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Content Warning: This section of the guide includes discussion of graphic violence, death, illness, and sexual violence.
The sun is the novel’s central symbol, featured even in its title, where its descriptor reveals its significance: Japan is commonly known as the land of the rising sun. The intense heat of the tropical sun thus symbolizes the oppressive conditions in the internment camps, and Morris often personifies the sun and associates it with violent imagery: It is “relentless in its attempts to burn [the internees] alive” (44), and it “pound[s] them all into hopeless submission” (84). The brutality of the sun and the brutality of the Japanese army become one and the same when Seki punishes first Norah and then Ray and Valerie by forcing them to spend an entire day exposed to the sun’s beams—a punishment that fuses the sun’s literal and symbolic significance.
Nevertheless, the sun also serves as a source of hope. The region’s climate is partly characterized by a monsoon season, and the heavy rains cause practical difficulties in the camp—clogged drains, mosquito-borne illnesses, etc.—while depleting morale. In this context, the sun is a welcome sight; Margaret at one point cheers a struggling internee by telling her to look up, remarking, “Soon the clouds will be gone, and the sun will come out” (195). The “rising sun” thus comes to represent the possibility of a life beyond imprisonment, transforming from a symbol of oppression into one of faith and perseverance.
Hunger is a motif that illustrates The Indiscriminate Brutality of War while also serving as a catalyst for the women’s solidarity. Throughout their captivity, the women endure systematic starvation: Their captors artificially limit the flow of resources into the camps (a point confirmed when Red Cross supplies suddenly materialize following Japan’s surrender). The lack of food is a weapon used to control and dehumanize the internees, reducing their existence to a primal struggle for survival. The novel emphasizes this point through its depiction of the camp’s children. June, for example, resorts to scavenging for individual grains of rice dropped by the guards, proudly explaining, “We crawled under the guards’ hut [...] when the guards are eating some of the rice falls on the floor and rolls through the gaps. We lie there with our hands open, and this is what I caught” (233). This image of a child risking punishment for a few grains of rice illustrates the depths of deprivation and the failure of morality that war represents.
However, the women transform this tool of oppression into an expression of collective power. When the Japanese officers demand the Australian nurses serve as “hostesses,” the nurses refuse, and the captors retaliate by withholding first their food and then the entire camp’s. In a pivotal moment of unity, the other women say that they will accept this starvation, thus rejecting their captors’ authority and affirming their bond as a chosen family. This act of mass defiance demonstrates that their solidarity is more powerful than their physical hunger, turning a symbol of their subjugation into a testament to their collective will.
Like music, memory plays a vital role in preserving the women’s identity and humanity. In an environment designed to erase individuality, the act of remembering past lives becomes a form of resistance and a source of hope: The women’s recollections of family, home, and their former selves evoke a world that exists beyond the barbed wire. For instance, Norah’s persistent memories of her daughter, Sally, fuel her will to endure while keeping her identity as a mother alive. On a larger scale, the creation of the Camp Chronicle institutionalizes this motif, allowing women to share recipes of favorite meals that remind them of home. A recurring refrain embodies memory’s significance. Amused by Ena and Norah’s attempts to clean the oil from their skin following their capture, John remarks, “[b]e my life short or long, I’ll remember this moment forever” (42). Variations on this phrase appear throughout the novel—amid the voice orchestra’s first concert, following Margaret’s death, etc.—reinforcing that memory is a well of meaning that neither captivity nor death itself can touch.
Memory also serves a significant ethical function intertwined with bearing witness. When Vivian Bullwinkel provides a detailed account of the Radji Beach Massacre, Nesta understands its importance, resolving that the story must be preserved so that “when the time comes, those accountable should answer for their actions” (81-82). By recounting the traumatic event, Vivian acts as a historian, her memory becoming a weapon against injustice. Through this act, the novel demonstrates that memory is an essential tool for preserving truth and demanding accountability.



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