I woke up to a grey skies outside my window. Another cold day in Tokyo. I made and took calls, wrote e-mails, finished a report, and got ready for my lunch appointment. A childhood friend who called me butterfingers as I let the basketball slip through my grasp, we didn't get along well when we were in our teens. Now an accomplished journalist and bureau chief of a major foreign news outlet in Tokyo, we were going to get caught up. I made my way to our rendezvous point as my phone started to ring. Taking calls on trains is a no-no in Japan. I answered anyway, keeping my voice low.
"Something's happened in North Korea," he says.
"No problem. We'll reschedule." I got off at that station and began retracing my steps home.
Cue internet searches on what happened in North Korea.
"M4.9 seismic activity reported" reads a headline. It was my next reaction that step off a chain reaction.
"Pffft. M4.9. That's nothing. We go through worse, bigger earthquakes here all the time."
That's what I thought. Really. Now, for the record, I am sorry. Truly sorry. This is wrong. That it wasn't an earthquake, per se, but a nuclear test isn't the point. I am now guilty of earthquake superiority. I've become an earthquake snob. This is not okay.
There is surely a psychological word describing the process in which within thirty seconds, one's mind ticks off a chain reaction of memories. Walking past a cafe, I see a slice of apple pie. This takes me right back to my grandmother's kitchen smelling of cinnamon and nutmeg, warm with more than just the heat from the oven. This takes me to the time I was in third grade when walking home from school I passed a hair salon encountering a scent I had only smelled in my great aunt's kitchen. Bliss. This took me to my best friend of the time, Yumi walking that same route for four years. Remembering Yumi took me back to the time we fought about her skin allergy. (Why?) I didn't like Yumi much. That reminded me of my other best friend, this one from sixth grade. Her, I liked. Which reminded me of the little book of rules we had to carry around in middle school, making sure our hair did not touch our collars, and our bangs above our eyebrows. Enter the drama surrounding hair cutting in our home. Always wanting to experiment, I needed my father's permission to go short. Next, I think about the time I grew my hair out into a bob ten years ago or so, thinking I needed hair in order to look feminine. My husband pops into my mind next with his words, "Don't ever let your hair grow long again. You look much better with short hair." And, now I'm wondering if I need another hair cut.
All that in thirty seconds. This isn't the jog down memory lane I took today, but rather an example of how fast our minds recall incidents otherwise inconsequential but clearly tucked away only to be pulled out when there's a trigger. Today, my reaction to the M4.9 "earthquake" in North Korea jump-started a similar process.
I remember back to a time an associate of mine, finding she was pregnant said to me, "I'll lose my gold status on the airlines and hotels now. I won't be able to travel for at least a year." I believe I shot back with "You've become quite the travel snob" reeling at how her priorities were as horribly askew. Today, the word "snob" also applies to me. Word and memory association stopped there today. I was stuck on the the fact I've become a snob.
Who gets her socks knotted up into a bunch over "who's earthquake is bigger"? Where's the concern, sympathy, and genuine hope no one was injured? Why did my mind jump to competing over the size of an earthquake as opposed to valuing human life? I'm ashamed. I'm embarrassed. I'm also more than a bit peeved with myself.
The conclusion I've come to over my little mental connect-the-dots snafu is this: I'm reminded all over again I've simply become complacent. When leaving my apartment, I no longer ask myself if I'd really like to walk home in these shoes if the trains stop running. I used to, and in the summer would carry around a pair of flip-flops, just in case. I don't carry extra cash around knowing if there's a massive black out, shutting down banks for days or even weeks I'll certainly need cash to survive. There are earthquakes somewhere in Japan every day. While I can't live my life always worrying about "the big one" I similarly can't be as laissez-faire as I am about the fact there will be consequences to having an uncharged cell phone, no cash, and heels that will leave me with blisters the size of Montana if I have to walk more than a kilometer.
North Korean nuclear tests aside, the mental exercise I took today jolted me back into a mode of consciousness I've been lax about of late. And, I hope everything's okay in North Korea. Not in the, oh-go-test-another-bomb-why-don't-you way, but in that the people there, the ones who don't have a say are really okay.
Showing posts with label earthquake. Show all posts
Showing posts with label earthquake. Show all posts
Monday, February 11, 2013
Friday, December 7, 2012
Post-Earthquake Update
The M7.3 earthquake that hit off the coast of northeastern Japan last night has left many in Tohoku shaken. Too close to where "the big one" hit 20 months ago, memories kept right under the surface pop out again like pimples. It's too soon. It's too raw.
I was in Rikuzentakata City Hall when the earthquake hit. There was a bit of a roar, the earth rumbling with a warning, but it wasn't enough of a notice for us to prepare. Our pre-fab building shook. A lot. Items started falling off the shelves. People got up, propping up tall file cabinets, bookshelves and the like.
I sat. It's all so unreal. That famous line from cop shows "It happened so fast" is real in ways I don't want it to be. There's also a sense this is happening around me. It's as if I'm not really a part of this. Japan is not my country. I feel oddly disconnected. I'm not technically a Rikuzentakata City Hall employee. They've already been through this with disastrous consequences. Having lost one quarter of their employees and another 100 or so in contract workers, they know the drill. Literally.
And, I do mean it literally. Once the shaking subsided everyone went into action. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.
