SGI NEWSLETTER

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Published by

SOKA GAKKAI
No. 4614*
Saturday, April 14, 2001

SGI President Ikeda’s Essay Series

WONDERFUL ENCOUNTERS

• The Teachers of My Childhood

When spring arrives, heaven and earth, towns and cities—everything—takes on a new
brightness. The fresh faces of the students just starting school as the cherry blossoms
burst into bloom are also bright and shining.
Although many people delight in the beautiful blossoms, no one, however, looks
at the roots that make that blossoming possible. The roots—in life, our roots might
very well be the years we spend in elementary school.
―Blooming, blooming, the cherry trees are blooming. . . .‖ I remember my very
first school textbook when I entered elementary school in 1934. Opening it with
excitement, I saw a beautiful spring scene of cherry trees in bloom. In the distance
there were mountains, and in the foreground the lovely pink cherry blossoms. This
Elementary School Reader was the first textbook in Japan to be printed in color; it had
just come into use the year before I started school.
―Blooming, blooming‖—our teacher wrote the words in big letters on the
blackboard. Miss Tejima was tall and slim. Doesn’t everyone have a particularly clear
memory of their elementary school teachers? I, too, recall Miss Tejima with
astonishing clarity—the color of her clothing, her hairstyle, and even her characteristic
gestures. On one occasion, Miss Tejima selected me and just one other student from
our entire school year and praised our compositions, saying that they were very well
written. I was a little embarrassed to be singled out, but I was also very pleased.
Everyone is happy when praised sincerely. It builds confidence.
Indeed, Miss Tejima’s praise for my composition may well have strongly
influenced my wish to make a living as a writer.

School amid the Rice Paddies

I attended Haneda Elementary School No. 2 in Tokyo. It was a two-story wooden

building. Today it has become the Kojiya Elementary School of Ota Ward.

15-3, Samon-cho, Shinjuku-ku, Tokyo 160-0017, Japan Phone: 03-5360-9841 Fax: 03-5360-9887

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 When I started school, Haneda was still very rural, and our school was
surrounded by rice paddies. On cold winter days, there was frost and the water in the
paddies froze. On such days, mischievous children that we were, we would stray from
the road and, shouting ―Here, over here!‖ cut through the paddies on our way to school.
It was a tranquil, idyllic time.
But things were changing quickly. Japan was setting foot into a dark and gloomy
era. The Manchurian Incident took place when I was three. When I was four, there was
the May 15th Incident, and when I was five, Japan withdrew from the League of
Nations.1
Young as we were, we didn’t understand what was going on in the world, but the
rising waves of the troubled times reached even into our classrooms. A few pages after
the blooming cherries in our reader was a page with the words, ―Forward, forward,
soldier forward!‖ A Shinto altar was installed in the classroom as part of the
government policy of enforcing belief in State Shinto.
Another spring came around, and once more the season of cherry blossoms had
arrived. In second grade I again had a woman teacher, Miss Hioki. She was a bit
shorter and rounder than Miss Tejima, with just the right combination of gentleness
and firmness.
About this time, there was an important event in my family life. My father
suffered an attack of debilitating rheumatism and became bedridden. We were forced
to scale back our family business of seaweed manufacturing, and our lives grew harder
day by day. My eldest brother had good grades in school, but he was forced to quit
school and go to work in order to contribute to the family finances. I still cannot forget
how busy his days were as he strove to take the place of our father in keeping the
family going.

Build a Strong Body!

In the third and fourth grades, I had my first male teacher, Mr. Kingo Takeuchi. He
had just graduated from teachers college and was young and energetic. He placed a
particularly heavy emphasis on physical education: ―You can be as smart as you like,
but if you don’t build a strong body when you’re young, it’ll be of no use to you when
you go out into society. Health is very important. Study is very important. True

1
The Manchurian Incident refers to the attack of Japan’s field army in Manchuria on the Chinese
garrison in Mukden on September 18 and 19, 1931, and the subsequent conquest of Manchuria by
Japan. The May 15th Incident was a coup d’etat by young Japanese naval officers on that date in
1932. They assassinated the prime minister of Japan and brought about the end of the party
cabinet system of Japanese government. Japan withdrew from the League of Nations in March
1933 after the League adopted a report criticizing Japan’s aggression in China.

