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The Five Principles

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1. Let's cherish people.

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2. Let's cherish nature.

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3. Let's cherish time.

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4. Let's cherish things.

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5. Let's cherish our country and society.

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The Ten Subjects for Reflection: 

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1. Have I been friendly to my playmates?

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2. Have I been kind to elderly people? 

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3. Have I bullied the weak?

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4. Have I taken care of all living creatures, flowers and plants?

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5. Have I kept my promises?

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6. Have I observed all traffic regulations?

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7. Have I listened to the advice of others, such as my parents and teachers?

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8. Have I been finicky with my food?

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9. Have I been a nuisance to others?

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10. Have I acted courageously for what I believed to be right?
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


Japan's superb postwar school system has given the nation an enviable literacy rate of 99%, but its children are ignorant in other areas that are considered important by many conservative Japanese. Many of the children, for example, do not know the national anthem. The reason is simple: the powerful Japanese teachers' union (Nikkyoso)—whose 600,000 members include 70% of Japan's elementary and high school teachers—thinks that the anthem smacks of emperor worship and pre-World War II militarism. Thus it is rarely played in schools.

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That fact has long incensed the right wing of Premier Kakuei Tanaka's conservative Liberal Democratic Party. Tanaka is faced with galloping inflation (consumer prices rose 27.6% last year), his lowest standing yet in the polls (20%) and crucial Upper House elections in July. So he has now decided to increase his popularity with conservative voters by joining the battle against the predominantly socialist teachers' union.
 
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Patient Wait. Among his demands: 1) the mandatory teaching and singing of the national anthem, Kimigayo (Your Majesty's Reign),* in the schools; 2) regular school ceremonies for the raising of the Japanese flag (which currently does not fly over schools and is frequently downgraded by teachers as "our Olympic flag"); and 3) restoration of the prewar teaching of morals, including parts of the imperial rescript proclaimed by Emperor Meiji in 1890.
 
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As if that were not enough, Tanaka's government ordered the arrest two weeks ago of 20 top officials of Nikkyoso on charges of participating last April in an illegal general strike of government workers for higher wages. The arrests were carried out with extreme deference (one police squad waited patiently at the home of a union leader until he awoke from his night's sleep). But other government employees who took part in the same strike were pointedly not prosecuted.
 
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Beyond their outrage over the government attempt to crack their union, the teachers are alarmed over Tanaka's plan to reinstate the teaching of morals in the curriculum. They fear that his program marks the beginning of a return to authoritarianism and emperor worship. At first glance, Tanaka's two-tiered ethics program consisting of the "Five Principles" and the "Ten Subjects for Reflection" (which inevitably became known as Tanaka's Ten Commandments) would not seem particularly controversial (see box). In fact, it rather closely parallels the old imperial prescript on education.
 
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That edict, regarded as the bible for Japanese schoolchildren, stressed the importance of being "filial to parents, fraternal to brothers, trustworthy to friends and harmonious between man and wife." But it also provided the underpinnings for the prewar practice of absolute obedience to the emperor with its admonition: "In case of national emergency, dedicate yourself to patriotism and enhance our eternal imperial institution." It was this dictum, in fact, that shaped pre-World War II education—and indeed the whole country —more than anything else.
 
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Haunting Memory. The old school system is still a haunting memory for most Japanese over 40, including TIME Correspondent S. Chang, who attended primary school in prewar Japan. "Teachers in the main were well trained and the system, on the academic side, did well," he recalled last week. "But it did far better in brainwashing pupils in the cult of emperor worship. The whole six-year compulsory education was dedicated to fukoku kyohei [enrich the nation, strengthen soldiers]. Boys in the class were shaven-pated like Japanese soldiers in their barracks. Like soldiers, too, they were expected to snap to attention each time the teacher dropped that sacred word, tenno [emperor]. They did—like so many Orwellian robots."

Along with the Japanese empire, that school system collapsed on V-J day. But Japanese teachers, more than any other professional group, felt the burden of guilt for having trained their pupils in militarism. When the Nikkyoso was formed in 1947, one of its tenets was a pledge "never again to send our children to war," which teachers still take as a sacred creed.