There are lessons to be learned here. Immediate lessons we need to drive home. Not just for those of us here in Tohoku, but for every kind of disaster.
I reflect upon the following:
1). I've always thought I had an escape plan. To be fair, I did. Having said that, I never made myself go through a "drill" of any sort. Behind the apartment I stay in is a hill, and I can see where I would go to escape, but I've never practiced. I don't know how long it takes. This is not okay. Considering we are to be prepared for aftershocks for awhile, I will do this today.
2). With time we all become more complacent. While I can argue how normal this is and many would agree, this is dangerous. My cell phones are often only half-charged. It wouldn't hurt if I could find (and then carry) a small solar-powered flashlight. It's simply not smart to assume anything. It's hard to always be vigilant. It's harder to be caught off guard and thus completely screwed.
3). People care. My phone rang frequently with people checking up on me. "Where are you?" and "Are you okay?" were welcome questions, especially considering my family were fast asleep in the US. It's okay to hang onto these lifelines. It's further okay to...
4). Ask for help. The apartment I stay in when I'm in Tohoku is too near the ocean for my comfort at times like this. I called friends who live in town, a good distance from the coast and asked to spend the night there.
5). Follow the leader. There are people who have to be calm in situations like this, and they're resources. Use them. Trust them.
In Rikuzentakata City Hall, there were those who went straight into battle-mode. Others clung to each other. At first glance, it looked as if they were hugging. It's not a hug when you don't or can't let go.
I'm concerned about post-earthquake trauma. Sirens, a good source of information because they always follow with an announcement are actually ominous and eerie. Necessary but they're not tools that induce calm.
I'm okay. I will be okay. I have people I can rely upon and I will spend the rest of the afternoon preparing while trying not to obsess or feel stress.
Prepare yourselves, people. It's the right thing to do.
I was in Rikuzentakata City Hall when the earthquake hit. There was a bit of a roar, the earth rumbling with a warning, but it wasn't enough of a notice for us to prepare. Our pre-fab building shook. A lot. Items started falling off the shelves. People got up, propping up tall file cabinets, bookshelves and the like.
I sat. It's all so unreal. That famous line from cop shows "It happened so fast" is real in ways I don't want it to be. There's also a sense this is happening around me. It's as if I'm not really a part of this. Japan is not my country. I feel oddly disconnected. I'm not technically a Rikuzentakata City Hall employee. They've already been through this with disastrous consequences. Having lost one quarter of their employees and another 100 or so in contract workers, they know the drill. Literally.
And, I do mean it literally. Once the shaking subsided everyone went into action. But, I'm getting ahead of myself.
There are lessons to be learned here. Immediate lessons we need to drive home. Not just for those of us here in Tohoku, but for every kind of disaster.
I reflect upon the following:
1). I've always thought I had an escape plan. To be fair, I did. Having said that, I never made myself go through a "drill" of any sort. Behind the apartment I stay in is a hill, and I can see where I would go to escape, but I've never practiced. I don't know how long it takes. This is not okay. Considering we are to be prepared for aftershocks for awhile, I will do this today.
2). With time we all become more complacent. While I can argue how normal this is and many would agree, this is dangerous. My cell phones are often only half-charged. It wouldn't hurt if I could find (and then carry) a small solar-powered flashlight. It's simply not smart to assume anything. It's hard to always be vigilant. It's harder to be caught off guard and thus completely screwed.
3). People care. My phone rang frequently with people checking up on me. "Where are you?" and "Are you okay?" were welcome questions, especially considering my family were fast asleep in the US. It's okay to hang onto these lifelines. It's further okay to...
4). Ask for help. The apartment I stay in when I'm in Tohoku is too near the ocean for my comfort at times like this. I called friends who live in town, a good distance from the coast and asked to spend the night there.
5). Follow the leader. There are people who have to be calm in situations like this, and they're resources. Use them. Trust them.
In Rikuzentakata City Hall, there were those who went straight into battle-mode. Others clung to each other. At first glance, it looked as if they were hugging. It's not a hug when you don't or can't let go.
I'm concerned about post-earthquake trauma. Sirens, a good source of information because they always follow with an announcement are actually ominous and eerie. Necessary but they're not tools that induce calm.
I'm okay. I will be okay. I have people I can rely upon and I will spend the rest of the afternoon preparing while trying not to obsess or feel stress.
Prepare yourselves, people. It's the right thing to do.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
The Ultimate Telling Off
The 2012 Best Television Commercial Award in Japan went to Toyota and the series of ads they created for the Prius. Here again is one of these "I can't make this up" stories. Look up on YouTube "Toyota Prius CM" and "Kimura Takuya" or "Beat Takeshi." The commercials are called "Toyota ReBorn" numbering quite a few. Try to start at the beginning. Here's the storyline.
Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi, two lords notorious for betrayal, rivalry and war in Japanese history meet in modern-day Japan as Kimura Takuya and Beat Takeshi, two major and current celebrities. Kimura and Beat go on a road trip, with Beat giving the younger Kimura instructions. "Take the highway up north," and several commercials later they end up in Tohoku, Ishinomaki to be exact. Along the way they pick up Matsuko Deluxe, an popular and obese transvestite who's seen hitchhiking in a flowing black gown (looking very much like the grim reaper to me) who ends up being the wife or mistress of one of the two men. (I've forgotten enough of my Japanese history that I don't understand the historical significance of this woman. Google "Oichi-no-Kata" for more details.)
