Mimizuka

Listen for a moment. On this narrow residential street in eastern Kyoto, the loudest sounds are often a passing bicycle, a crow on a wire, and the dry rustle of grass. In front of you rises a low, rounded mound, green and quiet, crowned with a weathered stone tower. There is no gate to pass through and no crowd to join. Houses stand close on every side. It is easy to walk past without noticing. That ordinary setting is part of what makes this place so heavy.

This is Mimizuka, which translates as the Ear Mound. It is a burial mound, and what lies beneath the grass are human remains. They are not whole bodies. They are the noses and ears of people from Korea, along with some Chinese soldiers, taken during the Japanese invasions of the Korean Peninsula in the late sixteenth century. Those wars lasted, on and off, from 1592 to 1598. The mound was raised here in 1597, while the fighting was still going on.

To understand why, we need to meet the man behind those invasions. Toyotomi Hideyoshi was the warlord who unified Japan after more than a century of civil war. Having brought the country's rival lords under his control, he turned his ambitions outward. His goal was the conquest of Ming China, and Korea stood on the road. Japanese armies landed on the Korean coast and swept north. The campaigns brought enormous destruction to Korea, and their memory remains painful there today.

In Japanese warfare of the time, samurai often took the heads of defeated enemies as proof of their deeds. Rewards depended on that proof. But carrying thousands of heads across the sea to Japan was not practical. So commanders collected noses instead. Historical records describe the noses being packed in salt or preserved in barrels and shipped home, where officials counted them. Many were taken from civilians as well as soldiers. Estimates of the number buried here vary widely, but they run to tens of thousands.

Here is a detail many visitors miss. The mound was originally known as Hanazuka, the Nose Mound. The name changed later, during the Edo period. One common explanation is that ears sounded slightly less cruel than noses, so the gentler-sounding name took hold. The contents did not change. Only the word did. When you hear the name Mimizuka, it helps to remember that the older, plainer name was closer to the truth.

Now look at the shape in front of you. The mound itself is covered in grass and low plants, and it is fenced off so that no one can climb it. On top stands a stone gorinto, a five-ring pagoda. This is a Buddhist memorial form found in many Japanese cemeteries. Each stacked stone stands for one of the classical elements: earth, water, fire, wind, and sky. The stone has darkened and softened with age and weather.

It may seem strange that a Buddhist memorial would mark trophies of war. When the mound was completed, Buddhist monks held a memorial service here for the souls of the dead. Some see this as a sincere act of compassion. Others see it as a way for Hideyoshi to display power and piety at the same time. Both readings have their supporters. Standing here, you are free to hold that question open, without needing to settle it.

Now turn and take in the neighbourhood around you. The mound was not placed here by chance. Close by stands Toyokuni Shrine, where Hideyoshi himself is enshrined as a god. Nearby, too, is the site of Hokoji, a temple he built to house a giant Buddha statue. So the burial place of his victims sits almost at the doorstep of his own memorial. Walk a few minutes and you will see both, in the same quiet part of Higashiyama.

For centuries the mound was simply part of the local landscape. In the modern era, its meaning has been discussed again, especially between Japan and Korea. Korean visitors come here to pray and leave flowers. Memorial ceremonies have been held at the site, with participation from both Korean and Japanese groups. People have also called at times for the remains to be returned to Korea. The debate continues, and the mound remains where it is.

Look along the stone fence that surrounds the mound. The tall stone posts carry carved characters. Posts like these usually record the names of donors who paid for the fence or for repairs. They are a small reminder that people have cared for this site over many generations. Nearby you will usually find an explanatory sign. Take a minute to read it. It gives the official account of what lies here.

Surprisingly, many travellers in Kyoto have never heard of this place. It does not appear in the classic photographs of the city. It holds no cherry blossom avenue and no golden pavilion. Yet it sits only a short walk from some of the most visited sights in eastern Kyoto. That contrast says something about how cities remember. The beautiful and the painful often stand side by side, and the painful is usually quieter.

If you would like to pay respects, you can do so simply. Stand still for a moment. Bow your head if that feels right to you. Speak softly, and keep any photographs respectful. Remember that this is a grave, and that people live in the houses all around. Flowers sometimes rest by the fence, left by earlier visitors. Please leave them as you found them. Silence here is a form of courtesy.

Before you go, look once more at the mound. Notice the grass moving in the wind, and the stone tower on top. Notice the ordinary windows across the street and the sound of daily life going on. As you walk away towards the shrine or the museums nearby, you may find yourself carrying the weight of this place with you. That is not a bad thing. Remembering is part of why it still stands.