Parents Who Snap At Their Kids: What Post-disaster Recovery Looks Like Today

I am in no position to diagnose.  With no training in medicine, psychology, or psychiatry it's not up to me to identify who's suffering from what.  What I can say is this:  I don't need a degree to see and understand there's still pain in post-diaster Tohoku.  Two and a half years after Japan's biggest earthquake triggered giant tsunamis, ambiguity and confusion are still the norm.  Leaving the question of why recovery is slow aside, those of us involved in disaster recovery focus on what we can do here and now.

Kazu is drunk.  The more alcohol he consumes the more honest he becomes.  Tonight he let out his pent-up inner most demons.  His main concern, he states over and over, is the kids.

"They're just too well behaved," he says.  "They don't ask for things, they don't say, 'Daddy can we go to so and so,' because they know what will happen if they do."
My job tonight is to listen and prod.  "What do you mean?"
"Well, it's primarily the adults who are the problem.  We snap at the kids.  We're all tense.  We've got short fuses.  We're tired, I know I'm tired, and when we get this way we take it out on the kids.  It's not right but we do it anyway."  He sips his drink.  How many has he had?  I've lost count.
"So, the kids, because they know we'll get pissy, they don't act out.  They're the ones trying to make sure the parents, that's us, don't have a reason to get angry.  Or, maybe I should say angrier."
We're silent for awhile.  When he speaks again Kazu runs his hand over his buzz-cut hair.  "I did it, too," he says.  "I snapped at Yuuki."
I think of Yuuki, Kazu's son, a boy who has I swear grown at least 20 cm in the two plus years I've known him.  "What happened?" I ask.
"It was dumb.  It's true I was mad.  Yuuki wouldn't stop playing those video games," and Kazu mimics Yuuki's fingers pressing buttons on a remote control device.  "I hate those things," he says.  "I had told Yuuki to go to bed.  He didn't, of course."  Kazu laughs but it's an uncomfortable laugh.  "So I yelled at him.  Normally, I would have said something about taking him up to his room and helping him get to bed, but that night I snapped and told him to get to bed.  We're all like that, us parents.  We're all stressed."

It's neither fair nor accurate to say all parents in Tohoku snap at their kids out of post-disaster anxiety.  Do some?  Yes.  Do many?  Perhaps.  Probably.  The take away tonight from Kazu's alcohol-induced honesty is that he is tired, and that many parents around him are, too.   Why wouldn't he be?  Earlier in the day, another one of my brothers from Tohoku told me how the spirit of gaman, usually a beautiful combination of strength, determination, and perseverance has turned into apathy.  "People are giving up," he tells me.  "Not in the 'I'm suicidal' way, but they're all tired of waiting.  Change and improvement, it's so slow.  It's taking so long.  Too long."  He's now talking to himself more than me, and because I don't have the words to fix what's wrong I stay silent.

In some communities rebuilding has been going on for a good year.  Prefabricated homes and stores and businesses have long since been available.  It's the newly rebuilt homes and stores and businesses that are marking how well reconstruction is going.  In cities like Rikuzentakata where nothing can be rebuilt in what was downtown, the city is far behind its neighbors.  The lack of speed in visible progress turns into disaster-fatigue which then turns into snapping parents.  Or so Kazu says.

Clearly I don't have the solution.  I listen.  I let them vent. I nod my head when they need agreement and shake it in disgust when they need an additional soul to commiserate with them.  I left Kazu wondering just how useful his venting was for him.  I tell myself I listened, and hope that was enough.

The Problem With Giving

Large organizations, UNHCR and Harvard Medical School and the like are said to offer up "two" as the magic number.  Two years post a natural disaster and things change.  Aid dries up, and those left behind must find their own way.  I've pondered this of late as I found myself muddling through a sea of obnoxious requests, outrageous comments made about aid received, and an overall ugly sense of entitlement creeping into the Tohoku disaster region as a whole.  Two-plus years since a series of tsunamis wiped out Japan's northeastern coastline, there's absolute truth work still needs to be done.  Equally, a victim-mentality and a "gimme gimme" environment is now just as prevalent as is the community of those who are striving to move on.