Once in Ishinomaki, they visit what used to be an evacuation shelter (now boarded up). While there, Beat says to Kimura, "Let's go to the ocean." What comes next is the best, most honest telling off--of the ocean. Beat screams, face twitching, the ultimate Japanese version of "F*** you." Technically, yelling "Bakayaro!" at the ocean that destroyed Ishinomaki and countless other cities and towns along the coast, he's calling the ocean stupid. Anyone who knows this man, however, knows he doesn't just say "stupid." His language is much more coarse. Not known for being nice or polite, Beat is absolutely, most definitely saying anything akin to just "stupid." In this one word, he does what we've all wanted to do since March 11th. The commercials are strong, powerful, and painful all at the same time. They deserve the award. If I were creating these commercials, I might have added Bolero as the soundtrack, but that's just me.
The commercials are worth watching. I applaud Toyota's audacity, their ability to take a subject not the least bit funny, taking two men admired and loved and turning a hybrid car into the medium by which to tell a story, express anger, and remind people to care. Watch it. Laugh and cry. Care.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=afzj_J8MizM
Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi, two lords notorious for betrayal, rivalry and war in Japanese history meet in modern-day Japan as Kimura Takuya and Beat Takeshi, two major and current celebrities. Kimura and Beat go on a road trip, with Beat giving the younger Kimura instructions. "Take the highway up north," and several commercials later they end up in Tohoku, Ishinomaki to be exact. Along the way they pick up Matsuko Deluxe, an popular and obese transvestite who's seen hitchhiking in a flowing black gown (looking very much like the grim reaper to me) who ends up being the wife or mistress of one of the two men. (I've forgotten enough of my Japanese history that I don't understand the historical significance of this woman. Google "Oichi-no-Kata" for more details.)
Once in Ishinomaki, they visit what used to be an evacuation shelter (now boarded up). While there, Beat says to Kimura, "Let's go to the ocean." What comes next is the best, most honest telling off--of the ocean. Beat screams, face twitching, the ultimate Japanese version of "F*** you." Technically, yelling "Bakayaro!" at the ocean that destroyed Ishinomaki and countless other cities and towns along the coast, he's calling the ocean stupid. Anyone who knows this man, however, knows he doesn't just say "stupid." His language is much more coarse. Not known for being nice or polite, Beat is absolutely, most definitely saying anything akin to just "stupid." In this one word, he does what we've all wanted to do since March 11th. The commercials are strong, powerful, and painful all at the same time. They deserve the award. If I were creating these commercials, I might have added Bolero as the soundtrack, but that's just me.
The commercials are worth watching. I applaud Toyota's audacity, their ability to take a subject not the least bit funny, taking two men admired and loved and turning a hybrid car into the medium by which to tell a story, express anger, and remind people to care. Watch it. Laugh and cry. Care.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=afzj_J8MizM
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Mayor Dad
I'm not one to shamelessly plug anything, but I'm always willing to make an exception. If you have a moment and $9.95 to spare, please considering logging onto Amazon.com and look for Mayor Futoshi Toba's (Mayor of Rikuzentakata) book about the days and months post March 11th as he experienced them. Entitled, “Let’s Talk About It: What Really Happened In The Disaster Area” this is book is brutally honest (at times painfully), emotional, real, and a must-read for anyone (politicians especially) who need to understand disaster prevention, relief, and management. That yours truly translated the book isn’t the point. Mayor Toba’s humanity, the decisions he made and now questions, his resolve, and dedication are something to behold.
But this is not why I’m writing about him. At least not solely. In a recent conversation we had, he shared the following story with me. Again, it’s one of these I-can’t-make-this-up vignettes. This one will make you love him all the more.
“So, my son, the older one, comes to me the other morning and says, ‘Dad! My uniform is still wet!’ Not knowing what he’s talking about, I wander into his room where he’s packing for his basketball tournament that he has to leave for in about 30 minutes, and he’s holding up this clearly wet uniforms. I don’t know what to do with this. How do you dry something quickly, as in 30-minutes quickly? Clothes dryer, right? I’m annoyed, but I go into dad-mode, and take the uniform tops and shorts and stick them in the dryer.” He looks at me here. I nod. Yeah. What’s the big deal? I’m not seeing where the drama is in this story.
“Except, I didn’t hit the ‘dry’ cycle. I hit ‘wash’ and not just any ‘wash’ but the ‘long wash.’” I laugh. “Hey!” I stop laughing. Sort of. “It’s not funny!” I swear that’s a mock pout I’m seeing.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s not funny,” I say and know I’m not the least bit convincing.
“I didn’t know what to do. My son’s standing in the bathroom looking at me with this, ‘Daaaad!’ look, and I know I’ve screwed up, and I know I can’t drain the washing machine and get it to spin and dry and all that in 30 minutes. Rather, I don’t know how to.” I’m grinning, but don’t say anything because after all, it’s not funny. Right?
