
Last Soldiers of an Imperial Army Have a Warning for Young Generations
At age 15, Mr. Kiyozumi became the youngest sailor aboard the I-58, an attack submarine of the Imperial Japanese Navy. In the closing days of World War II, it prowled the Pacific Ocean, torpedoing six Allied ships, including the heavy cruiser U.S.S. Indianapolis, which it sank.
He served in a military that committed atrocities in a march across Asia, as Japan fought in a brutal global conflict that was brought to an end with the atomic bombings of two of its cities. All told, World War II killed at least 60 million people worldwide.
But the living veterans like Mr. Kiyozumi were not the admirals or generals who directed Japan's imperial plans. They were young sailors and foot soldiers in a war that was not of their making. Most were still in their midteens when they were sent to far-flung battlefields from India to the South Pacific, where some were abandoned in jungles to starve or left bearing dark secrets when the empire fell.
After Japan surrendered on Aug. 15, 1945, they returned to a defeated nation that showed little interest in their sacrifices, eager to put aside both painful memories and uncomfortable questions about its wartime aggression. Mr. Kiyozumi lived a quiet life, working at a utility company installing the electrical wires that helped power Japan's reconstruction. Over time, his former crewmates died, but he rarely spoke about his wartime experiences.
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Washington Post
5 hours ago
- Washington Post
What if we need spiritual revival, not technology, to address climate change
When I lived in Cambodia, I meditated at a pagoda every week. Sitting on a pillow, the numbness creeping up my legs, I tried to master control of my mind. I never succeeded. But I did discover a dawning awareness of it. Even when not sitting cross-legged in Phnom Penh, that has served me well. At times, I can deeply observe moments or myself, catching what I would have otherwise missed. In journalism, where observing is the job, it has helped me follow the questions wherever they lead, trusting the answer is not what I already (think I) know. For American scholar and activist Joanna Macy, who died at age 96 this month, early encounters with Buddhism changed not only the course of her career, but popular understanding of how we might solve the most urgent environmental issues of our time. Today, her ideas are everywhere: in the language of protesters, in discussions at scientific conferences, even at the Vatican, where Pope Francis wrote his unprecedented 2015 encyclical on the environment, 'Laudato si.' Macy applied Buddhist teachings to help people understand that they were not free-floating individuals, but integral to a much larger whole composed of every living being across time, a network as real as our veins and arteries. She encouraged people to acknowledge their feelings about the destruction of the natural world and turn their anxiety and despair into positive action. 'The key is in not being afraid for the world's suffering,' she told an interviewer. 'Then nothing can stop you.' It was a philosophy she came to call the 'Work That Reconnects,' a practice, and an organization, that thousands around the world have turned to when overwhelmed by seemingly insurmountable problems. Macy's blueprint for climate action holds that we will not be able to solve the climate issue, and its intertwined problems, with technology and policy alone. We need spiritual renewal. It's notable that a dean of the modern environmental movement has come to an identical conclusion. Gus Speth, the co-founder of the Natural Resources Defense Council and the World Resources Institute, as well as the former dean of Yale's School of the Environment (where I studied), once considered biodiversity loss, ecosystems collapse and climate change to be the century's top environmental problems. 'I thought with 30 years of good science, we could address those problems,' Speth recently wrote by email. 