大江健三郎：历史重演

人文与社会 — 2012-01-30T13:06:42+16:00

学科: 社会
来源: (共识网)
关键词: 核武器威慑论，大江健三郎，福岛核泄露，核能
摘要: 日本战败时我十岁，第二年日本就通过了新的宪法。然而事实是，日本已经逐渐对军事力量进行了整组改编，并在上世纪六十年代与美国签署秘密协议，允许其向日本出售核武器，这样一来，所谓的"非核三原则"便成了一纸空文。

也许是机缘巧合，就在地震前一天，我写下一篇文章，在几天之后的《朝日新闻》晨报上发表了。文章讲的是我的一位同辈人，他是一位渔民，在1954年比基尼环礁附近海域捕鱼作业时受到了岛上氢弹实验的辐射（译者注：1954年3月1日，美国在比基尼环礁上秘密试爆了一枚氢弹。事先对试验毫不知情的当地居民、一些美国士兵、以及正在附近海域进行捕鱼作业的一艘日本渔船上的船员，都受到了核辐射）。在我19岁时我得知了他的其人其事，他一直都致力于反对"核武器威慑论"以及这种理论的倡导者。恰恰在地震前夕，我为这位渔民撰写文章，这难道是一种预兆？因为他同时也在与核电站建设及其产生的危险进行着坚决的斗争。一直以来我都有这样一个想法：要通过三类人群来看待日本的近代史--广岛和长崎原子弹袭击遇难者、比基尼环礁核试验中受辐射的船员、核设施事故的牺牲者。如果能够从这些人的角度看待日本历史，我们就可以意识到，产生今天这场悲剧的原因是不言而喻的。核反应堆的危险已被证实是确切无疑的真相，无论这场悲剧的结局为何，我在对救援工作表示敬意的同时，也认为此次事件意义非凡。它标志着日本历史的一个新阶段，我们必须重新站在核事故死难者的角度上看待我们的历史，必须重新透过痛苦但依然勇敢的幸存者的双眼看待我们的国家。日本是否真正能从灾难中汲取教训完全取决于人们是否愿意弥补过错，杜绝历史的重演。

这场灾难将两种完全不同的现象结合在一起--地震多发国家以及核能带来的危险。第一个现象是日本自古就必须要面对的一个现实。而第二个现象带来的是比地震和海啸更大的灾难，这也是人为的灾难。日本究竟从广岛原子弹袭击中得到了什么教训？ 2008年逝世的日本当代最伟大的思想家之一加藤秀一在谈到原子弹与核反应堆时，曾引用女作家清少纳言在一千年前写就的《枕草子》中的一句话："看起来虽远，却近在眼前"。核灾害看起来像是一个遥远的假想，但它一直潜伏在我们身边。日本人不应该从工业生产角度看待核能，广岛的悲剧给我们的教训不应该是将核能当做经济增长的"诀窍"。就如同地震、海啸和其他自然灾害一样，在广岛发生的一切应该被人们所铭记。那一场悲剧之所以带来了比自然灾害更深重的灾难恰恰因为它是人为的灾难。建造核反应堆是在重复历史的悲剧，是对生命的亵渎，也是对广岛遇难者最为严重的背叛。

日本战败时我十岁，第二年日本就通过了新的宪法。此后的很多年内，我不停地在问自己，新宪法中的和平主义包括放弃使用武力以及"非核三原则"（不持有、不生产、不进口核武器），这是否确切的说明了日本在战后的基本主张和立场呢？然而事实是，日本已经逐渐对军事力量进行了整组改编，并在上世纪六十年代与美国签署秘密协议，允许其向日本出售核武器，这样一来，所谓的"非核三原则"便成了一纸空文。但是，战后的人性理想并未被彻底遗忘。死难者的冤魂在敦促着我们尊重这些理想，他们的遭遇令我们不能打着政治现实的旗号而大肆发展核武器。我们不能这么做。当代日本有着这样一个矛盾的特性：她是一个躲在美国核保护伞下的和平主义国家。人们希望看到的是，现在在福岛核电站发生的事故能够使日本人民重新审视广岛和长崎的悲剧，真正认识到核能的危险，并放弃"核武器威慑论"这种错误的想法。