“So, I make some calls to get suggestions on how to dry this right now. The consensus from the mothers I trust not to repeat the story,” and now he’s grinning too (sort of) “was that there’s no way to dry the uniform in 30 minutes. I tell my son to get on the bus, that I’ll deliver his uniform before the game. He’s annoyed with me, but shuffles off and now I’m in pretty much serious panic mode. Can I microwave clothes? Iron them? I mean, they’re soaked. I’ll end up with some major steam bath if I do that, won’t I?” I’m not being asked so I keep grinning. Smiling. Not grinning. Just smiling.
“Long story short, I ironed them. I got all the tops and bottoms to him in time, too. I called the mothers to thank them.”
He pauses. “This is when I miss my wife.” Then, quickly correcting himself, “It’s not just that I miss her when I don’t know how to run the washing machine.”
“I know. I know that’s not what you meant.”
“ I relied on her so much. It’s hard being both mayor and dad.”
We’re both silent for awhile.
“Your sons love you. They respect you. They get it. They may not always like it, but they get it.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
With that, we’re both quiet agian. I bring up another topic in another minute or so, and we spend the rest of our time together working through projects, strategizing, and getting things done. The Mayor or Rikuzentakata, of the city essentially wiped off the map, is an incredible father and dedicated mayor. For his friendship and trust I’m grateful. I hope you can meet him some day, through his book if not in person. He’s one of the good guys.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, May 21, 2012
"We needed to keep her alive."
Stories come from the unlikeliest of sources.
In the spirit of investing in the local economy, I make my way to see one of my favorite women in Ofunato. I park in front of her store, and see the chiropractor's office near hers. I have an appointment with him next week. More on this in a moment.
We chat, getting caught up, exchanging gossip as only women can do. It's lovely. I tell her of my upcoming appointment with her neighbor-chiropractor.
"Is he good?"
"Oh, definitely. He fixed one of my friends."
I'm relieved. I tell her of my pinched nerve in my shoulder, causing my arm to tingle and spasm.
"You'll like him. He's really that good," and she continues with the following tale.
Her friend was a student of hers. "She was washed away by the tsunami in Rikuzentakata." Now I'm confused. Her friend was washed away? As in, she died?
"This is the friend the chiropractor 'fixed'?"
"Right."
"She survived? I thought she was washed away."
The term "washed away" is used, even reserved for those who didn't make it. Buildings were "washed away" as were cars, and people. Hence my confusion. She was "washed away" and then treated later?
"It was a miracle," my friend says.
The woman was with my friend twenty minutes prior to the earthquake. The woman went home, the earthquake hit, and then came the tsunami. The woman was at home with her three children. After the earthquake she put her children and her parents in the car and began her escape.
"The car was pointed towards the ocean," my friend says. "Bad luck, you know?" I nod. "She had to turn the car around. By that time, the water engulfed the car. The tsunami swept the car away with everyone in it. My friend says her oldest was gasping for air, and she told her to get towards the roof where the water hadn't risen yet. That's the last thing she remembers."
The woman survived. All six of them were tossed out of the car. She was found later, the only one breathing. Taken to a hospital in the next town by a stranger, she was there for days while people searched for her.
"She also lost her husband and mother-in-law. Six people. Everyone in her family. She's the only one who survived." I'm dumbfounded.
"How did she find the will to keep going?" I'm not sure I would.
"I know. I know. Right? We needed to keep her alive. We were all worried about her."
I'm told of how my friend and a group of women kept tabs on her, calling, visiting, checking up on their mutual friend. Here again; women helping women.
"She's not doing well now. It's been over a year now, and she's finally able to grieve. It's not good. She's not well. At all."
Filing six death certificates, trying to figure out what's worth living for, mourning, and mourning again--I don't know what to say.
The chiropractor I'm seeing, the one I'm hoping will fix my shoulder problem, "fixed" this woman whom other doctors said "couldn't be helped" because her pain was "in her head."
The good news is, I have hope my pain will be gone soon. The bad news is, there's a woman in town who has experienced incredible pain who seems out of reach. We are two different women with two entirely different kinds of pain.
Not at all sure what to do, some days I just collect stories. And repeat them.
In the spirit of investing in the local economy, I make my way to see one of my favorite women in Ofunato. I park in front of her store, and see the chiropractor's office near hers. I have an appointment with him next week. More on this in a moment.
We chat, getting caught up, exchanging gossip as only women can do. It's lovely. I tell her of my upcoming appointment with her neighbor-chiropractor.
"Is he good?"
"Oh, definitely. He fixed one of my friends."
I'm relieved. I tell her of my pinched nerve in my shoulder, causing my arm to tingle and spasm.
"You'll like him. He's really that good," and she continues with the following tale.
Her friend was a student of hers. "She was washed away by the tsunami in Rikuzentakata." Now I'm confused. Her friend was washed away? As in, she died?
"This is the friend the chiropractor 'fixed'?"
"Right."
"She survived? I thought she was washed away."
The term "washed away" is used, even reserved for those who didn't make it. Buildings were "washed away" as were cars, and people. Hence my confusion. She was "washed away" and then treated later?
"It was a miracle," my friend says.
The woman was with my friend twenty minutes prior to the earthquake. The woman went home, the earthquake hit, and then came the tsunami. The woman was at home with her three children. After the earthquake she put her children and her parents in the car and began her escape.