Last week both the opposition parties and the Japanese press condemned the Tanaka government for making education a political issue. Editorialized the Asahi Shimbun, Japan's leading daily: "Nobody in Japan is convinced that our educational system is perfect, but that is no reason for using the issue for electioneering: education should only be discussed calmly—after the election."


* "May your glorious reign be everlasting/ Until pebbles turn into rocks/ And moss form on them."

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For years, Japan's political establishment has stamped out national leaders almost as uniformly as Japanese industry turns out transistors. The country's first ten postwar Premiers all reached power in their 60s or 70s, and most were equipped with identical attributes: samurai ancestries, diplomas from Tokyo University, decades of self-effacing service in government bureaucracies. Last week the mold was shattered when the Japanese Diet in a special session elected International Trade and Industry Minister Kakuei Tanaka, 54, the country's eleventh Premier since 1945. A muscular, self-made millionaire (construction, real estate) who has only a grade-school education, Tanaka takes charge of the world's third strongest economy with no reluctance whatsoever in promising "powerful leadership to fit a new era." 

Tanaka's accession to power may well mark the end of the reserved and cautious style of national stewardship epitomized by his predecessor, Eisaku Sato, 71. The new Premier's election automatically followed his victory in a hard-fought struggle for leadership of the ruling Liberal Democratic Party, whose popularity had eroded in the later years of Sato's 7½-year regime. Sato favored Foreign Minister Takeo Fukuda, 67, for party president and Premier, and the L.D.P.'s brusque rejection of his protege at a convention in downtown Tokyo's big Hibiya Hall last week was the final shokku. Sato nearly wept as Fukuda was trounced by the upstart millionaire, 282 to 190, in a second-ballot runoff. 

The vote reflected not so much Tanaka's popularity as consternation in the party ranks over the Liberal Democrats' sagging fortunes under Sato. The retiring Premier had hoped that his final years in office would vindicate the policies he and his predecessors had followed for more than two decades. Those policies were based upon total dependence on U.S. leadership in foreign affairs and total devotion to the buildup of Japanese industry at home. 

Sato's ambitions were partly dashed last summer, when the Nixon Administration sprang its new economic moves and diplomatic overtures to China on an unprepared Japan. The rest of his hopes faded more gradually, as the Japanese grew increasingly unhappy with the overcrowding, high prices and pollution that they had to endure as the price of their country's economic success. 

To Japan's man in the street, Kakuei Tanaka offers an appealing change in style. He is, in fact, a new kind of Japanese politician: a straight-talking, Oriental populist. Almost everything about the man has voter appeal, from his hoarse baritone to his bumper-sticker name (which literally means "Sharp Prosperity Amid Paddies"). Tanaka was born in a rice-belt village, in Niigata prefecture, the son of a horse trader who had a financially fatal weakness for gambling. At 16, young Tanaka quit school and lit out for Tokyo, where for three years he ran errands for a contractor by day and studied the construction business by night. Tanaka's budding business career was briefly sidetracked when the Imperial Army drafted him and sent him to Manchuria. But he contracted pneumonia and was discharged a month before Pearl Harbor—in time to organize a small contracting firm and ride the wartime construction boom to prosperity. 

Throaty Style. In 1947 the young contractor (he was then 28) entered Japan's second postwar election and won the first of his ten successive terms in the Diet. He began to command national attention at 39, when he was named Minister of Posts and Telecommunications, his first Cabinet job. Soon after his appointment, he consented during a radio interview to demonstrate his throaty singing style by crooning a ballad in praise of gambling, which is outlawed in Japan. The party's old guard gasped, the newspapers dubbed Tanaka "Minister Without IQ," but the performance drew high ratings from the general public. 

Liberal Democrat elders soon found that they could not do without Tanaka's proven talents as a vote getter. As secretary-general of the party during the 1969 elections, Tanaka masterminded the campaign that won the L.D.P. 300 of the 491 seats in the lower house of the Diet. At times, however, Tanaka has been an embarrassment to his party. Even after he took on Cabinet-level responsibilities, Tanaka continued to pursue his wide-ranging building and real estate interests. Though most Japanese politicians retain their business interests, Tanaka has been accused of not always keeping separate his public and private sectors. In 1966 he was forced to step down as party secretary-general because of charges that he was associated with questionable land-speculation deals. Tanaka was never indicted or convicted, but rumors of alleged monetary irregularities have continued to plague him. 

