From my early childhood (1991) until I graduated middle school (2001), I lived in a “danchi”—a type of public housing complex. Living in the danchi during my middle school years, a time when I was starting to become aware of my connection to society, had a profound impact on my worldview.

The existence of the “danchi” has changed over time, but I feel that it remains a symbolic representation of Japan’s social welfare. Danchi were created around 1955 as a part of Japan’s national policy during the post-war economic boom, aimed at supporting the working population (particularly salaried workers) by providing a “modern symbol of living.” At that time, the typical 3DK (three rooms, dining, and kitchen) layout was ideal for families with young children. With water supply, kitchens, toilets, and bus routes connecting to workplaces and stations, danchi quickly became an aspirational lifestyle, replacing the burnt-out housing from the post-war period.

The design of danchi, which emphasized modularity and shared components, was similar to the trends seen in the automotive industry around 2015. In fact, the Japanese housing industry had already realized these ideas decades earlier.

In the late 1970s, during the height of Japan’s economic growth (towards the end of the bubble era), families with rising incomes began buying their own homes, and as the baby boom ended, vacant units in danchi began to increase. To fill these vacancies, danchi were offered as low-cost rental housing for elderly households and low-income families from the 1980s onwards. By around 2006, the nostalgic Showa-era image of danchi began to appeal to younger generations, leading to renovations and renewed interest as spaces for community rebuilding.

Our family lived in a danchi during the time when it was being marketed specifically to “low-income households.” As I entered middle school, I began to feel a sense of inferiority comparing my life in a danchi to my friends who lived in private homes. At the time, I also suffered from atopic dermatitis, allergic rhinitis, and asthma. My dermatitis, in particular, worsened as I grew, which further contributed to a strong sense of inferiority about my appearance.

Being poor and having visible physical issues made me feel as though my perceived inferiority was a reflection of my abilities, and I often felt confused by my friends’ reactions. Even when I achieved good results in school sports tests, won special prizes in painting and calligraphy competitions, or placed highly in school marathon races, my friends would dismiss it as “impossible.” Despite my earnest efforts, they wouldn’t believe me, which left me deeply shocked.

The phrase “No way, for someone like you,” is one of the most insulting expressions in Japanese. This phrase was frequently used in the popular anime “Doraemon” (from the 1970s onwards). The strong Gian or the rich Suneo would often mock Nobita, who lacked both of those qualities, saying, “No way, for someone like Nobita.” When watching it on TV, this phrase didn’t particularly bother me, but when my friends used it in real life, it felt like a complete rejection of my identity. I realized that I, too, had probably used similar words towards my friends.

(The anime generally portrays Nobita as someone who struggles to succeed, being ignored and denied help from others until Doraemon, the futuristic robot, steps in. Together they tackle challenges and, after much struggle, succeed, ultimately earning recognition. When looking at the whole storyline, I still believe it is a well-crafted piece of content.)

At that time, I realized the gap between the feelings of those who spoke and those who received these words. It dawned on me that there are countless people in the world who are hurt without malice, often due to influences created by the media. This realization made me despair about society. Thinking about others’ feelings became painful, and I began to dream even more of living alone, self-sufficiently. I was ready to “tuck my tail and run away,” so to speak.

What I imagined at the time mainly revolved around building a comfortable, energy-circulating home.

I drew up images of a house that would be cool in the summer and warm in the winter, where I could grow vegetables and rice in the yard, and generate electricity from waste to power gaming and fuel a car. Thanks to the movie “Back to the Future,” the idea of generating energy from garbage came easily.

I wanted the house to be wooden, so it would return to nature after I passed away, and I wanted to use seeds that had been passed down locally to grow the vegetables and rice. I also considered building a house without using metals or cement for connections or the foundation. Knowing that Japanese traditional construction artisans—temple carpenters—possessed such skills, I seriously considered becoming an apprentice. That said, tools themselves require metal, and after considering the Edo period, where iron tools were common, I thought it might be acceptable to use technology as long as it was in moderation.

(I think it was around this time that I first seriously read the Japanese history textbook that was distributed at school. Until then, I had used the textbook as a canvas for my artistic expressions, drawing on the faces of authors and historical figures.)

I also wondered if it would be possible to build a car using natural materials. I recall thinking about scaling up a rubber-band-powered car from a craft book for children, considering if I could use it for daily use, or if I could somehow convert structural energy back into the rubber band’s tension to create a perpetual motion machine. I tried many ideas, drawing diagrams and testing them.

Although I eventually failed and gave up, I began to think about the people who had crafted each existing industrial part, imagining their lives and families. This brought a sense of gratitude for their dedication. It also made me wonder whether sharing emotions and living with someone might be more enjoyable than celebrating or despairing alone.

I think these thoughts form the basis of my actions today.