'But I was wrong. The top environmental problems are selfishness, greed and apathy … and to deal with those we need a spiritual and cultural transformation, and we lawyers and scientists don't know how do that.' Macy's own transformation began in the Himalayan foothills of northwest India. Growing up, she had spent idyllic summers on her grandfather's Western New York farm, an escape from what she remembers as the 'hideously confining' concrete canyons of New York City. After graduating from Wellesley College in 1950, she briefly worked for the CIA in postwar Germany, before moving to India, where she helped resettle Tibetan Buddhist refugees. Her encounters with monks fleeing Chinese persecution, and the Buddhist religion, changed her life forever. Returning to school in the mid-1970s, she earned a PhD in religious studies at 49. Her thesis, said Sean Kelly, a philosophy professor who taught with Macy at the California Institute of Integral Studies, was the first research explicitly connecting Buddhist teachings with Western systems theory. 'She looked at the Earth as a massive system of which we are a part,' Kelly said. 'The Earth is living through us and other species.' Human identity, she argued, can't be separated from the natural world — with profound moral and practical implications for how we live. During the Cold War, as nuclear weapons and waste spread around the world, Macy founded the Nuclear Guardianship project. Beyond opposing nuclear proliferation, she advocated for treating radioactive waste as a moral and cultural commitment that spanned generations. Rather than bury waste in underground tombs, she argued that societies should keep the waste in retrievable, visible storage, so future generations could monitor and maintain the safety of 'humanity's most enduring artifact' — expected to remain lethal for more than 10,000 years. As environmental crises mounted, she saw despair and fear rising in those around her. Rather than escaping into what she called a false and premature peace of mind, she accepted the reality of suffering, even embracing it, as the only way to reclaim the freedom to act. 'That became, actually, perhaps the most pivotal point in … the landscape of my life: That dance with despair,' she said on the public radio show 'On Being' in 2021. 'To see how we are called to not run from the discomfort and not run from the grief or the feelings of outrage or even fear, and that if we can be fearless, to be with our pain. … It only doesn't change if we refuse to look at it.' Her argument was simple: Pain reveals what we love. The problem, she said, was when people imprisoned themselves in numbness or distraction to avoid the pain. 'Of all the dangers we face, from climate chaos to nuclear war, none is so great as the deadening of our response,' she wrote in her book 'World as Lover, World as Self.' Her genius, said Monica Mueller, an environmental studies and philosophy professor at Naropa University, was translating this idea into a practice that anyone could pick up in one of her books or 'Work That Reconnects' workshops around the world. People, especially activists, found in her teaching an antidote to burnout and apathy in the face of brutal odds. 'I've seen that time and time again,' Mueller said. 'People come in [to these workshops], literally wailing publicly, and then have something move through them and suddenly they feel they can go on.' As Macy grew older, she appeared to grow more pessimistic about our prospects of avoiding the worst of climate change and the collapse of industrial society — what she called the 'Great Unraveling.' That only redoubled her commitment to love the world and, if some of it was doomed, to give thanks for its beauty at every funeral. Despite this drumbeat of destruction, and her own pain, she could see the first green shoots of a more life-sustaining society taking hold, what she referred to as the 'Great Turning.' But hope didn't fit into her lexicon. The word doesn't exist in Buddhism's teaching, Macy taught, because it implies wishful thinking about the future, divorcing us from the present moment when we possess the power to act. Real hope, she countered, was a simple practice reliant on courage and imagination, not optimism. When people asked if she thought this would be enough, she told them they were asking the wrong question. 'When you're worrying about whether you're hopeful or hopeless or pessimistic or optimistic, who cares?' she said. 'The main thing is that you're showing up, that you're here, and that you're finding ever more capacity to love this world because it will not be healed without that.'
