Takayuki Oishi: Tracks in the Silver Snow

As winter approaches, certain words and landscapes come to mind. Powder snow, grain snow, cotton snow, water snow, hard snow, granulated snow, and ice snow. These are the seven types of snow mentioned in Osamu Dazai's "Tsugaru." My first appointment as a university faculty member was at a small university at the foot of Mount Hakkoda. The compact campus featured a museum like a miniature garden, nestled within majestic nature. During my seven years living in Aomori, I am not sure if I experienced all seven types of snow, but the world of silver itself was a part of my daily life. I would work in my office from morning until night, and by the time I left, my car in the parking lot would have disappeared, buried in snow. The snowy landscapes in the film "Mt. Hakkoda," starring Ken Takakura and Kinya Kitaoji, were essentially my daily reality; I learned of the awe of nature, the smallness of humans, and the human strength that tries to overcome it.

One morning, hearing a radio broadcast urging people to avoid non-essential outings due to a heavy blizzard, I thought that surely the students would not come. However, almost everyone was in the classroom. They had driven carefully through the snow, crossing the dim highways. Outside the window was a fierce blizzard. Yet, inside the classroom, there was a quiet enthusiasm. Deep inside, I bowed my head in respect.

There was a day when I feared for the safety of those students. It was March 11, 2011, the day the Great East Japan Earthquake occurred—a day I will never forget. The eight students in my very first seminar were from Aomori, Iwate, and Miyagi prefectures. It was spring break at the time, and many students were back in their hometowns. Immediately after the earthquake, snow began to fall in the city, which was suffering from a power outage. In the darkness of the blackout, listening to the endless reports of the unbelievable situation in the disaster areas on a radio operated by the light reflecting off the snow, I prayed from the bottom of my heart for my students: "Please be safe. There is still so much I want to tell you." Fortunately, amidst that destructive torrent of time, all the students were safe.

Since that day, I have placed the question of "what to convey to the youth of the future" at the core of my research and education. A researcher, regardless of their style, is someone who passes on the truths they have pursued to the future. Every time I remember that dignified winter, the "silver world of research" expands in my mind. In that world, while observing the countless tracks left by my predecessors, I want to carve my own small tracks and continue to move forward against the wind and snow. Yes, just like Ken Takakura in the movie.