As Tanaka tells it, he is "a born peasant." It is true, as his daughter Makiko insists, that stray dogs are the only other creatures up and about in Tokyo's fashionable Mejiro neighborhood each day at 5:30 when Tanaka arises. Still, there is nothing humble about his house: a 24-room mansion surrounded by gardens and the putting green on which Tanaka tries to improve his 18-handicap golf. No other politician in Tokyo has anything to compare with Tanaka's spread, but he protests that he needs the space. "A politician," he says, "is like a machine designed to meet as many people as possible." 

Every morning, before he sits down to his regular 8:30 breakfast (bean-paste soup, rice, a raw egg and seaweed), he sees as many as 300 businessmen, politicians and other assorted petitioners. They gather in the public wing of his house and wait to be ushered in for brief audiences with Tanaka. The new Premier's 19-hour days do not permit much leisure; aside from golf, his chief pastime nowadays is the art of calligraphy. He rarely socializes at night, preferring to spend his evenings with his handsome wife Hanako. When he married her at 24, she was already 31. "As I worked hard day and night and Sundays and holidays," Tanaka explained in his autobiography, "I needed a woman like her, not a younger one, for my wife. Since then she has been the finance minister and the keeper of the safe in my household. This has worked well and we both have been very happy." 

How will the new Premier deal with the problems that proved so troublesome for his predecessor? The emphasis on consensus in Japan's politics probably rules out radical departures. Moreover, for all of his talk of action (see box, page 24), Tanaka has no record as an innovator, even though he was one of the first Japanese politicians to recognize the country's environmental problems. He is on record with a proposal to disperse Japan's highly concentrated industries and redistribute the population among new villages and towns. Each would be surrounded by green belts and linked by 5,400 miles of new bullet-train railway lines and 6,000 miles of superexpressways. 

Nevertheless, Tanaka, like his predecessors, is a proponent of continued economic growth. He is also an ambitious novice in diplomacy whose vague thoughts on foreign policy are couched in uncertain cliches. It remains to be seen whether the new Premier will become as deft at geopolitics as he has been with real estate.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

For the second time in eight months, China's aging leaders will gather this week at the now familiar willow-edged airport outside Peking to greet a traveler on a historic mission. Last February the U.S. President stepped out of Air Force One and totally changed the geopolitical shape of the world. This time the plane will be a Japan Air Lines jet carrying the leader of a country whose rivalry with China scarred Asia for the better part of the past century. The arrival of Japan's Premier Kakuei Tanaka in Peking, said China's Premier Chou En-lai last week, will mean "a new leaf in our history."
 
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Though this week's meeting will necessarily stand in the long shadow of Richard Nixon's summit of last February, it will also surely rank as one of the great symbolic events of the postwar era—an Asian counterpart of Willy Brandt's travels to Warsaw and Mos cow in 1970. Tanaka's arrival in Peking comes almost 35 years to the day after full-fledged war broke out between Chiang Kai-shek's Nationalists and Japan's invading Imperial Army in 1937. It is only one of the ironies of the summit that Tanaka's journey of atonement will be another blow to the Nationalists. The Japanese Premier's six-day visit will end on the eve of Oct. 1, making the summit a kind of obeisance to Mao Tse-tung's Communists, who use that date as the anniversary of the triumphant establishment of their regime in Peking in 1949. When a ranking Japanese emissary arrived in Taipei early last week to plead for "understanding" of the summit, Nationalist student demonstrators greeted him with angry placards crying TANAKA GO TO HELL!
 
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Tanaka, a bluff-spoken millionaire real estate man and lifelong politician, brings to his Peking venture only three months' tenure as Japan's Premier and little experience in diplomacy (see box). Though he is not strong on foreign affairs, he is an acknowledged authority on what figures to be a principal target of the summit negotiation: Japanese domestic politics.