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education combines both.‖ This was Mr. Takeuchi’s educational credo, I think.
I was on the short side and not very strong, so it was no easy thing to meet Mr.
Takeuchi’s expectations. I still have such a vivid memory of how he encouraged me to
develop my physical strength and be healthy that it brings tears to my eyes.
Two years ago, Mr. Takeuchi passed away. Since then, as a practitioner of
Nichiren Buddhism, I have prayed for his repose every day. He was really a wonderful
teacher.
I also remember that he once taught us about the meaning of the Olympics and
explained in detail how they were conducted. That was the year that the Berlin
Olympics were held in Germany [in 1936]. Mr. Takeuchi knew a great deal about the
international games. He said to us: ―Holding the Olympics on a grand scale every four
years promotes world peace. It is a most important event,‖ he said to us. He hated war.
In the depths of his heart I think that he strongly opposed the tide of our times,
believing that without peace he could not raise children into fine peace-loving human
beings.

Believing in the Life Force of the Cherry Trees

In Japan, people who tend and care for cherry trees are called sakuramori, or ―cherry
tree caretakers.‖ Just as babysitters (in Japanese, komori, or ―baby caretakers‖) look
after children, the sakuramori look after the cherry trees, encouraging them to grow,
tending to their welfare, and generally caring for them throughout the four seasons. In
every region throughout Japan that is famous for cherry trees, ―cherry caretakers‖ are
working behind the scenes.
Being a caretaker (mori) is different from merely protecting. ―Protecting‖
emphasizes preserving the present state or condition, but ―caretaking‖ implies having
faith in life extending into the future and supporting it through the many stages of its
growth and development.
Caretakers don’t fuss too much with the trees. Basically, they leave them be, but
at the same time they never ignore them. They observe the trees’ growth in great detail,
but allow them to develop freely. For example, if we stake a tree from the very
beginning, the tree will rely on the stakes for support and not grow strong on its own.
The roots are especially important. An expert on trees says that the spread of the
crown of a cherry tree is matched almost exactly by the spread of its roots below
ground. What happens if, ignorant of that fact, we water the tree only around the base
of the trunk? ―Because the tree can get water so easily near at hand, its roots don’t
bother to spread out very far [as they would if watered further away from the base of
the truck],‖ he says.
As human beings, our ―roots‖ are our tenacity, our invincible spirit. If a tree’s

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roots spread out strongly, it can survive even on a rocky mountain face buffeted by
powerful winds.

Everyone Is an Individual

Trees are living things. They are not machines. Every cherry tree is different. The
environments in which they grow are different. That is why there is no manual that can
tell us how to grow a cherry tree. The only way to succeed is to know the particular
tree’s character and idiosyncrasies and, taking them into account, warmly care for it.
Every child is different, too. Each has a distinct way of ―flowering‖ that is his or
hers alone. In order to raise a tree or to foster people, we need the patience to believe
that they can be made to flourish. A child who has bad grades or who is out of control
and behaving badly now may in the future grow into a person who does interesting,
wonderful things. It is not at all rare for a child that we think we know very well to
change radically, for some reason or another. To the same degree that we have care for
and have faith in children, they will freely extend the roots that will give them the
strength to survive and make their way successfully through life.
Protection, as in the protection of the natural environment, assumes that the
object is weak and needs protection. But caretaking represents a spirit of awe and
respect for the object’s potential for endless growth. I believe that such awe and
respect for children are the foundation of education. As Confucius said, ―Youth should
be regarded with respect.‖

Reading Aloud

My teacher in the fifth and sixth grades was Mr. Kohei Hiyama. I think he was about
25 or 26 at the time. He had a broad forehead and clear, bright eyes, giving him a look
of high intelligence. His face was long and oval, and he was tall. Sometimes his
classes were tough, but they were always very interesting. Between classes he would
read Eiji Yoshikawa’s samurai tale Miyamoto Musashi to us, gesturing and posing and
reading with dramatic expression, bringing the story alive. We were pulled directly
into the novel and could see Musashi dashing about and rival swordsman Kojiro
brandishing his sword right before our eyes. It took a year, but Mr. Hiyama finished
reading all the volumes of the novel to us.
During one class, he spread a big world map out in front of us and asked us
where in the world we wanted to go. I pointed to the middle of the vast expanse of
Asia. ―I see!‖ said Mr. Hiyama. ―You have pointed to Dunhuang. There are many
wonderful treasures there.‖ From that moment a tremendous interest in Dunhuang
sprouted in my mind.

