Lessons learned mostly from the mistakes made on March 11, 2011 still haunt residents living in Tohoku in cities dotting the coastline, some of which resemble ghost-towns. The last time Japan saw this kind of mass destruction was during World War II. Most who were around in 1945 who remember are too old and humble to offer up their opinions. They come from a time where modesty was the norm. I've met only one man who was alive in 1945 who has opinions to share. He's already one of a kind. I consider him a total and complete exception.
This means Japanese politicians from the federal government all the way down to small town mayors are essentially on their own to figure out post-disaster policy that makes sense to implement. Their mentors who might have suggestions from 60+ years ago aren't any help. Ordinary residents (not politicians) need to work through for themselves what it means to have survived, and how now to keep going.
Awhile back I wrote about the two-word saying tsunami tendenko, a phrase meaning "everyone for themselves." The gist of the teaching is that if a tsunami comes there's no hero crap, everyone is responsible for their own actions and safety, and don't bother saving other people. Almost a nursery rhyme or story in its own right, children have grown up with this saying for generations. Which means, in escaping this last tsunami people shouldn't have made stupid mistakes. The word "stupid" is not mine, mind you. I am the recipient of stories, many from friends who have sworn me to secrecy, telling me, "I knew better but I did it anyway," and "I can't believe I was that stupid," and "I'm lucky to be alive." Where does tsunami tendenko fit in for my friends? Will they eventually share their stories with their children and grandchildren? Will 60+ years from now tales be told about how to and not to escape a tsunami? Will there be a crop of survivors ready, willing, and adamant about passing on what worked and what didn't?
Already with at least two generations having passed between World War II and now, Japan is and has been changing. I can only assume more change will come, for better or worse. I do hope stories about March 11 will be told. Disaster escape stories bear repeating whether they are comical, painful, unbelievable, or stupid. Today I offer one from an adopted family member.
We are sitting around the low table in the living room, the sofa behind me, the piano to my left, and the television facing me. I've long ago lost the argument about the dining room table. I swear Misa had the long side facing the kitchen last time I was here. I can picture it in my mind. My "Oh, you moved the table" comment was met with laughter and borderline mockery.
"What are you talking about? I've not touched that table since we moved in 15 years ago."
"No way. It was pointing this way last time I was here." I move the table on its side 90 degrees in the air using my hands. Everyone laughs.
"No, it wasn't," my adopted daughters tell me. Evidently I am wrong. I know it was pointing the other way. I'm sure of it.
"Never mind," Misa tells me. "You're just tired." She goes to the fridge. "Here," she says, and hands me a vitamin drink. These things aren't cheap, but I really like them. I hesitate for a minute but decide to let my taste buds overrule.
The girls are watching television when we hear a fire truck outside. What we hear is not a siren but a bell, almost forlorn, sounding much more like a church bell than an emergency vehicle. Immediately the girls perk up, stand, and listen. Misa goes to the window and opens it, waiting for the announcement of where the fire is, and which brigade is to be sent out for the counterattack. Through the echo of the city-wide PA system she hears what I don't.
"It's alright," she tells the girls. "Daddy doesn't have to go."
Dad is a volunteer firefighter. Tasked with recovering bodies and looking for survivors immediately after the tsunami, Misa and the girls didn't see him for days. Two and a half years later, here is a man who doesn't want to talk about what he did, what he saw or what happened. He will get up from the table when the discussion turns to the disaster mysteriously needing "another pack of cigarettes."
The girls turn back to the television while Misa and I sit. She still needs to process her feelings about the disaster, and I've learned over the years to let her talk when she needs to, initiating the conversation as she sees fit. Today she tells me a story.
"You know," she starts, "this is a bit embarrassing, but I heard this from my mother the other day," and now shyly, "I haven't told anyone yet." I nod.
"My mother and grandmother knew a tsunami would come. Considering how much everything shook that day, it was a given." I nod again.
"So," she giggles, "my mother and grandmother were getting ready to head up the hill behind their house when they realized they had enough time to grab things important to them. They went around the house quickly picking up the cash they could find, some bottles of water and tea, a few bags of crackers. I think my grandmother found her bankbook, too." Now Misa nods.
"Here's the thing," she giggles again. "The next most important thing in the house was," she looks over at the girls who are completely absorbed in their show and not listening, "the refrigerator." I look at her in shock.
"They took the fridge?"
"It's the most important appliance in the house," Misa says. "My parents aren't rich. Refrigerators aren't cheap. At least my mother wouldn't think so." I'm stunned.
"She and my grandmother decided they could lift it if they took all the food out, so they started throwing everything out onto the kitchen floor. My mother picked up one end and my grandmother the other, and they started to pull at it trying to get out, but then they realized it was still plugged into the wall." I nod.
"This is where it's funny," Misa laughs. "But, it's not. Of all people, my mother and grandmother know to escape. To take as little as possible and to get to high ground as soon as possible. When something like this happens all that they were taught, common sense and logic--it just wasn't there. Instead of pulling the cord out of the socket, my mother took the closest thing she could find on the kitchen counter, a pair of scissors, and cut the cord." Misa is now laughing out loud. I am, too, and then remember her earlier statement, "It's funny but it's not."
Just like that I remember all the stories I've been told--the "it was stupid but I did it anyway" tales and the "I knew better but" and "I don't know what I was thinking"--some with happy endings, others not. Misa's story shocked me. Here were two women who most definitely knew better than to attempt an escape carrying a large item. I hear in the background Misa telling me, "My dad was so mad" but I'm not really listening any more. What does this story tell me? I decide here is one instance where even Japan, a country with routine drills practicing patience and calm has a long ways to go before generational wisdom sinks in. If those who survived World War II can't and won't share lessons learned, I certainly hope Misa will tell her daughters to get up and run, and leave behind what can be replaced. I left Misa's that day with a mixture of dread, disappointment, and confusion. What good is tsunami tendenko if a fridge is of that importance? Again, I have no answers.
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