"The car was pointed towards the ocean," my friend says. "Bad luck, you know?" I nod. "She had to turn the car around. By that time, the water engulfed the car. The tsunami swept the car away with everyone in it. My friend says her oldest was gasping for air, and she told her to get towards the roof where the water hadn't risen yet. That's the last thing she remembers."
The woman survived. All six of them were tossed out of the car. She was found later, the only one breathing. Taken to a hospital in the next town by a stranger, she was there for days while people searched for her.
"She also lost her husband and mother-in-law. Six people. Everyone in her family. She's the only one who survived." I'm dumbfounded.
"How did she find the will to keep going?" I'm not sure I would.
"I know. I know. Right? We needed to keep her alive. We were all worried about her."
I'm told of how my friend and a group of women kept tabs on her, calling, visiting, checking up on their mutual friend. Here again; women helping women.
"She's not doing well now. It's been over a year now, and she's finally able to grieve. It's not good. She's not well. At all."
Filing six death certificates, trying to figure out what's worth living for, mourning, and mourning again--I don't know what to say.
The chiropractor I'm seeing, the one I'm hoping will fix my shoulder problem, "fixed" this woman whom other doctors said "couldn't be helped" because her pain was "in her head."
The good news is, I have hope my pain will be gone soon. The bad news is, there's a woman in town who has experienced incredible pain who seems out of reach. We are two different women with two entirely different kinds of pain.
Not at all sure what to do, some days I just collect stories. And repeat them.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Seismo-Psychology: The Need Thereof
Everyone should have a list. Who do you call when a largish earthquake hits? Whom do you check up on?
Last April, a M 7.4 (or there about) hit the coast damaged several weeks prior. The earthquake struck around 11pm. I was already asleep. Everyone in the room woke up, myself included. Half-asleep, I checked my laptop to see where it hit, and how big it was. The Japanese Meteorological Society is very good with up-to-date reports. It was my go-to source. Then the phone rang.
"You okay?" It's my favorite person in Japan (who shall remain anonymous).
"Uh huh."
"Were you asleep?"
"Uh huh."
"Do you need to get out of the building?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"Go find a radio. Get an update. See what they're saying about another tsunami."
"Okay."
"Hey."
"Hmmm?"
"Wake up. This is serious."
"I know. I'm trying."
And, just like that, I know he's annoyed with me. He thinks I'm not taking this seriously, which is not accurate. I'm just not very good at waking up. We hang up, and I head downstairs. The electricity is already out. People are huddled around the portable radio. A tsunami warning, but maybe 50 cm. Maybe a meter. We're safe. By the time I call him back, the phone lines are down.
When the M 5.4 hit north of Tokyo earlier this week, he called again.
"Where are you?" I tell him. I hear the, "why-the-hell-are-you-there?" in his voice as he asks me, "Doing what?"
"Dinner."
"You okay?"
"Yes. Really. I'm okay."
"Who are you with?"
"Why? Are you jealous?"
"Don't be ridiculous. That's your problem, see. You're cracking jokes when I'm concerned. I just want to know if you're with someone who will help you." I feel bad. No, he's not jealous. He doesn't have to call, but he does.
"I'm sorry. I'm fine. I'm leaving now."
"Heels?" We just had this conversation recently. I read after the massive must-walk-home saga of those in Tokyo who spent hours walking back a year ago March 11th, and over and over marveled at the women who said they walked home in heels. I've long since promised myself to carry a pair of flats in my bag. I didn't today. Again.
"Yes," I say, and quickly add, "But, I'll be fine. I'm leaving now. I'll be fine. Really."
"Take a cab," he says, not as a suggestion, but more as a command.
"I'll be fine," I protest.
"TAKE A CAB."
"Okay. I will."
I now call people up north with any jolt larger than a M5. That I'm called by someone who doesn't have to is flattering, and comforting. Being in Japan alone, it's really nice knowing there's someone out there looking out for me. I need to offer that same generosity. I now do.
Paying forward kindness is a part of the kizuna concept. The connection, bond, friendship, and care so extended throughout last year is still alive and well today. I now have a list of people I call, just as I'm on someone else's list. Who's on yours?
Last April, a M 7.4 (or there about) hit the coast damaged several weeks prior. The earthquake struck around 11pm. I was already asleep. Everyone in the room woke up, myself included. Half-asleep, I checked my laptop to see where it hit, and how big it was. The Japanese Meteorological Society is very good with up-to-date reports. It was my go-to source. Then the phone rang.
"You okay?" It's my favorite person in Japan (who shall remain anonymous).
"Uh huh."
"Were you asleep?"
"Uh huh."
"Do you need to get out of the building?"
"I'm not sure yet."
"Go find a radio. Get an update. See what they're saying about another tsunami."
"Okay."
"Hey."
"Hmmm?"
"Wake up. This is serious."
"I know. I'm trying."
And, just like that, I know he's annoyed with me. He thinks I'm not taking this seriously, which is not accurate. I'm just not very good at waking up. We hang up, and I head downstairs. The electricity is already out. People are huddled around the portable radio. A tsunami warning, but maybe 50 cm. Maybe a meter. We're safe. By the time I call him back, the phone lines are down.
When the M 5.4 hit north of Tokyo earlier this week, he called again.
"Where are you?" I tell him. I hear the, "why-the-hell-are-you-there?" in his voice as he asks me, "Doing what?"
"Dinner."
"You okay?"
"Yes. Really. I'm okay."