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Helping with the Family Finances

I may have pointed to China because my eldest brother, whom I loved and respected,
was sent there as a soldier. He was drafted when I was a fourth grader. After him, my
next two older brothers were called up for military service one after another.
My father’s rheumatism was improving, but with my three brothers away we
were short of help and our family finances just got worse and worse. When I was a
fifth grader, we finally had to sell our house and move to a smaller one in Kojiya. The
original house, which was located in another part of Kojiya, had a large yard with a big
pond and a tall cherry tree.
Cherry blossoms face downward, toward the tree’s roots, so whenever I looked
up from beneath the cherry tree in our yard, it seemed as if countless bell-shaped
flowers were falling from the blue sky of spring. It was hard to say goodbye to that big
tree, but I was glad that at least I didn’t have to change schools because of the move.
Hoping to do what I could to help my family, I got a job as a paper boy when I
was in sixth grade. I woke up each morning while it was still dark and helped out with
the seaweed production. When I finished, I delivered my papers and then went to
school. After returning from school, I helped with the seaweed again, then delivered
the evening paper. At night there was more work with the seaweed. I look back on
those days now fondly, remembering how busy I was.
The only problem was that I was not strong, and all this work exhausted me. I
remember that my teacher noted on my report card that I was physically weak.

A School Trip to Kansai

When I was in sixth grade, we took a school trip to Kansai. We were away for four
nights and five days, and visited Ise, Nara, and Kyoto. It was my first long trip, and I
was very excited. My mother had given me some pocket money, which she had
somehow managed to scrape together. I used it to treat my friends, and at the end of
the first day it was almost gone. Mr. Hiyama must have been carefully watching me
the whole time, because he called to me as I was going up the stairs of the inn where
we were staying and said, ―Daisaku, your elder brothers are all away at the war. You
have to buy your father and mother a souvenir of your trip.‖
I was crushed; of course he was right. My mother’s face appeared before my
eyes.
Smiling, Mr. Hiyama called me down under the stairs, where he gently placed
some money in my palm and closed my fingers around it. I think it was two one-yen
bills. At that time, it was a large amount of money. I was happy. I breathed a sigh of
relief.

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 When I returned home and gave my mother her souvenir, I told her what had
happened. ―You must never forget Mr. Hiyama,‖ she said with a gentle gaze.
Mr. Hiyama was not by any means giving me any special treatment. He wouldn’t
have been as well loved as he was by so many students if he was the kind of teacher
who had favorites. He cared for us all equally, looking deep into our hearts, and I think
he was even concerned about our family situations. He was our ―caretaker.‖
I will never forget Mr. Hiyama’s warm affection as, during our graduation
ceremony, he looked at each one of us with big tears running down his cheeks.

Our Caring “Mr. Buccaneer”

In 1940, I graduated from elementary school and entered Haneda Higher Elementary
School. Of course I wanted to go to high school, but we simply couldn’t afford it.2
The higher elementary school course lasted two years. My teacher for both was Mr.
Katsumi Okabe, whom we called ―Mr. Buccaneer.‖
He was from Okayama in the western part of Japan’s main island of Honshu and
used to make us laugh by telling us that in a previous life he must have been the leader
of a pirate crew sailing the Inland Sea, which was near his hometown. He was tall with
jet-black hair and a handsome, intelligent face. There were some 40 boys in our
class—no girls. I wasn’t physically very strong, and Mr. Okabe often encouraged me
to exercise. He loved sumo wrestling, and he would put on a sumo loincloth and
wrestle with us. Even though I was small, I learned many sumo techniques and did my
best. In summer, we would take off our shirts and run to the Tama River to swim.
At first glance, Mr. Okabe appeared very strict, but I never felt afraid of him. It
may have been because I was rather shy, but I can’t remember him ever scolding me.
Once one of the students in our class was hit by another teacher. When Mr. Okabe
heard about it he charged into the teachers staff room shouting, ―Who hit one of my
students?!‖ He had a very strong sense of right and wrong. Though he may have
seemed gruff on the outside, all his students felt his deep concern and affection for
them.