Yahoo
11 hours ago
- Yahoo
'Absolute madness': Thailand's pet lion problem
Behind a car repair business on a nondescript Thai street are the cherished pets of a rising TikTok animal influencer: two lions and a 200-kilogram lion-tiger hybrid called "Big George." Lion ownership is legal in Thailand, and Tharnuwarht Plengkemratch is an enthusiastic advocate, posting updates on his feline companions to nearly three million followers. "They're playful and affectionate, just like dogs or cats," he told AFP from inside their cage complex at his home in the northern city of Chiang Mai. Thailand's captive lion population has exploded in recent years, with nearly 500 registered in zoos, breeding farms, petting cafes and homes. Experts warn the trend endangers animals and humans, stretches authorities and likely fuels illicit trade domestically and abroad. "It's absolute madness," said Tom Taylor, chief operating officer of conservation group Wildlife Friends Foundation Thailand. "It's terrifying to imagine, if the laws aren't changed, what the situation is going to be in 10 years." The boom is fueled by social media, where owners like Tharnuwarht post light-hearted content and glamour shots with lions. "I wanted to show people... that lions can actually bond well with humans," he said, insisting he plays regularly with his pets. He entered Big George's enclosure tentatively though, spending just a few minutes being batted by the tawny striped liger's hefty paws before retreating behind a fence. Since 2022, Thai law has required owners to register and microchip lions, and inform authorities before moving them. But there are no breeding caps, few enclosure or welfare requirements, and no controls on liger or tigon hybrids. Births of protected native species like tigers must be reported within 24 hours. Lion owners have 60 days. "That is a huge window," said Taylor. "What could be done with a litter of cubs in those 60 days? Anything." - Illicit trade - Taylor and his colleagues have tracked the rise in lion ownership with on-site visits and by trawling social media. They recorded around 130 in 2018, and nearly 450 by 2024. But nearly 350 more lions they encountered were "lost to follow-up" after their whereabouts could not be confirmed for a year. That could indicate unreported deaths, an animal removed from display or "worst-case scenarios", said Taylor. "We have interviewed traders (in the region) who have given us prices for live and dead lions and have told us they can take them over the border." As a vulnerable species, lions and their parts can only be sold internationally with so-called CITES permits. But there is circumstantial evidence of illicit trade, several experts told AFP, speaking on condition of anonymity to avoid angering authorities. Media reports and social media have documented lions, including cubs, in Cambodia multiple times in recent years, though CITES shows no registered imports since 2003. There is also growing evidence that captive lion numbers in Laos exceed CITES import licences. In Thailand, meanwhile, imports of lion parts like bones, skins and teeth have dropped in recent years, though demand remains, raising questions about how parts are now being sourced. Thai trader Pathamawadee Janpithak started in the crocodile business, but pivoted to lions as prices for the reptiles declined. "It gradually became a full-fledged business that I couldn't step away from," the gregarious 32-year-old told AFP in front of a row of caged cubs. She sells one-month-olds for around 500,000 baht ($15,500), down from a peak of 800,000 baht as breeding operations like hers increase supply. Captive lions are generally fed around two kilograms (4.4 pounds) of chicken carcasses a day, and can produce litters of two to six cubs, once or twice a year. Pathamawadee's three facilities house around 80 lions, from a stately full-maned nine-year-old to a sickly pair of eight-day-olds being bottle-fed around the clock. They are white because of a genetic mutation, and the smaller pool of white lions means inbreeding and sickness are common. Sometimes wrongly considered a "threatened" subspecies, they are popular in Thailand, but a month-old white cub being reared alongside the newborns has been sick almost since birth. It has attracted no buyers so far and will be unbreedable, Pathamawadee said. She lamented the increasing difficulty of finding buyers willing to comply with ownership rules. "In the past, people could just put down money and walk away with a lion... Everything has become more complicated." - Legal review - Pathamawadee sells around half of the 90 cubs she breeds each year, often to other breeders, who are increasingly opening "lion cafes" where customers pose with and pet young lions. Outside Chiang Mai, a handler roused a cub from a nap to play with a group of squealing Chinese tourists. Staff let AFP film the interaction, but like all lion cafes contacted, declined interviews. Pathamawadee no longer sells to cafes, which tend to offload cubs within weeks as they grow. She said several were returned to her traumatised and no longer suitable for breeding. The growing lion population is a problem for Thailand's Department of National