went to Okayama Prefecture, I had inquired with the maid at the inn there about her impressions of the Sun Tribe film.
According to the maids, it was stipulated that those under eighteen could not view.
I had entered feeling reassured that I was over eighteen, but what astonished me upon going inside was that both ahead and behind, the movie theater had been entirely filled with boys and girls under eighteen—they told me such a story.
Such matters should not have been debated through one-dimensional logic alone, but I could not help feeling somewhat sickened at heart by this social phenomenon where people calmly took pleasure in observing only the worst aspects of humanity.
We, at the time of our defeat in war twelve years prior, already had—I believed it was Mr. Hasegawa Nyozekan who had remarked—the Japanese people would ultimately grow toward health.
Mr. Hasegawa was a profound patriot.
He had always maintained a particular mental disposition, but even if we suffered defeat in war and temporarily faced dire circumstances, since we had long possessed fine traditions, inherent qualities, and undergone rigorous training over an extended period, it seemed reasonable to believe that things would not deteriorate to such an extreme state.
Well, this might have been an optimistic view, but I actually thought so.
Contemporary journalism tended to exaggerate matters, taking something as small as a needle and presenting it to society as large as a staff, and while this had to be taken with a grain of salt, in reality, it was moving toward considerable health; yet what would provide a better direction for this remained ultimately the public’s sense of justice.
Citizens had to defend justice through their mutual strength; in particular, those in public office selected from among the citizens—prosecutors and others—had to strive diligently, and the general public also had to show them respect and support.
But things did not reach ideal states in a single leap.
We had to persevere with patience.
For instance, even when police forces were increased, hoodlum groups had not decreased as one might expect.
When driven away from Point A, they merely relocated to Point B—merely moving to areas of weaker resistance—so in terms of overall quantity, they had not decreased at all.
Or again, regarding pushy salesmen as well, in our ordinary town life, pushy salesmen were quite terrifying.
And if one were to fight for justice by blatantly rejecting pushy salesmen, then unforeseen harm occurred frequently.

There had been cases where housewives who refused pushy salesmen were killed.
When people gave in to timidity, it only emboldened pushy salesmen.
This was surely the calamity born from weakness of heart among common people.
The ideal would have been robust state power activities to compensate for this, but that very power remained exceedingly weak.
Probably this too stemmed from society being imperfect and public support proving insufficient.
It was not that people lacked love for justice.
They simply became hesitant, looking around in all directions.
It ultimately came down to police force shortages and personnel deficiencies.
To put it briefly, one could assert justice in law, but in practice it became something unattainable.
What in the world should be done about this?
I wished to hear everyone's opinions.
Was it acceptable to leave things as they were?
Or perhaps might it not be better to steer toward supplementing this through the people's collective power and mental fortitude, working to gradually correct it?
This gave me much to ponder.

With everyone’s cooperation, let us not unreasonably dislike the prosecutorial authorities; while confirming that they are those who strive wholeheartedly for our sake—ardent lovers of justice though they never receive favorable treatment—if there happen to be mistaken incidents and one digs into the past, then any problem that may arise is of course a flaw.
While I cannot praise flaws, I believe we must consider the overall circumstances and scale, and offer fair criticism.
I have spoken in what may seem a rather rambling manner, but in truth, we have now arrived at a point touching upon a profoundly serious problem.
In human society, justice is of utmost importance, and where there is no defense of justice, true order cannot flourish.
But within our individual hearts lies a weakness—a tendency to neglect defending justice regarding matters not directly pressing upon ourselves.
This I consider unacceptable.
We must strengthen our resolve, stir up public indignation, become incensed at infringements upon justice, and elevate our collective outrage as citizens of the nation.
And I believe it necessary to use this to ease the heavy work of those authorities bearing actual responsibility.
Should I continue further, I fear I would only waste everyone’s time on trivialities and end up acting contrary to justice itself; therefore, I shall conclude my remarks here.