"Who are you with?"
"Why? Are you jealous?"
"Don't be ridiculous. That's your problem, see. You're cracking jokes when I'm concerned. I just want to know if you're with someone who will help you." I feel bad. No, he's not jealous. He doesn't have to call, but he does.
"I'm sorry. I'm fine. I'm leaving now."
"Heels?" We just had this conversation recently. I read after the massive must-walk-home saga of those in Tokyo who spent hours walking back a year ago March 11th, and over and over marveled at the women who said they walked home in heels. I've long since promised myself to carry a pair of flats in my bag. I didn't today. Again.
"Yes," I say, and quickly add, "But, I'll be fine. I'm leaving now. I'll be fine. Really."
"Take a cab," he says, not as a suggestion, but more as a command.
"I'll be fine," I protest.
"TAKE A CAB."
"Okay. I will."
I now call people up north with any jolt larger than a M5. That I'm called by someone who doesn't have to is flattering, and comforting. Being in Japan alone, it's really nice knowing there's someone out there looking out for me. I need to offer that same generosity. I now do.
Paying forward kindness is a part of the kizuna concept. The connection, bond, friendship, and care so extended throughout last year is still alive and well today. I now have a list of people I call, just as I'm on someone else's list. Who's on yours?
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Seismology 101
If you haven't experienced an earthquake, or if you haven't experienced multiple earthquakes this might come as a surprise to you. In short, not all earthquakes are alike.
Case in point, the M5.2 that hit near Tokyo earlier this morning was what I call a "shaker." My building moved side-to-side. Then there are the "zingers." This is like a rubber band being pulled back and let go. There's one or two large "bangs" or "zings" with little else. It's a jolt. Then there are the "jumpers" which bounce buildings up and down as if 1000 people on one floor are all jumping up and down in sync.
This all has to do, presumably, with how the plates are moving underneath us. I'm no seismologist. I understand the gist of it, know that it happened (or that it's happening), and can at times hear the earth rumbling under me just a few seconds before the shaking begins. It's all getting rather annoying, tiresome, and is still a bit scary.
Not scary enough, however, to get me out of bed at 5am when I'm aware another earthquake is hitting us. My body wakes up, and my mind knows what's going on. I make myself think through how much the building is shaking, and if it's "not that bad" I roll over. This bothers me.
When there have been this many earthquakes in Japan in the past year, I argue we've all become so used to movement, complacency is a natural consequence. We can't possibly freak out with every jolt, big or small. Right? Really? How much do we have to shake before we become truly concerned? Many people would answer, "We'll know it when it happens." It's a survival tactic. We would all become nervous wrecks if we allowed ourselves to be concerned each time another aftershock hit.
All this to say, assigning cute names to the types of earthquakes aside, Japan is still shaking. Not being able to do anything to stop them, we live with them daily. They're like the really annoying relative who just won't leave the table after a meal. How long he's staying is anyone's guess. This too shall pass, yes?
Case in point, the M5.2 that hit near Tokyo earlier this morning was what I call a "shaker." My building moved side-to-side. Then there are the "zingers." This is like a rubber band being pulled back and let go. There's one or two large "bangs" or "zings" with little else. It's a jolt. Then there are the "jumpers" which bounce buildings up and down as if 1000 people on one floor are all jumping up and down in sync.
This all has to do, presumably, with how the plates are moving underneath us. I'm no seismologist. I understand the gist of it, know that it happened (or that it's happening), and can at times hear the earth rumbling under me just a few seconds before the shaking begins. It's all getting rather annoying, tiresome, and is still a bit scary.
Not scary enough, however, to get me out of bed at 5am when I'm aware another earthquake is hitting us. My body wakes up, and my mind knows what's going on. I make myself think through how much the building is shaking, and if it's "not that bad" I roll over. This bothers me.
When there have been this many earthquakes in Japan in the past year, I argue we've all become so used to movement, complacency is a natural consequence. We can't possibly freak out with every jolt, big or small. Right? Really? How much do we have to shake before we become truly concerned? Many people would answer, "We'll know it when it happens." It's a survival tactic. We would all become nervous wrecks if we allowed ourselves to be concerned each time another aftershock hit.
All this to say, assigning cute names to the types of earthquakes aside, Japan is still shaking. Not being able to do anything to stop them, we live with them daily. They're like the really annoying relative who just won't leave the table after a meal. How long he's staying is anyone's guess. This too shall pass, yes?
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Was that an earthquake? There's an app to find out.
It took me several days to figure out the constant shaking in my apartment came from my chair. There's a reason it was on sale. The thing moves every time my fingers hit the keyboard of my laptop. I am not someone who bangs at keys. I prefer the image of my fingers flying as opposed to thumping. Thus, I attribute my confusion over the assumption the phantom aftershocks were my brain and body playing tricks on me, when it was in fact my defective office chair.
None of this should make anyone assume aftershocks are a done deal here in Japan. Quite the contrary. This has me just the slightest bit wigged out.
There's an iPhone app that I've downloaded. It signals every earthquake, giving me the location and strength. Lately, my phone has been buzzing multiple times daily. The aftershocks are hitting mostly the same areas: Fukushima, Miyagi, Iwate, Chiba, Ibaragi. Every now and then one will hit Hokkaido, Kyoto, Kyushu, Tokyo, or some other random prefecture. The rest? The same coastline that was hit last March, and that has continued to be pounded since.