Parks, Wildlife and Plant Conservation (DNP), admitted wildlife protection director Sadudee Punpugdee. "But private ownership has existed for a long time... so we're taking a gradual approach," he told AFP. That includes limiting lion imports so breeders are forced to rely on the domestic population. "With inbreeding on the rise, the quality of the lions is also declining and we believe that demand will decrease as a result," Sadudee said. Already stretched authorities face difficult choices on enforcing regulations, as confiscated animals become their responsibility, said Penthai Siriwat, illegal wildlife trade specialist at WWF Thailand. "There is a great deal of deliberation before intervening... considering the substantial costs," she told AFP. Owners like Tharnuwarht often evoke conservation to justify their pets, but Thailand's captive lions will never live in the wild. Two-year-olds Khanom and Khanun live in a DNP sanctuary after being confiscated from a cafe and private owner over improper paperwork. They could survive another decade or more, and require specialised keepers, food and care. Sanctuary chief vet Natanon Panpeth treads carefully while discussing the lion trade, warning only that the "well-being of the animals should always come first". Big cat ownership has been banned in the United States and United Arab Emirates in recent years, and Thailand's wildlife rules are soon up for review. Sadudee is hopeful some provisions may be tightened, though a ban is unlikely for now. He has his own advice for would-be owners: "Wild animals belong in the wild. There are plenty of other animals we can keep as pets." ci-sah/sco/lb


Eater
19 hours ago
- Eater
Bill Elwell, Legendary Owner of Los Angeles Roadside Stand Bill's Burgers, Dies at 98
Bill Elwell, the owner of legendary San Fernando Valley burger stand Bill's Burgers, died on July 21 at 98 years old. Even late into his 90s, Elwell could be seen manning the flattop grill at his Van Nuys (eventually rezoned to Sherman Oaks) burger stand, flipping chargrilled patties as the line stretched away from its ordering window, down Oxnard Street. Elwell was born in 1926 and raised in the west Ventura neighborhood of Tortilla Flats. Before opening Bill's Burgers, he was in the Army during World War II, worked as a late-night taxi driver, and was a manager at Mission Linen Company. In 1965, Elwell purchased the burger stand that would become Bill's Burgers, which sat on the plot right next door to his job at the time. For the nearly six decades following, Elwell was constantly at the burger stand, serving well-seasoned patties topped with American cheese, iceberg lettuce, freshly sliced tomatoes, pickles, ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise. The flatop grill, still in use at the stand, dates back to the 1920s or 1930s. Elwell sourced the meat locally from Northridge, and it was ground fresh every morning. Legend has it that he was even spotted eating the patties raw if customers complained about them not being cooked enough. A line on the top of the menu read, 'You can't have it your way, this is not Burger King,' adding to the stand's dry humor. For some time, Elwell ran the stand as Bill & Hiroko's with his now ex-wife, Hiroko Wilcox, whom he met at a bowling alley decades ago. In a 2014 Los Angeles Times article, Elwell mentioned that another of his five ex-wives, Sharon Elwell, still came to the stand to help out a few times a week. At some point, Elwell renamed the stand back to Bill's Burgers, where it weathered the COVID-19 pandemic, and Elwell was still in the back flipping burgers. In July 2020, Elwell attempted to sell the business, but no sale ever materialized. As burger trends came and went in Los Angeles, from the crispy-edged smash burgers to thick bistro burgers, Bill's remained the same — a testament to Elwell himself and his longtime customers who kept coming back. In recent years, Elwell's age and consistent ownership have become a story in their own right. Eater LA conducted the first-ever interview on the burger man in 2013 at the age of 86. Over a decade later, virtually nothing had changed in the cash-only business except for the prices, even in the face of rising inflation. In 2011, a basic cheeseburger cost $3.35; by 2018, it had increased to $4.20, and by May 2025, it had risen to just $7. Though often gruff and other times grumpy, Elwell's straightforward persona as perhaps the oldest living burger cook in the country continued without greater coverage from national media. 'Whichever way I make the burger, that's the best way,' Elwell told Eater LA in 2013. 'But I like when people get double cheeseburgers with everything. That's what I'm famous for, I think.' Elwell is survived by his son James Elwell (Valerie) and daughter Charlene Morris, along with his grandchildren, great-grandchildren, great-great-grandchildren, and several nieces and nephews. A cheeseburger from BIll's Burgers in Los Angeles. Farley Elliott Eater LA All your essential food and restaurant intel delivered to you Email (required) Sign Up By submitting your email, you agree to our Terms and Privacy Notice . This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.