As Tanaka well knows, Sino-Japanese relations are the single most powerful issue in Japanese politics. Only last week, the Tokyo daily Asahi Shimbun published a poll showing that 39% of the Japanese population now rate China as Japan's top foreign policy priority, while the U.S., which had always led such polls before, dropped to second place with a 28% rating. If the Peking summit is successful, Tanaka may call a quick election, perhaps as early as next month, to add a public mandate to the Liberal Democratic Party vote that brought him the premiership last July, when longtime Premier and Party Chief Eisaku Sato retired at 71 (TIME, July 17).

The Peking summit comes at a time when Tanaka's Japan is already riding a kind of diplomatic crest. Though the Nixon economic and diplomatic shokkus of last summer are still fresh in Japanese memories, Tanaka managed to come away from his summit with the President in Honolulu last month with what looked like U.S. approval and support. Moscow has been actively courting Tokyo, and is pressing to begin work on a long-delayed peace treaty. Then there was China's decision to deal with Japan, after so many years of anti-Japanese vituperation. As one American diplomat in Tokyo puts it: "In the multipolar game, that's not a bad score."

Why have the Chinese decided to deal with Tokyo now, having scornfully rebuffed Japanese advances for years? The chief consideration may well be fear of Russia. Peking may have begun to fret that the gradual U.S. withdrawal from Asia, and China's longstanding anti-Japanese policy, might simply push Tokyo closer to Moscow, which recently increased Russian military strength along China's border from 47 to 50 divisions. The Chinese also need Japanese technology to help modernize their economy. Then there is the age factor: now that Mao is pushing 79, Chou, who is 74, could be hurrying to complete Peking's return to outward-looking diplomacy while the Chairman is still around to give it his imprimatur.

Locked in War. One question that only the summit can answer is how anxious the Chinese are to force Japan to sever formally its ties with Taiwan. Chou himself has hinted that he would be willing to see Japanese business continue to operate on Taiwan, which imports more than $760 million in Japanese goods annually (China's imports from Japan totaled $578 million last year, and they are not expected to rise dramatically even if diplomatic relations are established). But it remains to be seen how tough Peking intends to be about its longtime insistence that Tokyo must flatly renounce its peace treaty with Taiwan. Though the Japanese seem to be in a strong bargaining position—Peking needs a rapprochement more than Tokyo does—they may well have to yield a great deal if they are to achieve their objective: immediate diplomatic recognition and an embassy in Peking before next spring. With that possibility in mind, the Nationalist embassy in Tokyo last week laid in a supply of large packing crates, just in case a quick exit might be necessary.

Certainly, the summit will not bring instant warmth to relations between China and Japan. They have been rivals for centuries and locked in war —military or verbal—almost continuously since the annexation of Formosa (Taiwan) by Japanese troops in 1895. So far, Chou has not publicly softened his oft-expressed view that Japan's economic growth "is bound to bring about military expansion." Given the history of hostility on both sides, the prospect is thus for a summit of convenience, not for a summit of real reconciliation.
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

An early fall breeze swept over Peking airport, lifting the first Rising Sun flag to fly there since 1945. As Japan's Premier Kakuei Tanaka stepped out of his DC-8, a Chinese band struck up the solemn Japanese anthem Kimigayo (The Reign of Our Emperor), then switched to the Communist Chinese anthem March of the Volunteers, the staccato marching song that Mao Tse-tung's Red Army sang during its wars with Emperor Hirohito's plundering troops in the 1930s and '40s. It was a moving beginning to a historic meeting that would end a century of hostility and reopen a dialogue between Asia's two great powers.

At week's end, with a few whisks of their Chinese writing brushes, Tanaka of Japan and Premier Chou En-lai of China signed an agreement to end "the state of war" between the two countries and establish diplomatic relations immediately. The summit was much more than a delayed coda to World War II however. The reconciliation between the two nations—one of them the world's fastest-growing industrial democracy, the other its most populous and doctrinaire Communist nation—had ended "an abnormal state of affairs," as Chou put it with considerable understatement. In resuming normal relations with Tokyo, Peking put aside the last trace of the peculiar xenophobia that scarred its foreign policy during the 1960s. An the same time, the summit marked the beginning of Japan's emergence from the U.S. foreign policy umbrella that had sheltered it through the postwar era. The meetings were a reminder that the U.S.-Chinese-Soviet triangle that had shaped Asian geopolitics for the past decade was rapidly becoming a quadrangle, with Japan an ever more active fourth side.

