In 1998, I had chosen to study at Keio University. I do not remember having signed a contract to become a Buddhist monk.
Compared to the immense task of learning kanji (Chinese characters), it would have been easier to celebrate my religious vows once and to take the veil. It would have been better for everyone.
My life was all about rigidity and monastic discipline.
I woke up with difficulty in my dorm of Barbie dolls (all the other female monks came from Korea and they were the epitome of beauty). I hurried up to cross the lively village of Sangenjaya and I let myself engulfed by the Yamanote-sen.  From there, through this circular metro line, I reached the temple the Grail, the Holy of Holies, the main campus of Keio University.
The Teachers did not beat us with a stick, but it felt like they did. By the day’s end, my soul was all bruised, convinced that these horrible kanji were the obstacles keeping me from the rest of my life.
It was a hard school of discipline, one that strengthened my soul and my stamina, one who always told me to beware of dogmatic positions.
When the night had fallen, when our teachers, exhausted after the hours of yelling at us, finally let us go back to the dorm, we took the same route in reverse like a never-ending litany.
In the village neighborhood of Sangenjaya, there was a produce vendor who knew how to make me smile. His name was Tanaka-san and he was selling sweet potatoes roasted in the street. I often stopped in front of his stall because I had discovered in the sweet potato a form of callback to life.
The sweet potato’s skin was burnt and blistered, its insides abundant in exquisite flavours. It made me think that perhaps my teachers were the same as these potatoes, harsh on the outside but filled secretly with delight.
Let’s face it: it is thanks to Tanaka’s sweet potato that I kept my faith in humanity that winter.