Train of thought: Sacrifice, Snowpiercer, and why Spring Day still hits hard

I wasn’t exactly planning a Snowpiercer rewatch marathon. But with the final season on the horizon, something about that never-ending train kept tugging at my mind. So, I hit play on the 2013 film, and suddenly—boom!—the connections started rolling in. Snowpiercer isn’t just about people trapped on a frozen train; it’s about what keeps that train moving. And, as it turns out, it’s not so different from Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas.

Cue existential crisis. Omelas, Snowpiercer, The Beast Below—they’re all different flavors of the same bittersweet dystopian dish: societies running on invisible sacrifices. And right when I thought I had made enough connections, BTS’s Spring Day popped into my head. Yes, you heard that right. The MV gives us both visual and emotional whiplash by referencing Omelas and Snowpiercer. So here we are, breaking down how all of this ties together, with trains, sacrifice, and moral dilemmas driving the whole thing.

A journey of sacrifice

Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas thrusts us into a philosophical conundrum: a utopia built on a single, unforgivable truth. Omelas is a city without sorrow, without hardship. But its happiness, its peace, is rooted in the suffering of one child, locked in a dark, cramped room, deprived of any compassion. The citizens of Omelas know about the child, but they’ve accepted the terms of this exchange—one life for the bliss of many. Those who can’t bear this reality, well, they walk away.

Le Guin doesn't make it easy for the reader. She dangles the question of moral responsibility in front of us: is it worth it? Can a society claim to be good if it knowingly sacrifices an innocent for the greater good? And then she leaves us with the people who walk away—those who reject the system but don’t fix it. They leave the child behind, unresolved. They escape their guilt, but not the problem.

Fast forward to Snowpiercer, where the stakes are just as high, but this time, the sacrifices are buried deep within the bowels of a perpetually moving train. Set in a dystopian world where the last survivors of a climate apocalypse are confined to a train that never stops, the series (and film) explores a society built on stark class divisions. The elite lives in luxury at the front, while the lowest class is forced to endure unimaginable squalor at the back. At the heart of this unjust system is Timothy, a child in the film adaptation, forced to work within the train’s machinery, keeping the engine running. His role mirrors that of Le Guin’s child—hidden away, suffering for the entire train's supposed greater good and survival.

Here, the moral question shifts slightly. In The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas, the suffering of the child is known yet deliberately ignored, turning it into a philosophical dilemma. In Snowpiercer, it’s more of an economic necessity: the upper classes actively benefit from the suffering of those in the back, and Timothy is a physical cog in the machine. But both ask the same question—what price are we willing to pay for comfort and stability? Is this system truly worth preserving if it runs on the misery of others?

The big question remains: is it ever justifiable to sacrifice one for the greater good? And who’s really making that call? This ethical dilemma has been questioned in philosophy, reality, and especially in science fiction for a long time. It brings to mind Star Trek: The Wrath of Khan, where this very question is central to the plot. In fact, I read and translated a book into Portuguese titled “Star Trek: The Wrath of Kant”, which explores philosophical themes within the Star Trek universe. The title itself is a clever nod to Immanuel Kant’s ethical theories, contrasting utilitarian perspectives with deontological ethics, raising deeper questions about sacrifice, duty, and moral imperatives. In Star Trek, we see this conflict play out as characters grapple with the weight of such decisions, questioning who has the authority to decide the value of one life versus the many.

Enter The Beast Below: Same Ride, Different Destination

And then we hop into the world of Doctor Who. In The Beast Below, humanity’s survival is once again at the mercy of a hidden, tortured being. The episode follows the Doctor and Amy as they discover that the last remnants of Earth’s population are aboard Starship UK, a floating refuge searching for a new home. But there’s a catch—this massive ship is powered by the suffering of a giant space whale, chained and electrocuted to keep the ship moving. The citizens aboard the ship are given a choice: they can learn the truth or have their memories wiped, continuing to live in blissful ignorance.