What do I do with this information? The 4.2, 4.7, 3.5, and occasional 5.2 jolts have me concerned. Am I overly sensitive to these aftershocks because I have the app? I don't always feel them. I know there's been an earthquake because my phone buzzes. That the buzzing has been non-stop lately, meaning earthquakes are happening one after the other after the other, means the plates are moving still. So, I ask myself again, what do I do with this information?
There is talk of "the next big one" here in Tokyo. Part of the time the assumption is it will hit Tokyo, and the other half of the time, the thought is "it will hit somewhere" but that where, no one can predict. Not being a geologist or a seismologist I honestly don't know what to believe.
"We can't live our lives fearing this," my ex says.
"True," I say, "but does that mean we just pretend it's not going to happen? What about you? Have you stockpiled water? Food?"
"Water, yes. Food, no."
I wonder whether or not to tell him every time I leave the house in heels I secretly ponder whether I shouldn't be taking a pair of flats in my bag. The idea of walking home for miles in heels on Tokyo's sidewalks makes me cringe. I have yet to carry my flats with me, though. What does that say about me? Am I in denial?
If I deleted the app that makes my phone vibrate with every new earthquake, I could argue I suppose, I would be less bothered by the knowledge Japan is still shaking. That logic doesn't quite work for me. So, in the mean time, I will buy a bigger purse so I can fit my flats in the bag I carry with me always. That logic does work for me.
None of this should make anyone assume aftershocks are a done deal here in Japan. Quite the contrary. This has me just the slightest bit wigged out.
There's an iPhone app that I've downloaded. It signals every earthquake, giving me the location and strength. Lately, my phone has been buzzing multiple times daily. The aftershocks are hitting mostly the same areas: Fukushima, Miyagi, Iwate, Chiba, Ibaragi. Every now and then one will hit Hokkaido, Kyoto, Kyushu, Tokyo, or some other random prefecture. The rest? The same coastline that was hit last March, and that has continued to be pounded since.
What do I do with this information? The 4.2, 4.7, 3.5, and occasional 5.2 jolts have me concerned. Am I overly sensitive to these aftershocks because I have the app? I don't always feel them. I know there's been an earthquake because my phone buzzes. That the buzzing has been non-stop lately, meaning earthquakes are happening one after the other after the other, means the plates are moving still. So, I ask myself again, what do I do with this information?
There is talk of "the next big one" here in Tokyo. Part of the time the assumption is it will hit Tokyo, and the other half of the time, the thought is "it will hit somewhere" but that where, no one can predict. Not being a geologist or a seismologist I honestly don't know what to believe.
"We can't live our lives fearing this," my ex says.
"True," I say, "but does that mean we just pretend it's not going to happen? What about you? Have you stockpiled water? Food?"
"Water, yes. Food, no."
I wonder whether or not to tell him every time I leave the house in heels I secretly ponder whether I shouldn't be taking a pair of flats in my bag. The idea of walking home for miles in heels on Tokyo's sidewalks makes me cringe. I have yet to carry my flats with me, though. What does that say about me? Am I in denial?
If I deleted the app that makes my phone vibrate with every new earthquake, I could argue I suppose, I would be less bothered by the knowledge Japan is still shaking. That logic doesn't quite work for me. So, in the mean time, I will buy a bigger purse so I can fit my flats in the bag I carry with me always. That logic does work for me.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
The green field of silence
I went back to Rikuzentakata for the first time since leaving Iwate in May. I chose not to go there when I returned in late June. At that time, I didn't need to see it. Ofunato was where I wanted to go. There, I left my past behind. Or, so I thought.
I'm with three very good people. They're all safe, and I can be myself with them. We have spent the last 48 hours laughing until we cry, and enjoying each other's company. They're all important to me. We were in Ofunato to cook for people living and volunteering there. Between trips to the supermarket to buy supplies, we drive through Ofunato to see how well the recovery process is going. I see their shock. It's palpable. Our laughter is gone. We're now serious, taking in destroyed buildings, boats washed up ashore, and the remnants of houses. We park the car near the Port of Ofunato. I point out the high tide that now comes ashore from under our feet as opposed to the shoreline. We're all again speechless.
"There used to be a house here," I say, pointing to the concrete foundation.
"How do you know?"
"Look." I point to the only piece of "furniture" left in the house. A commode. It sits naked, exposed, surrounded by a low concrete wall.
"Look next door." The only part of the house left is the one meter high stone fence. The name of the family is sealed into the stone pillar on the right on a porcelain plaque. More silence.
We head to Rikuzentakata. I warn them of what they will see. Rikuzentakata essentially no longer exists. Several concrete buildings remain where once a vibrant town stood. We head down the hill and I say, "Around this corner. That's where the town was."
"Where?"
"There," I point.
"Where?" I hear again.
"There. See those two white things? Those are a few of the remaining buildings left. They're apartments, five stories high. You'll see when we get closer that all the windows on the first four floors are all blown out, front and back."
"Oh my God...." We drive in silence for a very long time.