The Disappearance of the Cherry Trees

When I was in my second year at Haneda Higher Elementary School, the name was
changed to Haginaka National People’s School in accord with the National People’s
School Order.3 The law had a very militaristic ring to it, seemingly aimed at turning

2
At the time, only six years of elementary school were compulsory.
3
Promulgated in 1941, this imperial order established a compulsory education system with six
years of elementary and two years of secondary education. Under the order, the curriculum was
dedicated to training ―loyal subjects of the emperor.‖

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even children into soldiers. Such terms as ―loyal subjects of the Emperor,‖ ―drilling,‖
and ―group training‖ began to be used frequently at school. Also, at many schools, the
gymnasiums were converted into martial arts training halls. Japan was being drawn
from war with China into the Pacific War. The leaders of the day foolishly forgot the
welfare of the people and became arrogant, driving the nation into the hell of war with
a combination of threats and honeyed words.
Ordinary life became harder with each passing day, and the cherry trees, whose
wood burned well, were cut down one after another for fuel. The mood of the period
was ―If you have the time to plant cherry trees, use it to plant potatoes instead!‖ The
tree in our old garden that I loved so dearly was also cut down and a factory for
military supplies was built there.

My Father’s True Feelings

Education is like a magician that can easily cast a spell on the hearts of innocent young
girls and boys. Many of the students in my class at the new ―national people’s school‖
applied to enlist as soldiers or civilian colonists on the Chinese mainland. They did
this because it seemed to be the highest expression of patriotism and the leading model
of heroism for our time. I, too, wanted to become a student pilot in the navy after I
graduated. I was concerned about my family, but still I secretly sent in an application.
I wasn’t home when a representative of the navy visited my home. My father said
to the official: ―My three eldest sons are all in the army. The fourth will be going soon.
Do you really plan to take away my fifth as well? Enough!‖ When I got home, my
father scolded me fiercely. I was never so harshly scolded before or after. It gave me a
glimpse of my father’s true feelings, which he usually kept to himself.

An Air Raid on a Spring Night

After graduating, I went to work at the Niigata Steelworks nearby. It was close to
home, and my brother worked there as well. The war situation worsened and the
possibility of Japan’s defeat grew more and more evident. In 1945, air raids on Tokyo
started on New Year’s Day. Every day was filled with the war and the bombings, but
even so, when spring arrived, the remaining cherry trees bloomed bravely.
On the night of April 15, when the cherry petals were starting to fall, southern
Tokyo was attacked in a massive air raid. The anguished sound of the air-raid sirens
wailed and mighty B29s appeared like conquerors, flying steady and low across the
sky. The rat-a-tat-tat of the strafing from the American planes combined with screams.
Incendiary bombs fell like torrential rain. Tongues of flame leapt up here and there,
burning fiercely. In an instant, the entire area was a sea of raging fire, and everyone
was trying desperately to flee the conflagration. Parents were separated from small

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children. Sons and daughters struggled in vain to save elderly parents. At this
unworldly scene of death and destruction, people must have wept bitter tears in their
hearts, suffered searing inner anguish, or felt as if they were caught in a terrible dream.
Even now it is too painful for me to write of the hellish pandemonium of that night.
When the sun rose the next morning, the entire area where I lived was burned to
the ground. Except for Haneda Airport, the whole town was reduced to ashes. My
beloved elementary school and the national people’s school were both burned down in
the air raid.

The Surviving Cherry Trees Bloom

One day I was walking alone, lost in thought. The war was still on. What would
happen to Japan? To my family? To my life? I could not envision any future.
Eventually, I found myself in a small section of the town that hadn’t burned. A little
group of cherry trees was in fragrant bloom. It was like a quiet and peaceful dream. In
the vast expanse of burnt-out gray, beautiful colors glowed like a torch here in these
cherry trees. In the vast expanse of death, here was a light of shining life. ―Blooming,
blooming, the cherry trees are blooming. . . .‖
In those days, the Japanese people were told to be like the cherry blossoms,
which fall and scatter without regrets or protest. Cherries had been turned into a
symbol of death. But these cherries before my eyes vigorously rejected such a
perverted fabrication and spoke instead to me strongly and gloriously of life. They
were overflowing with hope.
Live, live, live and survive. Outlast the winter and let your flowers bloom, they
said to me. A powerful emotion arose in my heart. With a piece of chalk, I wrote on
the wall of a surviving factory building a poem that I was inspired to compose. During
the war many people carried chalk with them so that in an emergency they could leave
a message telling where they were, enabling their families to find them.
I didn’t sign my poem.
When I passed that way again, I saw that someone had written under my poem,
―How true! How true!‖ Under that another person had written, ―It is just as this poem
says. It is just as this poem says.‖ And another had written, ―I am moved. You are a
fine poet.‖
A certain poet once wrote: ―Blossoms that scatter, blossoms that remain / to
become blossoms that scatter.‖ I, who had not scattered but had survived, was 17 at the
time.
I had been away from school so long because of the war; now strong feelings
welled up in my heart: I wanted to study, I wanted to learn, I wanted to read many
more books.