我在我文学创作成熟期时写了一部小说《教我们超越疯狂》。现在我已迈入人生的暮年，正在创作自己的"最后一部作品"。如果我能成功超越现在的这场疯狂，我将会以但丁《神曲》之《地狱篇》最后一行诗作为自己这本书的开场白："我们于是走出这里，重见满天繁星"。

英文原文：

History Repeats

by Kenzaburo Oe March 28, 2011

By chance, the day before the earthquake, I wrote an article, which was published a few days later, in the morning edition of the Asahi Shimbun. The article was about a fisherman of my generation who had been exposed to radiation in 1954, during the hydrogen-bomb testing at Bikini Atoll. I first heard about him when I was nineteen. Later, he devoted his life to denouncing the myth of nuclear deterrence and the arrogance of those who advocated it. Was it a kind of sombre foreboding that led me to evoke that fisherman on the eve of the catastrophe? He has also fought against nuclear power plants and the risk that they pose. I have long contemplated the idea of looking at recent Japanese history through the prism of three groups of people: those who died in the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, those who were exposed to the Bikini tests, and the victims of accidents at nuclear facilities. If you consider Japanese history through these stories, the tragedy is self-evident. Today, we can confirm that the risk of nuclear reactors has become a reality. However this unfolding disaster ends-and with all the respect I feel for the human effort deployed to contain it-its significance is not the least bit ambiguous: Japanese history has entered a new phase, and once again we must look at things through the eyes of the victims of nuclear power, of the men and the women who have proved their courage through suffering. The lesson that we learn from the current disaster will depend on whether those who survive it resolve not to repeat their mistakes.

This disaster unites, in a dramatic way, two phenomena: Japan's vulnerability to earthquakes and the risk presented by nuclear energy. The first is a reality that this country has had to face since the dawn of time. The second, which may turn out to be even more catastrophic than the earthquake and the tsunami, is the work of man. What did Japan learn from the tragedy of Hiroshima? One of the great figures of contemporary Japanese thought, Shuichi Kato, who died in 2008, speaking of atomic bombs and nuclear reactors, recalled a line from "The Pillow Book," written a thousand years ago by a woman, Sei Shonagon, in which the author evokes "something that seems very far away but is, in fact, very close." Nuclear disaster seems a distant hypothesis, improbable; the prospect of it is, however, always with us. The Japanese should not be thinking of nuclear energy in terms of industrial productivity; they should not draw from the tragedy of Hiroshima a "recipe" for growth. Like earthquakes, tsunamis, and other natural calamities, the experience of Hiroshima should be etched into human memory: it was even more dramatic a catastrophe than those natural disasters precisely because it was man-made. To repeat the error by exhibiting, through the construction of nuclear reactors, the same disrespect for human life is the worst possible betrayal of the memory of Hiroshima's victims.

I was ten years old when Japan was defeated. The following year, the new Constitution was proclaimed. For years afterward, I kept asking myself whether the pacifism written into our Constitution, which included the renunciation of the use of force, and, later, the Three Non-Nuclear Principles (don't possess, manufacture, or introduce into Japanese territory nuclear weapons) were an accurate representation of the fundamental ideals of postwar Japan. As it happens, Japan has progressively reconstituted its military force, and secret accords made in the nineteen-sixties allowed the United States to introduce nuclear weapons into the archipelago, thereby rendering those three official principles meaningless. The ideals of postwar humanity, however, have not been entirely forgotten. The dead, watching over us, oblige us to respect those ideals, and their memory prevents us from minimizing the pernicious nature of nuclear weaponry in the name of political realism. We are opposed. Therein lies the ambiguity of contemporary Japan: it is a pacifist nation sheltering under the American nuclear umbrella. One hopes that the accident at the Fukushima facility will allow the Japanese to reconnect with the victims of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, to recognize the danger of nuclear power, and to put an end to the illusion of the efficacy of deterrence that is advocated by nuclear powers.

When I was at an age that is commonly considered mature, I wrote a novel called "Teach Us to Outgrow Our Madness." Now, in the final stage of life, I am writing a "last novel." If I manage to outgrow this current madness, the book that I write will open with the last line of Dante's Inferno: "And then we came out to see once more the stars." ?（原文链接：http://m.newyorker.com/talk/2011/03/28/110328ta_talk_oe）

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大江健三郎：历史重演