The immediate effect of the summit was a sharp if not unexpected diplomatic setback for Chiang Kai-shek's Nationalist regime on Taiwan. In the¡¡Tanaka-Chou communique, the Japanese managed to deal with the agonizing Taiwan issue by saying simply that Japan "understands and respects" Peking's claim to the island; known as the Dutch formula, that position went further than the Nixon-Chou communique (the U.S. merely "recognized" Peking's claim), but it still stopped short of an explicit repudiation of the Nationalist government.

Nonetheless, as soon as the communique was signed, Japanese Foreign Minister Masayoshi Ohira summoned newsmen to hear a crisp announcement. Japan, he said, considered its 1952 peace treaty with Chiang's government as having "ceased to be valid," and would sever relations forthwith. Angrily condemning Japan's "perfidious actions," the Nationalist government severed relations with Tokyo and threw a cordon of troops around the Japanese embassy in Taipei in order to protect it from possible mob violence.

Japan is the 16th country to have broken relations with Taipei in the past 23 months. The U.S. is the only major industrial nation to continue to recognize the Nationalist regime. Though Tokyo's move will surely accelerate similar shifts by smaller nations, Taipei will still be able to rely on its principal lifeline: business. With Chinese acquiescence, at least for now, Japan intends to keep its economic ties with Taiwan, which is still a bigger market (more than $760 million a year) for Japanese goods than China ($578 million). But Taiwan's trade arteries to Japan could eventually harden, with serious implications for the regime's viability. In a gesture of spite, thinly masked as a move to reduce Taiwan's $600 million Japanese trade deficit, Taipei ordered importers to begin shopping in Europe and the U.S. for machinery and other materials they used to buy in Japan.

Like President Nixon's trip last February, Tanaka's six-day visit was a mingling of televised rubbernecking (an estimated 70% of Japan's 27 million TV sets were tuned in to Tanaka's arrival) and "surprisingly frank" closed-door talks. Both sides, understandably, seemed preoccupied with symbolism as well as substance. In his welcoming speech, Chou spoke of China's past suffering from Japanese armies, saying that "we must remember such experiences and lessons." Tanaka limited himself to a terse acknowledgment that the "great troubles" that Japan had inflicted on China had given him cause for "profound self-examination"—in Japanese, a strong expression of repentance and regret.

Nonetheless, the summit was relaxed and even breezy. When Tanaka laughingly complained that he was "slightly drunk" because he had had some potent Chinese mao-tai at his guest cottage, Chou assured him that he would "prefer mao-tai to vodka. It's smooth on the throat and doesn't go to your head." He added smilingly that Tanaka, a self-made construction millionaire who is not averse to taking a drink on occasion, "should be able to hold it." Tanaka's hour-long audience with Chairman Mao Tse-tung at midweek was equally jocular. "Is the fighting over?" Mao asked, referring to Tanaka's talks with the Chinese Premier. "With Chou," Mao went on, "it's imperative that you quarrel first. Only when you quarrel first can you become a fast friend."


Cold Realism. For all the good humor, there is likely to be less warmth than cold realism in the resumed Sino-Japanese dialogue. "The two societies are radically different," reminds Harvard Asia Scholar Edwin Reischauer, a former U.S. Ambassador to Japan. "I do not see them drawing close together merely on the basis of being Asian." Peking wants some specific things from Tokyo, notably access to Japan's modern technology. But the two capitals are mainly concerned with each other's place in Asia's emerging four-power equilibrium. The Chinese, who opened the way to last week's summit, worry that that delicate balance could be upset by the Soviets. On the one hand, Moscow has 50 divisions poised on the Chinese border; on the other, it is courting the favors of China's historic Asian rival, Japan, with the possibility of negotiating a favorable Russo-Japanese peace treaty and participating in a vast program to develop natural-gas deposits in Siberia.

It was mainly with Soviet ambitions in mind that the Chinese got their Japanese guests to agree to a communique opposing attempts by other countries to "establish hegemony" in the Asia-Pacific area, a seeming rebuff to Moscow. But the Japanese are learning to play four-power politics too. Just before Premier Tanaka left for Peking, Tokyo
 

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