#Column
2026/04/03
What Do We Learn in a World Still Shaped by War?
At Banzai Cliff in Saipan, which I visited at the age of six, I learned about the history of civilian suicides during the war.
My academic field is International Relations. I am interested in understanding why wars break out and what conditions make peace possible, and my research is grounded primarily in International Politics and Peace Studies.
When you hear the word war, what comes to mind first? The answer likely differs from person to person, shaped by when you were born, where you grew up, and which wars you have seen, heard about, or experienced.
I was born and raised in Tokyo, Japan, toward the end of the Cold War. The first war I remember from my own lifetime is the Gulf War of 1991. At the time, I did not understand its causes or background. Yet I still vividly remember the television images—replayed again and again—of countless green, fluorescent missiles cutting across the night sky over Baghdad.
The Gulf War was the first conflict to be broadcast “live” into homes around the world via satellite television. Even after the war ended, distant nighttime images of airstrikes continued to appear repeatedly as a powerful symbol of contemporary warfare. Watching those images, I gradually came to think about two things. One was that the age of war was not over—it was still part of the world I was living in. The other was that those images showed no trace of the victims. What was happening on the ground was almost entirely invisible.
War was unfolding precisely on that unseen ground, where the missiles landed and exploded. This realization was shaped by growing up with Japanese animated films and television dramas that depicted the experiences of ordinary Japanese civilians during the Second World War. Through works such as Grave of the Fireflies (directed by Isao Takahata, based on the novel by Akiyuki Nosaka), Who’s Behind Me? (Ushiro no Shomen Daare, based on a novel by Kayoko Ebina), Barefoot Gen (by Keiji Nakazawa), Himeyuri no Tō (directed by Seijirō Kōyama, based on a memoir by Seizen Nakasone), and Son of Earth (Daichi no Ko, based on a novel by Toyoko Yamasaki), I encountered memories of war as lived by civilians rather than soldiers or political leaders. Watching these works, I felt an overwhelming sense of despair, convinced that if I were caught in a war, I would not survive.
At that time, the characters I empathized with most were children and young women. Seen through their lives, war meant countless brutal deaths caused by carpet bombing and atomic bombs, becoming an orphan overnight, and moments in which they were unable to save the gravely wounded and were instead forced to urge them toward death. I struggled to finish watching these works, and afterward I was left with a deep and lingering sense of despair. Since then, war has remained something that continues to trouble me, even when it takes place in countries far removed from Japan. This enduring concern became the starting point of my academic interest in International Relations and Peace Studies.
When you hear the word war, what comes to mind first? The answer likely differs from person to person, shaped by when you were born, where you grew up, and which wars you have seen, heard about, or experienced.
I was born and raised in Tokyo, Japan, toward the end of the Cold War. The first war I remember from my own lifetime is the Gulf War of 1991. At the time, I did not understand its causes or background. Yet I still vividly remember the television images—replayed again and again—of countless green, fluorescent missiles cutting across the night sky over Baghdad.
The Gulf War was the first conflict to be broadcast “live” into homes around the world via satellite television. Even after the war ended, distant nighttime images of airstrikes continued to appear repeatedly as a powerful symbol of contemporary warfare. Watching those images, I gradually came to think about two things. One was that the age of war was not over—it was still part of the world I was living in. The other was that those images showed no trace of the victims. What was happening on the ground was almost entirely invisible.
War was unfolding precisely on that unseen ground, where the missiles landed and exploded. This realization was shaped by growing up with Japanese animated films and television dramas that depicted the experiences of ordinary Japanese civilians during the Second World War. Through works such as Grave of the Fireflies (directed by Isao Takahata, based on the novel by Akiyuki Nosaka), Who’s Behind Me? (Ushiro no Shomen Daare, based on a novel by Kayoko Ebina), Barefoot Gen (by Keiji Nakazawa), Himeyuri no Tō (directed by Seijirō Kōyama, based on a memoir by Seizen Nakasone), and Son of Earth (Daichi no Ko, based on a novel by Toyoko Yamasaki), I encountered memories of war as lived by civilians rather than soldiers or political leaders. Watching these works, I felt an overwhelming sense of despair, convinced that if I were caught in a war, I would not survive.
At that time, the characters I empathized with most were children and young women. Seen through their lives, war meant countless brutal deaths caused by carpet bombing and atomic bombs, becoming an orphan overnight, and moments in which they were unable to save the gravely wounded and were instead forced to urge them toward death. I struggled to finish watching these works, and afterward I was left with a deep and lingering sense of despair. Since then, war has remained something that continues to trouble me, even when it takes place in countries far removed from Japan. This enduring concern became the starting point of my academic interest in International Relations and Peace Studies.
On my first visit to Okinawa, I visited sites from the Second World War and the remains of a nuclear missile launch base used during the Cold War. At the time, I did not yet realize that Okinawa continued to serve as a frontline base for the U.S. military.
When I reached high school, I came to another important realization: that I could be involved in war not only as a victim, but also as a perpetrator. This involvement could take the form of failing to prevent my country from going to war, or of allowing it to inflict harm on civilians in other countries.
