Portraits of Global Citizens

A series of essays by SGI President Ikeda in which he reflects on his encounters with various world figures

Friendship Across the Divide

Rem Khokhlov--Former Rector of Moscow State University

The year was 1974. Soviet-Japanese relations were as cold as the frozen winter ground. The average Japanese person had no real grasp of what the people of the Soviet Union were like, only a vague picture of them as somehow cold and menacing. Indeed, the two countries had a history of conflict. But dwelling on the past did not serve the best interests of either nation. Nothing could be more dangerous than allowing this meaningless antagonism to continue--and nothing could be more cruel for the generations to follow.

The Soviet Union's relations with the United States and China were also frosty, and mutual mistrust and suspicion had fueled a seemingly endless arms race.

I had vowed in my heart to meet and forge ties of friendship with as many people as possible, as one human being to another, even if critics called my efforts naive. Differences do indeed exist between nations, peoples, social systems and ideologies. But we should recognize these differences and, precisely because of them, strive to understand each other better as human beings.

It was with that intention that I first went to the Soviet Union, arriving in September 1974, and the very first person I had the good fortune to meet was Dr. Rem Khokhlov, rector of Moscow State University. As I walked down the steps from the plane, I was greeted by his warm smile. Though this was our first meeting, I intuitively sensed that here was someone who shared my hopes for intercultural exchange.

Three months earlier, I had made my first visit to the People's Republic of China. My Chinese friends, too, criticized me for even contemplating a trip to the Soviet Union. The standoff between the Soviet Union and China that had been simmering in the 60s had become a fierce mutual antagonism by the early 70s. Those who wished to pursue friendly relations with China could not be friends with the Soviet Union, and those who tried to forge closer relations with the Soviet Union found the doors to China barred.

I am not a politician, nor did I undertake this trip on anyone else's request or agenda. Nevertheless, when I announced my decision to visit the Soviet Union, I was harshly criticized in Japan. "Why are you going now?" journalists demanded. "Why is a religious leader visiting an atheist state?" "Are you going to endorse communism?" The real reason I went there was to light the lamp of friendship, in the hope that this might provide comfort and reassurance, just as a light burning in a window warms the heart on a dark winter night. Confident that even the seemingly endless Siberian winter will at last turn to spring, I wanted to sow what seeds I could, to plant the flowers of a new season of hope.

Dr. Khokhlov, a respected nuclear physicist, was 48 at the time, two years older than I. His handsome, sharply defined features revealed a keen intelligence. A genial smile always lit his face. He displayed a lively interest in people; he was full of energy and vitality, always in pursuit of something finer, something higher.

Prominently displayed on one wall of Dr. Khokhlov's office was a huge tapestry showing a panoramic view of the massive 32-story building that houses Moscow State University. "This tapestry," he revealed, "was a gift from Beijing University in China on the occasion of Moscow State's bicentennial." I was deeply encouraged. Here at least, I thought, is a world without walls, proof that friendship in the realm of education can survive no matter how tense political relations become.

Looking out over the city from the university, we discussed the role of educational exchange in fostering peace. "Soka University in Tokyo is just a baby compared to Moscow State," I told him, "but it is my dream that in the 21st century, it will be as respected as your fine institution and make valuable contributions to the world." Dr. Khokhlov assured me, "A university's greatness has nothing to do with its age. Soka University has a wonderful spirit of upholding global human values. That is why we are committed to developing a meaningful relationship with your school." 

Just six short weeks after my return to Japan, Dr. Khokhlov and his wife, Elena, came to visit us. During their stay they visited Soka University as well as the Soka Junior and Senior High Schools.

At the senior high school, a smiling Dr. Khokhlov stopped to talk with students who had come to welcome him at the entrance. "You are the treasures of Japan," he said, "a gathering of fine young people of intellect. The world eagerly awaits your contributions." Everyone there could sense his sincerity. Rather than simply waving and hurrying inside, he created an unforgettable impression.

The following year, in May 1975, I made my second trip to the Soviet Union, where I was awarded an honorary doctorate from Moscow State University. White apple blossoms adorned the campus as I delivered my commemorative lecture on the theme of "A New Path for Cultural Exchange Between East and West." Coming up to me after the lecture, Dr. Khokhlov said, "Yes, it is just as you have said. Exactly. Let us pioneer a spiritual Silk Road together." I sensed a poignant urgency in his words, given the closed nature of Soviet society at that time.

When Khokhlov visited Japan again two years later, in April 1977, I learned that his mother was ill. He was looking for a particular medicine, but couldn't find it anywhere. We finally tracked the medicine down and had it forwarded to him. In his next letter to me he expressed his hope that we could meet in Moscow again soon. However, in August, less than three months later, I received the shocking news of his death.

Another Russian friend, Dr. Vladimir Tropin, told me that Khokhlov had been making his third attempt to scale the summit of the country's highest mountain--the 7,495-meter Communism Peak. His party had reached 5,000 meters and was preparing to tackle the summit when he suffered an attack of hypothermia.

Khokhlov was not the type of person to give up easily his goal of reaching the top, and it was only with great reluctance that he finally decided to descend. In spite of the fact that he was so ill, he let the younger members of the team go first. That delay may have contributed to his death. Khokhlov was flown to a hospital in Moscow. But it was too late. He died at the age of 51.

In a collection of memorial tributes published by his friends, one of them writes: "He met his death challenging the highest peak, just as he lived his life." Indeed, Khokhlov was forever looking ahead and taking action based on that vision. 

The world has changed greatly since Khokhlov's death, but my friendship with his family has remained constant. In 1992, in Mie Prefecture, Japan, I had an opportunity to meet with his son, Aleksei, now professor of physics at Moscow State University.

Aleksei told me: "I am very proud of the fact that exchanges between our two countries were set in motion through the relationship between you and my father. . . . Today, it is easy to take for granted friendly relations with other countries, but I know how difficult it was at the time of your first visit--in the face of intense skepticism and opposition--to advocate that there could be friendship between our peoples and to act on that belief."

Listening to his words, I thought how proud his father would be of him. Dr. Khokhlov and myself had a shared determination all those years ago--based on faith in our common humanity and trust in the invisible ties of the heart: "Let's act now, for the sake of future generations!" Today's younger generation is proving how right we were to take that first step toward spring, toward a season of hope.

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