As we near what used to be Rikuzentakata I see green. Weeds grow everywhere. Where rice paddies were before are now fields of weeds. Everything is covered in tall, green grass. If I didn't know this used to be a town, that people lived here, that here was life I would think we were driving through a part of Iwate previously uninhabited. Except for the several buildings left standing, the hotel, hospital, apartment buildings, and what remains of city hall, Rikuzentakata is now a field of green silence. I see a front end loader here and there. Cars are few and far between. Gone are the Self Defense Force men and cops in uniform.
Rikuzentakata still exists, albeit in a completely different way. I'm bothered by the green grass, the weeds and the semblance of normalcy. "I need a break," I say and ask them to stop the car. The tears come. Here, over 1,000 people are still missing. People died here. The city is essentially gone. How will this town survive? Will it?
The green field of silence is filled with pain.
I'm with three very good people. They're all safe, and I can be myself with them. We have spent the last 48 hours laughing until we cry, and enjoying each other's company. They're all important to me. We were in Ofunato to cook for people living and volunteering there. Between trips to the supermarket to buy supplies, we drive through Ofunato to see how well the recovery process is going. I see their shock. It's palpable. Our laughter is gone. We're now serious, taking in destroyed buildings, boats washed up ashore, and the remnants of houses. We park the car near the Port of Ofunato. I point out the high tide that now comes ashore from under our feet as opposed to the shoreline. We're all again speechless.
"There used to be a house here," I say, pointing to the concrete foundation.
"How do you know?"
"Look." I point to the only piece of "furniture" left in the house. A commode. It sits naked, exposed, surrounded by a low concrete wall.
"Look next door." The only part of the house left is the one meter high stone fence. The name of the family is sealed into the stone pillar on the right on a porcelain plaque. More silence.
We head to Rikuzentakata. I warn them of what they will see. Rikuzentakata essentially no longer exists. Several concrete buildings remain where once a vibrant town stood. We head down the hill and I say, "Around this corner. That's where the town was."
"Where?"
"There," I point.
"Where?" I hear again.
"There. See those two white things? Those are a few of the remaining buildings left. They're apartments, five stories high. You'll see when we get closer that all the windows on the first four floors are all blown out, front and back."
"Oh my God...." We drive in silence for a very long time.
As we near what used to be Rikuzentakata I see green. Weeds grow everywhere. Where rice paddies were before are now fields of weeds. Everything is covered in tall, green grass. If I didn't know this used to be a town, that people lived here, that here was life I would think we were driving through a part of Iwate previously uninhabited. Except for the several buildings left standing, the hotel, hospital, apartment buildings, and what remains of city hall, Rikuzentakata is now a field of green silence. I see a front end loader here and there. Cars are few and far between. Gone are the Self Defense Force men and cops in uniform.
Rikuzentakata still exists, albeit in a completely different way. I'm bothered by the green grass, the weeds and the semblance of normalcy. "I need a break," I say and ask them to stop the car. The tears come. Here, over 1,000 people are still missing. People died here. The city is essentially gone. How will this town survive? Will it?
The green field of silence is filled with pain.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
The barber shop and the prime minister
This link (http://mdn.mainichi.jp/photojournal/graph/photojournal/11.html) shows young volunteers painting a barber shop in Ofunato. My friend was one of the many who donated time to create a colorful little house on a hill.
The barber shop is surrounded by fields still containing debris from the tsunami, almost six months ago now. Nearby is a kindergarten. One of the things the shop owner wanted to do was to show the kids who see and play near these fields of bent metal and carcasses of houses that there *is* hope. It *is* okay to dream.
Enter the phoenix painted on the building. Spotlight clouds, flowers symbolizing rebirth and hope. This is the new Japan.
Further south from Ofunato in Tokyo, there is a new prime minister. Here, I sigh. Will he be any better? Do we dare hope? How long will he last? Japan's musical chairs of leadership is tiresome and depressing. Will yet another change in leadership really make any difference?
I put my money on the barber shops of Japan, the ones painted brightly on purpose in bold pink, blue and purple. These symbolize what Japan is capable of. I'll eat my words if this new prime minister lasts longer than a year and leads Japan into economic recovery and tangible reconstruction in the areas devastated by the tsunami and earthquake. It saddens me that I don't think I'll be eating my words. In the interim, more pink houses please!
http://mdn.mainichi.jp/photojournal/graph/photojournal/11.html
The barber shop is surrounded by fields still containing debris from the tsunami, almost six months ago now. Nearby is a kindergarten. One of the things the shop owner wanted to do was to show the kids who see and play near these fields of bent metal and carcasses of houses that there *is* hope. It *is* okay to dream.
Enter the phoenix painted on the building. Spotlight clouds, flowers symbolizing rebirth and hope. This is the new Japan.
Further south from Ofunato in Tokyo, there is a new prime minister. Here, I sigh. Will he be any better? Do we dare hope? How long will he last? Japan's musical chairs of leadership is tiresome and depressing. Will yet another change in leadership really make any difference?
I put my money on the barber shops of Japan, the ones painted brightly on purpose in bold pink, blue and purple. These symbolize what Japan is capable of. I'll eat my words if this new prime minister lasts longer than a year and leads Japan into economic recovery and tangible reconstruction in the areas devastated by the tsunami and earthquake. It saddens me that I don't think I'll be eating my words. In the interim, more pink houses please!
http://mdn.mainichi.jp/photojournal/graph/photojournal/11.html
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