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Gratitude toward Teachers Lasts Forever

I have never forgotten the beloved teachers of my youth, of whom I have such fond
memories. I have continued to remain in touch with a number of them to this day. Mr.
Okabe once wrote to me, ―Be a strong as a weed.‖ Another time he encouraged me in
a letter, saying: ―The taller a tree grows, the harder the wind blows against it, but
please endure the wind and snow.‖
I was able to have a reunion with Mr. Hiyama in Tochigi in 1973. On that day,
there was a Soka Gakkai meeting in Tochigi. A bitter wind was blowing on that cold,
late autumn day, but in spite of the weather Mr. Hiyama and his wife were waiting for
me when I arrived at the meeting place.
―I had a feeling that if I couldn’t see you today I might not see you for the rest of
my life,‖ he said. He and his wife had traveled an hour and a half by bus to see me.
Mr. Hiyama had retired from a post as an elementary school principal in Tochigi
Prefecture and was enjoying a dignified retirement pursuing his own interests. I hadn’t
seen him for more than 30 years, but he still had the same wide forehead and the aura
of a great educator who had made a fine job of raising many children.
―You don’t seem to have any time to rest,‖ he said to me. ―Please be careful not
to harm your health.‖ His gaze was just as warm and caring as it had been on that
school trip long ago.
Sitting in front of him, I felt as if I had returned to my elementary school days.
To a student, your teacher is always your teacher, and to a teacher, your students are
always your students.
Mr. Hiyama sent me a New Year’s card this year, too. He is 88, and his age
makes it hard for him to write letters. I later learned, in fact, that he wasn’t going to
write any New Year’s cards this year, but for my sake he bought a single card to send
to me. How wonderful it is to have a true teacher! As a small token of gratitude, I sent
him a copy of a published collection of my photographs. I wrote in dedication on the
inside cover a Chinese couplet to the effect that it is easy to encounter a teacher who
imparts information to you, but hard to encounter one who teaches you how to live.
This is a sincere expression of my feelings for Mr. Hiyama.

“It Is Easy to Theorize. . . .”

When I was talking with Dr. Necdet Serin, rector of the University of Ankara, Turkey
[in the early 1990s], one of his statements really struck home. He said: ―Elementary
education is the most critical. But how should we teach elementary school students? I
am the rector of a university, but I can’t answer that sufficiently. It is a very difficult
job. It is easy to theorize about it, but. . . . That is precisely why I have such

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tremendous respect for elementary school teachers who are doing their jobs
successfully.‖
How true this is! Are high school teachers more important than elementary
school teachers? Are university professors more important than high school teachers?
Absolutely not. It is just this kind of erroneous thinking that afflicts our society today:
theorists often have the mistaken idea that they are better than practitioners.
But an architect who theorizes about architecture is not better than a carpenter
who can actually build a house. An agricultural expert is not more productive than a
farmer who actually grows vegetables or rice. Japan has become a country with too
many people who theorize about things and far too few who actually make painstaking
efforts to achieve something.
There are many people who love cherry trees and other flowers, but few who feel
gratitude for the caretakers working behind the scenes to keep the trees alive and
healthy.
The life of an educator is far from glamorous. Teaching is inconspicuous work
that doesn’t grab the limelight; it’s a job of continuous hard work and effort. But it is
precisely because of such teachers dedicated to fostering the future that the next
generation of ―human cherry trees‖ grows up straight and strong. We must never
forget this noble fact.
The French poet and philosopher Charles Péguy (1873–1914) once made the
observation that elementary school teachers are not representatives of authority, but
representatives of humanity.
The teachers whom I encountered in a period when the power of the nationalist
authorities bore down so heavily on Japan offered their students a great light of
humanity. Just as teachers today who are serious about and committed to their
profession, they firmly embraced their students and shared life with them, while
remaining concerned about the interference of the authorities in education.
If being blessed with good teachers is one of life’s great joys, I think I am the
happiest person alive.

(Translated from the April 8, 2001 issue of the Seikyo Shimbun, the Soka Gakkai daily
newspaper)

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