To Kume-chan, and to us who were the 'Cat Tribe'

—An homage from one who lived in the same era and is aging at the same speed—

Why is it necessary to write this now?
It is because, lately, the names of my own generation are quietly,
yet surely, becoming 'past tense'.

Obituaries are no longer just for former 'stars' or 'celebrities'.

People who breathed the same air, navigated the same whirlpools of the era,
consumed their youth in the same way, held onto dreams, and wore themselves out for their work are, little by little, withdrawing from this side of the world.

Every time it happens, I think.
This is not someone else's story. It is a signal that 'our era' is quietly beginning to draw its curtains. Therefore, this piece is not a eulogy.

It is not a farewell, either.
It is a quiet signal sent from one 'Cat Tribe' member who walked the same era to another.

More than forty years ago.
I was in the Department of Broadcasting at Nihon University College of Art.
The broadcasting industry back then was like a sea without shape; there were no correct answers or models for success anywhere.

In the school hallways, nameless future talents and
adults who smelled a bit dangerous breathed the same air.


Everyone was still nobody,
and felt they could become anything.
I eventually went into the path of interior design and began working on creating spaces. It was a job of providing quiet places for people to live.


Then, one day,
a project came flying into my office.
A renovation project for a villa in Zushi owned by the president of Office 21.

The person behind it was
—Hiroshi Kume. Before he became the 'legendary newscaster,' he was just a single, slightly eccentric man.

We didn't exchange words face-to-face. But we were certainly in the same era, in the same whirlpool. And that was enough.

Cats do not flock.
But they clearly sense the presence of others under the same roof. I think Kume-chan and I were both of the 'Cat Tribe' of that era.

Hiroshi Kume was not a man who brandished justice. He didn't shout. He didn't preach. He didn't provide answers.

He was simply a man who quietly offered, 'There is a sense of discomfort here,' or 'There is room for thought here.'


In front of the television, which is essentially a 'noisy window',
he tried to leave behind a 'quietness' for thinking.

The episode surrounding the death mask of a death-row prisoner does not symbolize a victory or defeat of righteousness.

Broadcasting ethics and consideration for viewers—neither was wrong. Even so, Kume-chan said, 'The viewers have a right to know.'



Knowing the weight of both showing and hiding, he returned only the 'fact that existed' to the viewers. That is not the behavior of a hero.



It was a way of being, like a cat staring out the window, just twitching its tail to say, 'Something is happening.'

Now, people of my generation are leaving one after another.
When I hear a name, I think, 'Ah, them too,' and my heart sinks just a little. Everyone, within that whirlpool,
found their own place and lived in their own way.


Some stood in front of the television,
while others continued to create spaces.
But what they had in common was the nature of 'not flocking'.

They did not conform to the times,
yet they did not run away from them either; they simply kept watching from their own places. That was the way of the Cat Tribe.

Hiroshi Kume did not change the era.
He simply refused to let them take away our 'margin for thought'.
That is all.

Yet, living in this current age, we are finally beginning to realize just how difficult that is.


In a world where the loudest voices monopolize what is considered 'right,' and silence is treated as a virtue, to keep saying that it is 'okay to think'.

That is a much lonelier job than any revolution.
Kume-chan continued to do that, every night, with quiet composure.

This is not a eulogy.
It is a quiet signal from one member of the Cat Tribe to another, who lived through the same era at the same temperature.

'I was watching, you know.' 'I could see the movement of your tail from over here.' That alone is enough.
We do not need to raise our voices.


We just need to sit by the window and keep watching the world, while doubting it just a little.
A cat named Hiroshi Kume was there.
And I, too, was watching the same era from a different windowsill. That is enough.

While this essay bears the real name 'Hiroshi Kume,' it was actually written as a quiet affirmation for 'us who lived through the same era'.



We are still here.
And we are still watching.
That alone is enough to make us the Cat Tribe.