History and earth history; human chronicles and deep time. It is tempting to knit these temporalities together and search for the fractures that form along the deformation zone. Surely Hashima is one such warped place. On the one hand, Hashima explodes into life in a shower of coal and steam. And, a fragment of the new Pacific Order rises above the waves like a brittle volcano. On the other hand, we have the irretrievable disorder of entropy; a heat death signalled by the falling of Fat Man and the layer of ash that covered nearby Nagasaki. Time as rebirth rubs up against time as catastrophe.
I am taken, however, with Carl’s description of Hashima as a ‘dark Saturn.’ I think of it also as a cosmic body. For me, it is a black hole, where neither history nor earth history can exist. Hashima does not rush toward its destiny, nor slump into perpetuity. It implodes upon itself. Huge bloated books, children’s crayons, rotting wood and tiny sea shells pack tightly together, turn away from space and time, and hurl themselves into an abyss that is full to the brim and beyond.
Forthcoming, in the edited volume Monstrous Geographies, Inter-Disciplinary press, Oxford.
How can we respond to sites that are ‘ruined’ and made ‘toxic’ by layers of trauma, psychic, social and environmental? How can we reclaim their hospitality – that is, their potential as sites for living with and alongside the ‘other’ – whilst at the same time welcome their monstrousness? How can we encounter and engage with the logic of matter transmogrification and entropy manifest at such sites, such that these become habitable? In this chapter, we address these questions via reference to some of our work on Hashima Island, Japan. Bought by the Mitsubishi company in 1890, and mined for coal, Hashima played a vital role in creating Japan’s industrial and political revolutions in the twentieth century. By 1907, the small rock reef had doubled in size; this extension, formed from slag waste, was levelled, ready for the construction of dormitories for miners. Within this 1.2 square mile area, by 1950, people lived in and amongst concrete tower blocks, a school (with gymnasium and playground), a hospital, cinema, shops, public baths, shafts, stairways, parks, tunnels, staircases, a police station, a promenade, a swimming pool and an encircling sea wall. This wall, Brian Burke-Gaffney writes, ‘gave the island the appearance of a battleship riding the waves. The resemblance was so uncanny that a local newspaper reporter dubbed it Battleship Island…’, or Gunkanjima (軍艦島).