If the statement "what doesn't break you makes you stronger" is true, many in Tohoku are now broken.  How and where does one find the will to rebuild without an income?  Those who are elderly (adult diaper sales surpassed baby diaper sales for the first time in Japan) should take out a loan to build a house where they will ... what?  Move in and die?  Words like these sound crass and cold.  That doesn't make them untrue.

Wide-spread depression, questions on how to move forward, whether life is worth living are all present.  This is not to say most feel this way.  I say this to point out with the passage of time and little tangible improvement hope wanes.

Is it then natural for those so used to the twisted combination of grief and pain who have also asked for and received pretty much all they need to now use their loss to ask for more?  The word to focus on is "natural" and the implication, "is this normal?"  That I am being asked to raise funds for items no one would dare have wished for just a few months back ... what does this mean?

Some complaints I've heard about items received remind me of an ill-behaved child who would scold grandma for giving her a birthday cake with white icing instead of pink.  Others impress me with their justification for why they need a new (insert pretty much anything here).

I can't quote the Rolling Stones and sing to them "you can't always get what you want."  Nor can I bring up the example of how ridiculous it is for little girls to ask for ponies for Christmas, the ultimate in a "but I want one thus deserve it" argument.  In the minds of many disaster victims, they truly "need" that item the rest of us don't have.  Does their pain explain their behavior?  Does being a victim mean they should get to ask for whatever they want and expect it?  If you knew the kinds of requests I'm getting I think you would agree, the answer is "NO."

Giving in post-disaster Tohoku needs to change.  For this to happen, donors must know what defines a "must have" versus "wouldn't it be nice if."  This requires a level of honesty among those in Tohoku that is lacking.  There's no other nicer way of saying this.  For many outside of Tohoku there's a real desire to help, especially now that time has passed and the residents left behind feel forgotten.  Offering up everything on their wish list is not the way to offer aid.  They won't like me saying this, but again, that doesn't make it any less true.

The ugliest part about this is what I can't and won't share:  the actual examples.  I purposely block the nasty parts of the reality of Tohoku giving (and receiving) from reaching you because if you knew what some wanted and that word got out to the donors ("they asked for what?") aid would dry up right then and there.  (At least from that donor and others they choose to tell.)  This is why I post updates like this.  You're getting the truth.  Just not all of it. 

My point is this:  I ask for reflection from donors going forward.  Are you giving because you want to check off your "I donated" box?  Is this a real need?  Whom does it help?   This is not a band-aid?  Where are you getting your information?  How much of this aid is actually reaching the recipient?  Do you trust the NPO/NGO/organization you're donating to?  Are you sure they're not sucking up your donation as they "spread it out among the locals"?

The magical "two year mark" has come and gone.  Going forward, I ask for and urge caution, care, honesty, and rechecking facts before checks are cut, items sent, offer extended.  No, little girls in Tohoku do not deserve a "pony" for their birthday.  Grandma gives you a birthday cake?  The words you're looking for are "thank you" and not a complaint about the color of the icing.  Yes, these are examples.  I settle for these as the truth would make us all weep.

Think before you give.  I'm gently working in Tohoku on the "think before you ask" part.  Hopefully between the two parties putting more thought into what is truly needed there can be more of the kind of aid truly needed.

The Scolding

Alpha Male, my favorite Japanese man in Japan has a head shaped like a cube.  If his head were a cardboard box, a bowling ball would fit inside.  His body fits his head--large shoulders that go straight down to his legs with no waist to speak of.  He swaggers when he walks and people step aside as if he's a gangster, ready to beat up that one person that gets in his way.  His absolute disdain for those who break the law make it all the more ironic he's seen as "one of them."