Much like in Omelas and Snowpiercer, the suffering in The Beast Below is hidden, locked away where no one can see it. But Doctor Who takes the idea a step further by offering a choice—do you want to know about the suffering that keeps your world moving, or would you rather forget? The Doctor, ever the moral compass, chooses to free the whale, disrupting the system and trusting that it can guide the ship on its own. But there’s no easy victory here. While the whale is freed, the fact remains that for years, the survival of humanity was built on its pain. Can the ends ever justify the means?

In these stories, the theme of sacrifice runs deep, but it’s not just about who suffers—it’s about the choices people make to either uphold or dismantle the systems that perpetuate suffering. Omelas gives us those who choose to walk away, Snowpiercer shows us those who revolt, and The Beast Below presents the choice to either remember or forget.

Spring Day: The train we didn’t see coming

And then we arrive at BTS’s Spring Day, a visual masterpiece that ties these philosophical questions to an emotional journey. The train in Spring Day isn’t a dystopian vehicle—it’s a metaphor for the passage of time, for the weight of grief and memory. But the imagery of a train, especially one pulling into a deserted station, echoes the themes of Snowpiercer. It’s a journey that carries emotional baggage, a vehicle that moves forward while leaving something behind.

But Spring Day also nods to Omelas directly, with the name appearing on screen as a symbolic reference. Like the citizens of Omelas, the characters in Spring Day are grappling with loss and sacrifice—what do we have to leave behind in order to move forward? The MV asks the same question that haunts the other stories: how do we live with the knowledge of what’s been lost, what’s been sacrificed, for the sake of survival or progress?

This symbolism becomes even more poignant when considering the connection many fans have drawn between Spring Day and the Sewol Ferry disaster, a tragedy that claimed the lives of hundreds of students in South Korea. The song's themes of loss, grief, and the struggle to move forward after such a devastating event echo the emotions felt in the wake of the accident. Just as Omelas forces its citizens to confront the cost of their happiness, Spring Day subtly challenges us to reflect on the collective grief of a nation, asking how one copes with the weight of such a tragedy, and how society moves forward while bearing the burden of that loss.

Unlike the stark dystopias of Snowpiercer and The Beast Below, Spring Day offers a more poetic meditation on these themes. Much like Omelas, it carries a quiet but profound weight, delivering its message through a lyrical lens. Though not as overtly brutal as Omelas, the emotional depth and reflection on loss resonate just as powerfully.

The train becomes a place of mourning, a symbol of the journey through grief, but it’s not devoid of hope. It suggests that, while we carry our losses with us, we can still move forward. Yet, it doesn’t shy away from the weight of that journey—like in Omelas, there’s a price to be paid, but it’s emotional, internal.

The final stop: A reflection

So, what does this all mean? Across these stories, we see a pattern: societies built on sacrifice, often hidden from plain sight, whether it’s a suffering child, a laboring underclass, or a tortured whale. Each narrative asks us to confront the systems we live in—are we complicit, like the citizens of Omelas who accept the child’s suffering as necessary? Are we fighting for change, like the revolutionaries in Snowpiercer? Or are we choosing to forget, to remain ignorant, like the citizens of Starship UK?

And then there’s Spring Day, which doesn’t present a dystopian world but rather invites us to sit with our grief and our losses. It’s not about whether we should walk away or revolt, but how we carry the weight of what’s been left behind.

As Snowpiercer approaches its final stop on TV, it stands in contrast to other dystopian adaptations that haven’t quite made the journey, like the recent fumble of Uglies. Yet, Snowpiercer—which began as a graphic novel—has successfully traveled across multiple media, from the big screen to the small, all while keeping that train moving. But even as we near the end of the line, there’s something lingering in the air.

The series leaves us with unresolved tensions, hanging questions, and the sense that the revolution, the fight for survival, and the sacrifices made along the way don’t stop when the credits roll. The train may have reached its destination, but what about the world it left behind? It leaves us with the uncomfortable thought that maybe the journey never truly ends and that we’re still riding along, trapped in the system, wondering if we’re part of the solution—or just another passenger on an endless track.

In the end, these stories leave us with more questions than answers, challenging us to think about what we’re willing to sacrifice—whether it’s physical, emotional, or moral—and whether the systems we live in are truly worth preserving. So, as we pull into the final station of this analysis, we’re left to ask ourselves: Are we walking away from Omelas, revolting, or simply choosing to forget?