To criticisms of Nogami and others, a manager of the Osaka branch of NHK replied, “those on the left often say that Japanese broadcasting is trying to fulfill its foremost function as an organ for the diffusion of reactionary thought. If one looks at the relationship with supervisory state officials, the scope of the limits on broadcast contents, etc., one cannot disagree with this observation, but it is only the organization and the system which foist [upon radio] varied functions favorable to a reactionary course—it is certainly not inevitable that we must advance along this road.”76 These words underscored the limitations of state controls. It was clear that NHK was feeling pressure from certain factions in government, but as the Osaka manager pointed out, the ultimate decisions were in hands like his. In institutions that were run by individuals and split into factions, the structure itself could not guarantee a particular outcome. Following their own inclinations, NHK managers charted a pro-army course for radio to applause from some and jeers from others. Though they may have wanted to keep the pro-army faction in the government happy, it was undoubtedly the standing ovations from the public that really made the difference.
The conversion of popular entertainment from the frivolity of the moga flapper to the drama of the campaigns in Manchuria was a different case once again. Dominated increasingly by fashion, mass culture had become a world of buumu (booms) which changed from season to season. Hence, it was not surprising that “like a see-saw,” the rise of kiwamono (sensational) and gunjimono (militaristic) products was accompanied by a fall in keik, or proletarian, culture.77 But unlike such Taish
In any case, the left-wing artistic community required little muzzling on the Manchurian question, for few spoke out against the occupation. Far from it, many artists reacted like Yosano Akiko, the nation's most famous pacifist. Akiko and her husband, Hiroshi, produced numerous poems and songs celebrating the military occupation. Early in her career, Akiko had caused a sensation with the anti-Russo-Japanese War poem “Brother Do Not Give Your Life.” Addressed to her youngest brother, her poem demands: “Did our parents make you grasp the sword and teach you to kill? For you what does it matter whether the fortress of Liishun falls or not?” But in 1932, while her husband penned “three human bullets” lyrics, Akiko published “Citizens of Japan, A Morning Song.” In it, she urged Japanese troops on “through sufferings a hundredfold” to “smash sissified dreams of compromise.” Unlike the Russo-Japanese War poem, which had condemned the waste of human life in battle, Akiko's new poem glorified the heroic death of a soldier who “scatters” his body, “purer than a flower, giving life to a samurai's honor.” Akiko's change of heart was apparently inspired by a trip to Manchuria in 1928, courtesy of Mantetsu. After a forty-day journey throughout the country, she returned to Japan impressed with Manchuria's progress under Japanese stewardship and convinced of the justice of Japan's colonial mission.79
Had they wished, it would have been possible in 1931 and 1932 for journalists and editors to express anti-war sentiments. The press and publication laws made Japan sound like a police state, but in reality they were notoriously difficult to enforce. The postpublication censorship system's key weapon, the ban on circulation, was usually thwarted by the efforts of publishers to sell the offending merchandise before police arrived to confiscate it. In 1932 the confiscation rate of banned newspapers was estimated at 25 percent, and for books and magazines, 13.7 percent.80 Newspapers defied Home Ministry prepublication warnings 262 times in 1931 and 1,080 times in 1932. The major papers were among the offenders.81 During the Russo-Japanese War, though Yosano Akiko's poem and other anti-war publications such as the Heimin shinbun came under a storm of protest from other journalists and publishers, government censorship laws failed to prevent publication and sale.82 What happened in 1905 was true for 1931 as well.
Looking back, the Asahi newspaper tried to explain its own volte-face as a case of official repression. The company history reported that “freedom of expression was not permitted after the outbreak of the Incident.…With the explosion at Fengtian, in a single stroke the nation entered a quasi-wartime situation and the press was completely silenced.”83 In fact, critical comments managed to get through the censor's net. In the most striking example, throughout the fall and winter of 1931–1932, forums for liberal and left-wing intellectuals such as the journals Ch kron and Kaiz were filled with skepticism toward the war fever. Ch kron's October 1931 editorial opposed sending troops to Manchuria, stating that Japan's ultimate goals could not be gained by force, and accusing elements in Japan of exploiting minor conflicts in Manchuria to impose an aggressive policy. Though Home Ministry censors warned Ch kron's editors not to repeat such sentiments,84 the November edition featured an article by Marxist Inomata Tsunao on “Monopoly Capitalism and the Crisis in Manchuria and Mongolia.” When this was banned outright,85 editors blunted subsequent criticism of the Manchurian Incident in later editions. But though they softened the language, the criticism of government policy still came through in a December article on the inevitable damage the occupation would do to Japanese-Western relations. Moreover, a January article disputed the army's claim that the occupation of Manchuria was necessary for the self-defense of treaty rights.86
Articles in Kaiz took an equally critical position, denouncing the self-serving news war and criticizing the Asahi and Mainichi for their obsequious attitude toward the military.87 In the same November issue, journalist Got
Especially in September and October of 1931, local papers affiliated with the Minseit