When my phone rings and I see on caller ID that it's him, I pick up, ready for a nice chat.  Good company always, I'm honest with him.  No one who sees him walking their way would ever guess this man is gentle and kind.  The visual doesn't fit the man except when he gets angry.  His usual quiet and unassuming character will disappear if he sees the need to exert his strength.  Truly, he would beat the crap out of a gang of hoodlums harassing a homeless man.  Here, his stature as a hulkish Japanese man, an unusual sight indeed, would serve him well.  The teenage boys would cry, run away, regretting the day they chose the path of deliquency.

"Hey," his gruff voice greets me in the usual way.  "You doing okay?"
"Uh huh."
"You head home soon, don't you?"
"Yup.  Tomorrow."
"You should rest when you're home."
"I plan to.  I'm going to take it easy."
"Good.  Glad to hear that."
"How are you?"  I ask because it's polite and because I want to know.
"Nope.  Not today."
"Huh?"  Does he mean, "Nope.  Today I'm not okay" or does he mean "we're not talking about me today."  I get my answer immediately.
"We're not talking about me today."
"Okaaay."  So, we're not talking about his work, or anything related to him today.  That leaves me and everything else.
"You got a minute to talk?"
"Sure.  What's going on?  You sound upset."
"I'm not upset."  He pauses a few seconds here and I suddenly feel dread.
"What?"
He takes a deep breath.  "I saw you the other day."
"Where?"  He names a part of Tokyo I sometimes travel through.  I am amazed all over again at how small of a town this metropolis is at times.  I've run into too many people I know at the oddest of places for it to be a one-off coincidence.
"What was I doing?"
"Walking."  For some reason, I'm disappointed.  Which is ridiculous, of course.  Most of what I do in Tokyo is walk from place to place.
"Okay.  So, you saw me.  Why didn't you stop and say hello?"  I don't mean it as an accusation and for a split second I wonder if he'll take it that way.
"I had people in my car."
"Oh."  That makes sense, I suppose.  And then he says it.
"You've lost weight."

There it is.  I know what's coming.  This is not a compliment, a "you looked good" comment that people throw at others to flatter.
"You're not eating, are you."
"I am."
He's silent.  When he finally speaks, it's slow.  "Three meals a day?"
No. 
"Yes," I lie.  Who eats three meals a day anymore?
"You don't.  I know you don't.  Your face, it was almost gaunt.  I could see your cheekbones."
No way.  I look at myself in the mirror everyday.  I don't not look gaunt and my cheekbones do not protrude out of my face.
"I may have lost a bit of weight but it's not that bad."
"You're eating three meals a day.  You can really say that."  He's challenging me and I hold in a sigh.  I wanted a nice chat tonight.  Instead I'm getting a scolding.
"Mostly."
"Look," he starts, and I decide to cut him off.
"Okay.  I don't eat three meals a day.  But, I'm not skipping meals so I lose weight or anything like that.  Really.  I'm fine."
He doesn't say anything for almost ten seconds, a long time on a cell phone and I wonder if I've lost him.
"Hello?"
Nothing.
"Hello?"
"Yeah.  Just wondering if you're done."  Ouch.
"I'm done."
"Well, I'm not.  You need to hear this because you won't take this from anyone else here.  Let me talk.  Don't cut me off."  Yikes.  "Got it?"
"Yes."
"Look," he starts again.  "You going home this time has to be a real vacation.  You need to rest.  And, eat.  I'm not saying come back looking like me.  I'm saying eat the food you like, get caught up on sleep, and spend a week doing nothing.  No e-mails, no phone calls, no work.  Rest.  Get a massage or something."  He finishes but I'm not sure he's completely done or just taking a breath.  I stay silent.
"Are you listening?"
"Uh huh."
"You're stressed, aren't you."
I feel myself get defensive.  "Not more than usual."
"You're stressed."  I cringe because I would not take this from anyone else.
"A bit, maybe.  Normal stress."
"Which you don't think is a big deal."

