Living with Hiroshima

The Brethren Church in Washington, D.C. has opened a soup kitchen for homeless people.
It is like a kitchen of an extra-big hotel, which is much larger in scale than I have ever heard of. They say that a great many people have come from many parts of the world to join its activity as volunteers. They are people of diverse colors, which characterizes the U.S.A. This activity is operated with financial support from various people. Food companies donate their products. Those homeless people who have returned to society contribute money and other articles as a token of thanks.

As one–day temporary volunteers, we engaged in simple work. I was surprised at the gorgeous menu with dessert and coffee. I was assigned the work of laying the tables.

As soon as the chime of the church began to ring at 12:00, people came upstairs with a rush and shoved to stand in lines, which were just like human walls.

Oblong trays holding a few big rolls, a plateful of buttered rice, and eggplant stew were thrust in front of me one after another. It was difficult work to pour macaroni soup or tomato soup into big bowls after asking them which soup they wanted to eat. I could not look in the faces of the people who demanded a second helping in secret or who were eating in silence shyly, but soon I became self-composed and became able to observe them calmly.

After finishing their meals, some people hid snacks or bread in their pockets, and some packed the leftovers from meals into plastic cases to take out. I was at a loss which way to look when I saw them make an ingratiating smile at me.

I thought I understood the reason why it was difficult for them to return to society. Many of the homeless had war experiences on a battlefield, and many of them were minorities. Some women were victims of men’s violence or those tired of childrearing.

Today we see more and more homeless people in Japan. Around the station, at the riverbed or in the park, they stay in their own “homes” made of cardboard and plastic sheets just like ones we see at the construction sites. I tend to avoid passing them.

I am wondering what my experience at the soup kitchen means to me. Is it possible for me to find its answer someday in the future? I felt I was filled with something depressingly hard to solve. Soon after the work finished, I felt hungry. I requested the leftovers of the homeless for my lunch. The soup scooped out from the bottom of the pan was unusually delicious.

After the volunteer activity at the soup kitchen