On September 11, 2001, the United States experienced large-scale terrorist attacks. The following month, U.S. military operations began in Afghanistan, and Japan joined by providing logistical support.
The speed with which events unfolded left a deep impression on me. What troubled me most was that Japan’s Self-Defense Forces could be dispatched overseas without sufficient public debate over the compatibility of such actions with Article 9 of the Japanese Constitution, which renounces war. Although these actions were explained as an exercise of “self-defense” against international terrorism, I was deeply unsettled by the reality that they would still result in harm to civilians in Afghanistan.
Looking back, I realized that I had learned very little about Japan’s own responsibility for war, including its history of wartime perpetration. In fact, Japan’s involvement in supporting U.S. military operations did not begin in 2001; similar roles had been played during the Korean and Vietnam Wars. Growing up in Tokyo, I remained largely unaware of this history, in part because Japan’s military burden has long been concentrated in Okinawa. It was only when I visited Okinawa on a high school trip that I came to recognize my own position within this structure, and of how responsibility had been unevenly distributed.
On September 11, 2001, the United States experienced large-scale terrorist attacks. The following month, U.S. military operations began in Afghanistan, and Japan joined by providing logistical support.
The speed with which events unfolded left a deep impression on me. What troubled me most was that Japan’s Self-Defense Forces could be dispatched overseas without sufficient public debate over the compatibility of such actions with Article 9 of the Japanese Constitution, which renounces war. Although these actions were explained as an exercise of “self-defense” against international terrorism, I was deeply unsettled by the reality that they would still result in harm to civilians in Afghanistan.
Looking back, I realized that I had learned very little about Japan’s own responsibility for war, including its history of wartime perpetration. In fact, Japan’s involvement in supporting U.S. military operations did not begin in 2001; similar roles had been played during the Korean and Vietnam Wars. Growing up in Tokyo, I remained largely unaware of this history, in part because Japan’s military burden has long been concentrated in Okinawa. It was only when I visited Okinawa on a high school trip that I came to recognize my own position within this structure, and of how responsibility had been unevenly distributed.
To Avoid “War to Prevent War”
Another important origin of my academic perspective lies in my visits to Hiroshima and Nagasaki during my undergraduate years. I learned there for the first time that among the atomic bomb victims were people from the Korean Peninsula who had been forcibly brought to Japan as laborers and exposed to the bombing. This discovery revealed a profound distortion in Japan’s self-image as “the only country to have suffered atomic bombings in war.”
The late Isao Takahata, director of Grave of the Fireflies, warned that simply learning about the horrors of war is not enough to prevent future conflicts. Memories of suffering alone, he argued, cannot overcome the logic that justifies war as a necessary means to avoid even greater tragedy. Instead, Takahata emphasized the importance of examining what happened before war began—why it started, how it might have been avoided, and how leaders and citizens behaved once it was underway (If You Do Not Want War [Kimi ga Sensou wo Hosshinai Naraba], Iwanami Booklet, 2015 [written in Japanese]).
Insights from International Relations similarly suggest that one major cause of war lies in the misperception of another country’s defensive intentions as offensive ones. Without an awareness of our own history as perpetrators, fear and insecurity can easily lead societies toward militarization, reinforcing the very patterns that produce war.
At GLA, my courses in International Relations and Peace Studies engage with these issues from multiple perspectives. Rather than measuring the impact of war solely through numbers or surface-level indicators, we explore its human consequences and the importance of sharing that understanding internationally.
GLA brings together students from around the world, each with different memories and understandings of war. In the classroom, we listen carefully to one another and discuss what is needed to bring an end to ongoing violent conflicts, and what can be done to prevent future wars. Through these dialogues, students gradually deepen their own perspectives on international politics and peace. I, too, continue my own daily process of trial and error, hoping to contribute to that shared journey of learning and growth.
The late Isao Takahata, director of Grave of the Fireflies, warned that simply learning about the horrors of war is not enough to prevent future conflicts. Memories of suffering alone, he argued, cannot overcome the logic that justifies war as a necessary means to avoid even greater tragedy. Instead, Takahata emphasized the importance of examining what happened before war began—why it started, how it might have been avoided, and how leaders and citizens behaved once it was underway (If You Do Not Want War [Kimi ga Sensou wo Hosshinai Naraba], Iwanami Booklet, 2015 [written in Japanese]).
Insights from International Relations similarly suggest that one major cause of war lies in the misperception of another country’s defensive intentions as offensive ones. Without an awareness of our own history as perpetrators, fear and insecurity can easily lead societies toward militarization, reinforcing the very patterns that produce war.
At GLA, my courses in International Relations and Peace Studies engage with these issues from multiple perspectives. Rather than measuring the impact of war solely through numbers or surface-level indicators, we explore its human consequences and the importance of sharing that understanding internationally.
GLA brings together students from around the world, each with different memories and understandings of war. In the classroom, we listen carefully to one another and discuss what is needed to bring an end to ongoing violent conflicts, and what can be done to prevent future wars. Through these dialogues, students gradually deepen their own perspectives on international politics and peace. I, too, continue my own daily process of trial and error, hoping to contribute to that shared journey of learning and growth.