Climbing a Hill | Naoyuki Agawa (Vice-President in charge of Shonan Fujisawa Campus)

2012.05.11

On a weekend morning when the cold had finally eased and the cherry blossoms had opened later than usual, I climbed a hill in Yamate, Yokohama, near my home. The cherry blossoms around Motomachi Park were still only about 30% in bloom, but the cherry trees, which had slept like dead trees all winter, had been revived and looked brilliant.

I passed the municipal pool, went up the stairs to the front of the Anglican Church, and turned right onto the main street of Yamate. At the corner of the Catholic Church, I then turned left and followed a gentle slope for a while to find Japan's oldest tennis club, and beyond it, a small plaza. Located at the southern end of the Yamate hills, this is part of Yamate Park, said to be Japan's oldest Western-style garden. In this plaza, which offers a panoramic view of the scenery from Honmoku to Negishi, several old cherry trees have once again bloomed this year on their long, thick trunks and branches. Countless small petals, illuminated by the spring sunlight, swayed in the still slightly chilly wind.

When the cold winter ends and signs of spring appear, I get an uncontrollable urge to climb a hill. Is it because the sky is open and the sunlight feels especially bright at the top? Is it that the act of walking up a gentle slope is pleasant in itself? Or is it simply because I like high places?

As I enter the East Gate at Mita, climb the stairs of the East Building, turn left, and walk up the slope, the trees of the Mita Hilltop Square come into view beyond the Maboroshi no Mon, near where the Fukuzawa Residence once stood. The cherry blossoms bloom and then fall, the trees sprout new buds, and the small, reddish leaves gradually turn greener, growing and spreading into lush green foliage. For me, who commutes to Mita with a heavy heart, watching this ever-changing scene is my one small comfort.

In sorrow I climb the hill—flowering briers

Buson

The same is true of the hill in Endo where SFC is located. I visited for the first time in a while after the new semester began. The scenery on this hill, which has finally started to feel like spring, is refreshing and beautiful. Unfortunately, I am always busy with errands and go straight to the top by taxi, so I haven't had a chance to closely observe the trees in early spring. Next year, I will walk up this hill every week and witness the arrival of spring with my own eyes.

To begin with, people like high places. The remains of ancient human dwellings are often discovered in hilly areas. Ancient emperors would climb mountains to perform *kunimi* (land viewing). In Volume 1 of the *Man'yoshu*, there is a long poem by Emperor Jomei titled "Poem Composed When His Majesty Climbed Kagu-yama to View the Land." Although it's called a mountain, it's only about the height of a hill. Regarding real mountains, the British mountaineer George Mallory, when asked why he wanted to climb Mount Everest, famously replied, "Because it's there." A more honest answer might have been, "Because Everest is incredibly high." People also like tall buildings. The Old Testament tells the story of the Tower of Babel. In Japan, it is said that in ancient times, the main hall of the Izumo Grand Shrine stood nearly 100 meters tall. Even today, countries compete to build tall buildings and towers. The recent popularity of the Skytree is likely for the same reason.

However, I feel no affinity for this Skytree. It just seems needlessly tall. I much prefer Tokyo Tower, which I have been familiar with since I was a child. There is a song by Yumi Matsutoya called "Tokyo Tower in the Palm of My Hand."

"It's really a golden pencil sharpener, / Tokyo Tower, cradled in the palm of my hand."

I doubt such beautiful lyrics could be inspired by the Skytree.

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This spring, I attended an international conference at Tohoku University. After lunch on the final day, the participants boarded a bus and visited the Yuriage district in Natori City, south of Sendai. This is a coastal area that suffered immense damage from the massive tsunami during the Great East Japan Earthquake.

I had seen an NHK documentary showing the day after the earthquake and tsunami, where from the rooftop of Yuriage Junior High School—left standing alone after almost all surrounding buildings had been washed away—people were shouting themselves hoarse at the Self-Defense Forces personnel who had rushed to the rescue. Many who could not reach the school's rooftop were swallowed by the tsunami in an instant and lost their lives. Many of the school's students were among them. Mothers who lost their children, students who lost their classmates, teachers who lost their pupils. The documentary dispassionately showed the faces of the people who had lost so much that day. The beautiful name Yuriage was seared into my memory.

We drove south from Sendai on the expressway, and after exiting the interchange, we headed toward the coast. A fishing boat sat motionless by the side of the road. The tsunami had surged this far inland. As we drove further, from a certain point on, the buildings suddenly disappeared. This was Yuriage. The debris has been completely cleared away, making it look like a new housing development where construction has not yet begun. Flat land stretches all the way to the coast. On such flat terrain, there must have been nowhere to escape when the tsunami hit.

Near the sea in the Yuriage district, there is a small hill called Hiyoriyama. It is little more than six meters high. It is said that local fishermen built up the earth here to create the hill and erected a shrine to pray for the safety and well-being of their comrades out at sea. That shrine, too, was completely washed away by the tsunami.

Getting off the bus, I climbed this hill and, looking around, I gasped. There was nothing, as far as the eye could see. Everything had been washed away. The only things remaining were a few buildings, such as the Yuriage Junior High School we had just passed. At the top of the hill stood a pine tree, a war memorial that had been rebuilt after being washed away, and two pillars called a *himorogi*, erected to pray for the revival of the shrine and to honor the victims.

A year after the disaster, the wind blowing directly from the sea is still bitingly cold. Before me spreads the Pacific Ocean, which brought the terrifying tsunami to this land. Its vast expanse sends high waves surging toward the coast and the seawall, only to break and recede. Feeling the strong wind against my skin, I stood at the summit for a while with my eyes closed and thought of those who had passed away. Then, with a heavy heart, I descended the hill.

(Date of publication: 2012/05/11)