I ponder this a moment.  Life in Tokyo is wonderful and tiring.  Life in Tohoku is totally and completely intense.  Gratifying and worth it, but disaster relief isn't supposed to be all butterflies and unicorns.  What's he getting at?  Of course there's stress in my life.  I go back and forth between Tokyo and Tohoku, already a long enough trek on its own, and when I'm up north I'm surrounded by varying degrees of pain.  Yes, I'm stressed.  But, not so much that it would show on my face.  Right?

Thinking back to the time he surprised me by picking me up at the airport, I realize this is his way of showing concern.  All this flies through my brain and I realize I'm out of words.  Afraid anything I say will sound snippy I wonder if I should just promise to take better care of myself and hang up.  I have to pack yet before my flight.  That's a good excuse, right?  I decide to try this tactic.

But, evidently all this strategizing and wondering came through loud and clear to him on the other end of the phone.
"Here's what we're going to do."
I don't say anything.
"You listening?"
"Yes."
"You want to say, 'I'm fine,' and 'I'll take better care of myself' and all that.  That's your defense mechanism.  You won't, through.  Rather, you don't.  So, here's what we're doing.  I'm taking you out for food once a week when you get back and you're going to eat.  A lot.  I don't like skinny women.  I'll bet your husband doesn't like them either.  We're doing this.  That's it.  We're doing this.  You'll say you don't have the time but we're doing this.  We're both busy, but until I'm really sure you're okay, this is how it's going to be.  Tell your husband."

Am I that transparent?  How did he know I was going to use those exact phrases?  I'm focused on that part and not on the mandatory weekly dinners that he's announced will take place forever and ever.

All of a sudden I'm tired.  I don't want to be scolded tonight.  I don't want to talk about this.  I just want to go home.  I speak into the phone and call him by name.
"Can we talk about this when I get back?  Please?"
He must not have expected that, as his next words are not as rough.  "Are you upset?"
Yes.
"No."  Why do I keep lying to him?
"I know I should take better care of myself.  I just don't want to talk about it tonight."  I decide to skip the "I have to pack" part and hope he believes we will pick this up in a month.
"I'm tired," I say.  "You're right about that.  Help me figure out a better system when I'm back."  Pause.  "Okay?"
"Yeah."

And so it went.  I know he cares.  I know he's echoing what my husband would say if he were here and saw how I ate.  (Or didn't.)  Alpha Male is an important presence in my life here in Japan, but I wasn't in the mood for this tonight.  Perhaps I could avoid these scoldings if I would just take better care of myself?  Nah.  Nothing is that simple.

An Open Letter to People of Faith

Dear Friends,

I credit my parents.  If you disagree with me, you will likely replace "credit" with "blame."  I can handle that.  I believe my parents can as well.

It's not as if somewhere in my childhood my parents sat me down and laid this out for me.  I picked this up through the way they lived.  Their lifestyle personified their beliefs and their faith through the actions they took.  For this, I have the utmost respect for them.

It comes down to this:  If you are a person of faith, if you have chosen to state you are Buddhist, Christian, Muslim, Jew, or Hindu, if people know you as someone who holds a set of faith-based beliefs you are responsible for your actions.  More so than those who do not openly state their faith.  This is even truer for people of the cloth.  If by looking at you I know you are a priest, nun, monk, rabbi, or if I know you as a pastor, I get to hold you to a higher standard.  I just do.  Your choice to openly, publicly, and formally announce your faith through your profession or clothing gives me permission to raise the bar in how I look at you.  I do.  You asked for it.

Which is why crimes committed by people of faith like the sexual assaults on children by some of the Catholic "cloth" infuriate me.  The same goes for people of faith who are nasty, unkind, passive-aggressive, and rude. You know better.  Knock it off.  Shame. 

