Guest Voices: Forgiving is not Forgetting - On Faith at washingtonpost.com

Forgiving is not Forgetting

Editor's Note: Today, Dr. Lester Tenney, 88, will be the last Commander of the American Defenders of Bataan and Corregidor to attend the national Veterans Day services. He fought in the first months of World War II in the Philippines against the Japanese and is a survivor of the infamous Bataan Death March, a Hell Ship, Japan's notorious POW camps, and a Mitsui coal mine. On Saturday, Nov. 8, he had his bar mitzvah at Washington's Ohev Sholom Synagogue. The following is an adaptation of his bar mitzvah sermon on Vayerah (Genesis 18-22) for On Faith.

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The Vayera Torah section has a lot in common with my own personal experiences as a prisoner of Japan during World War II. There are miracles and trials as Man is faced with destruction and near-destruction.

The reading begins with Abraham convincing God that destroying a whole community, even the good, just to punish the bad, is not necessary. God agrees with Abraham and spares the lives of Lot and his two daughters. Lot's wife, however, did not fare as well. She ignored God's command to "not look back" and was turned into a pillar of salt.

This trial of Abraham caused me to reflect again as to why I and not others returned from captivity. I was an American soldier fighting in the Philippines soon after the attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941. However, we were not as lucky as Lot. Abraham was not with us to negotiate with God; to intervene on our behalf.

Those of us who where on Bataan, a small peninsular on Luzon Island, were surrendered by our commanders on April 9, 1942. Of the 12,000 Americans captured that day, only 1,700 lived to return home. We quickly found that Imperial Japan believed that death is better than capture and that surrender is a disgrace.

With our surrender we began the infamous Bataan Death March. It was called a Death March not just because of how many died, but because of the way they died. We marched in tropical heat without food, water, medical attention, or dignity. If you stopped, you were killed. If you had to relieve yourself or to get a drink of water, you were killed. If you just could not walk another step, you were killed. Then the corpse was left on the road for tanks and trucks to run over them.

And how did the Japanese soldiers kill you? They bayoneted, shot, beat, or decapitated you. Beheading was a very public show of skill to emphasize their dominance over us.

People ask me what was the worst thing I had experienced on the march. My answer, without hesitation, is witnessing my friends die and being helpless to save them. We were unarmed prisoners obeying orders. For this, the Japanese tortured and humiliated us every step of the nearly 70-mile trek for their pleasure.

It was the fourth day of the march that I happened to be walking on the outside line. A Japanese officer suddenly rode by on his horse waving his Samurai sword intent on inflicting damage to any of the Americans marching. His sword came down on me, just missing my neck but leaving a deep gash in my shoulder. He galloped away, happy.

Two of my friends, buddies from my Tank Company, would not let me fall down, because falling down meant death. They carried me for what appeared to be about a half an hour. Then, all of a sudden, the Japanese guards hollered, YASUMI [rest]. Why just then I will never know, but it saved my life. And why my two friends did not survive to return home, I will never know as well.

I have many stories like this. For the three-and-one-half years that I spent in Japanese prisoner of war camps and as a laborer who was sold to Mitsui to work in a dangerous coal mine, I was beaten, starved, and humiliated daily. I had my teeth knocked out, my shoulder broken, my back broken, and my hand broken, all by the civilians in the mine, and all with the approval of the mine operators.

I witnessed countless atrocities. One friend of mine was beaten continuously because he was identified as Jewish. I understand he is a member of this congregation. When the guards asked if, I was Jewish my response was, "Me, no, Mussolini, Italiano." I used a little white lie to protect myself from Japanese anger and more severe beatings. Yes, just like Abraham lying to King Abimelech to save his wife, I used a lie to avoid abuse and possible extinction. And, like Abraham, I once persuaded a Japanese guard that, with my "experience" in the coal mines of Chicago, we could not be expected extract as much coal as instructed.

I am no longer a prisoner of the Japanese. Those who beat and tortured me are no longer alive in my mind. You see, I am ready to forgive and to get on with my life. But forgiveness doesn't mean I have given in or have forgotten; it means I want to let go of the past and get on with the future, it means I am no longer handcuffed to those who hurt and humiliated me. It means also that I must seek justice for all those who suffered with me and reconciliation with my tormentors. This is how I move forward with forgiveness. And in this way, I follow the command not to look back.

Dr. Lester Tenney native of Chicago and a veteran of the Illinois National Guard. He is currently a resident of Carlsbad, California.

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Forgiving is not Forgetting