Faith is not like poker.  You don't get to "fold" or call "all in" when it suits you.  Faith is like parenthood.  Once a parent always a parent.  This is what I learned from my parents.  You're either always "all in" or you're not.  My choice to live a life based on faith was not something I undertook lightly.  Here in Japan where I stick out as it is my actions are noted, and my moves observed.  I take this very, very seriously.  People have made assumptions I'm here to spread the gospel, teach and preach, or convert.  I'm not.  I'm here because there's a need to find ways to put food on the table.  My "mission" here is not about the after-life.  It's about the day-to-day life.

A recent e-mail brought up in me this feeling of living an "all in" life.  My job, now and for the foreseeable future is to spread the word about what's going on in Tohoku, post the earthquake and tsunami of March 11, 2011.  I understand there will come a point where people are tired of hearing of this.  Some are already tired of news about Tohoku.  I've heard, "Japan can take care of itself," and "Move on," and "Japan is rich," and "Japan is not a third-world country, so we don't need to help."  If you can live with these statements, more power to you.  Not being here, not seeing what happened, not living among those whose pain is still very, very real, it's probably easy to arrive at those conclusions.  I can't force you to help.

But, I can cry foul, especially for those whose faith teaches them to help people in need regardless of how well-off that country or region might be.  The e-mail I received this morning told me a faith-based publication "didn't have space" to print a feature article on Tohoku.  How do I respond to a statement like that?  Where do I begin?  If it weren't a faith-based group, I would have let it go.  I would have judged them as small and petty people, but I would have let it go.  My reply, a nasty one I'm afraid, said "MAKE space."  I'm guessing that probably didn't go over well.

Pick a spot on the map preferably along the ocean and now draw a line extending 300 miles.  It doesn't matter whether you go north, south, east, or west.  Now, imagine EVERY SINGLE city, village, and town on that line has lost people, sometimes thousands at a time.  Buildings and homes are destroyed.  If it wasn't made of concrete, it's gone.  Imagine some towns are almost entirely wiped off the map.  Now, tell me how (first-world country aside) you "don't have space" to print an article about the millions of people whose lives have been turned upside down.  Really? 

Today, I'm disappointed in these believers who don't know how to make space in a publication to tell an important story.  Tomorrow, I will disappoint someone.  The difference is, I'm trying.

Tohoku forgotten?

Granted I've been in Japan less than 48 hours.  Yesterday was a wash.  Walking around town in a daze, I can say now I wasn't taking much in.  Today is different.  I'm in the city again where I'm most comfortable.  My eyes are more focused.  I see things better, clearer.  I'm struck by what's not present.  Ask me again in three weeks, six weeks and I may take this back.  Today, I stand by this.

I've walked through stations.  I've ridden on trains.  I've watched television.  Gone are the posters, signage, shows, reports, news stories discussing what happened in Tohoku in March.  Sitting in front of the television now, I'm watching a report on how children are faring post March 11th.  This is the first time I've seen or heard the words "Tohoku" since arriving in Japan this time. 

What happened?  What changed?  The obvious answer is time.  Donor fatigue sunk in long ago.  The ever present sense of resolve and perseverance seems to have been replaced with apathy, hopelessness, and a lack of interest.  Like other catastrophes, natural and man-made, people get tired of hearing and reading news on the same topic.  I get that.  I understand how the rest of the world has stopped discussing Japan.  But, here, too?  That Japan isn't even reporting on the lives of those in Tohoku, this surprises me.

Then there's this. 

Starbucks has stopped accepting donations for those in the Tohoku prefectures.  The announcement states they stopped collecting money at the end of September, and tells coffee-buyers they donated over 35,000,000 yen to the Japanese Red Cross.  That's no small sum.  But, why stop now?  I don't get it. 

I am incredibly aware of the fact I cannot be a gong ringing on my own, trying to keep peoples' interest focused on Tohoku.  That means I will spend a significant amount of energy over the next several months figuring out how to balance reporting on what I will do in the Tohoku area, and how not to talk about only that.  I will try.  I really will.  Then again, isn't there something wrong with the fact anyone should have to limit the conveyance of facts (especially facts this important) because the rest of the world has a short attention span?