The past few days
My school schedule has been messed up ever since the earthquake, understandably. Yesterday I didn’t have classes at all, and today I only had a half day. Which means I had a lot of time to hit up the stores and stockpile food just in case things get worse where I am.
Things are going well in my area, all things considered.
Gasoline is difficult to obtain. Half the gas stations I see are closed due to lack of petrol. The ones that have remained open cap you at 1000 yen’s worth of gas, which is about 7 liters (less than 2 gallons). I managed to get some earlier today, which means I have enough gas to get to work for the next two or three days. I’ll keep trying everyday to get more.
Bread and rice has all but disappeared from the shelves at every grocery store I’ve been to. Bottled water cannot be found, nor can flashlights. Frozen dinners and cup noodles are my staple for the next couple of weeks, since it’s all I could get my hands on that wouldn’t perish. I have enough food to last me a week and a half, which is how much time I have left in my apartment until I’m scheduled to move out. I’m not worried on that front.
Blackouts are scheduled for every night from 6:20 to 10:00. Last night, thankfully, the lights stayed on. People seem to be doing their part to keep power usage down. I know I am. My computer and refrigerator are the only things plugged in at the moment. All of the lights are off. During the day I use natural light, and at night I use the light from my computer and basically sit motionless in front of the screen. The blackouts are expected to go on until April, but I guess we’ll see what happens.
Meanwhile, as I write this, radiation is slowly leaking out of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant reactors. People within twenty miles are advised to stay inside. I’m about 140 miles away, so I’m in the clear. Just to be safe, however, I’m going to try and acquire some iodine, if it isn’t already sold out at the drug stores.
As I write this, over 10,000 people are missing and presumed dead in the areas hit by the tsunamis. Those still alive are without power and clean drinking water, the ones who still have homes in which to take shelter Thousands are residing in shelters found in school gymnasiums, city halls, or whatever buildings remain standing. Families sit worrying in the dark, wondering if other family members are alive or dead.
I’m thankful that I’m alive and safe, and that all of my friends are alive and safe. But I have friends up in Miyagi prefecture, huddling in the dark, surrounded by the ruins of their cities. I am fearful for them. I worry that something bad will happen and take them from me. I’d like to think the worst is over, yet I cannot be sure. It makes my stomach hurt and curbs my hunger, so I’ve been forcing myself to eat three meals a day.
The day of the earthquake (March 11, Friday), I was in Tokyo with Miranda. We had renewed our visas in Shinagawa and were messing around the city for a bit. We were heading into Harajuku station, intending to make our way to Ikebukuro, when the earthquake hit. We heard a horrible noise, like metal against metal, and wondered what it could be. Miranda thought the station was closing the metal doors. I thought the trains were grating against the tracks. Then we felt the earth move.
We ducked outside onto the sidewalk, watching at the world shifted around us. Trees shook in the earth. Signs swung wild and mannequins fell inside of stores. People were crying out in fear. Next to me, a mother gripped her young daughter tight, a look of sheer terror on her face. The earthquake continued to run its course for what seemed like hours until, finally, it started to slow, then stop completely. At the tail end of the event it felt like standing on waves, as though I were riding a surfboard.
People stood around, awed by the sheer force of the earthquake. The trees continued to sway, as did anything not bolted to the ground. Miranda and I looked at each other, shocked. We laughed it off, glad to be safe, and made our way to the train platform.
Standing on the platform, listening to the announcements by the station staff, we waited patiently for the trains to start back up. Then another earthquake hit, shorter than before and less severe, but terrifying nonetheless. After it had passed, the station announced that the trains would not be running for the time being until the tracks could be checked for damage. Miranda and I shrugged it off and decided to head to nearby Yoyogi Park, to sit and talk about what had transpired.
As we made our way out of the gates, a large crowd had gathered in front of a television screen in the front of the station. Miranda and I took positions in the crowd and watched as large waves crashed over Miyagi and Iwate prefectures, destroying buildings and moving cars, carrying what they could out into the ocean as though gifts to the sea gods. Hundreds of small, colorful dots bobbing up and down in a river of debris.
It was then that I began to panic. I tried to call my friends up there, but the phones lines were too clogged to get me anywhere. So I sent e-mails on my phone, trying to hear from someone, anyone. Were my friends okay? Was everyone still alive?
Again and again the images flashed on the television, and I watched, dazed and awed, my eyes fixed to the screen as though I could change what had happened with my mind. Finally, it was too much to take in. I suggested to Miranda that we head to the park.
We spent an hour in the park before making our way to Shibuya, an effort to kill times until the trains started up again. Almost everyone was accounted for, safe but shaken up. We huddled in stairwell for another couple of hours while night fell. People wandered aimlessly with us, having nowhere to go and nothing to do.
The trains were still shut down after nightfall. The buses were running, but the cars on the street were not moving. People gathered in lines by the hundreds, desperately seeking a way back to their homes. Confusion was thick in the air. I decided it was best to find shelter for the time being, so Miranda and I hunkered down in a hallway with scores of others. We sat on the freezing tile, huddling together for warmth, trying desperately to keep our spirits up. We told jokes and posed riddles. We tried sleeping.
I wanted desperately to call my parents, to let them know I was all right. To hear their voices as they told me everything would be all right, I just had to be patient. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream and fight. I wanted to do something other than sit huddled in a train station, waiting for an out that might not come for days.
At about two o’clock in the morning we managed to catch a subway train out of Shibuya to Ueno, where we were sure we could acquire a train back to Koga, or at least out of Tokyo. We joined the ranks of a hundred other wanderers, sitting on yet another cold floor of a train station. We tried to keep warm and sleep some. We knew that at five o’clock we could get somewhere, anywhere.
Five o’clock came. We lined up inside of Ueno Station, at the ticket gates, met by a line of staff with bullhorns, telling us to stay calm and wait. The crowd was tired of waiting and shouted at the staff to get the trains moving. Tension was building. People were getting angry and restless.
An old woman gave Miranda and me some candy, pressing it into our hands wordlessly. The sugar helped. I gave her a piece of American candy I had on me as thanks. The old woman seemed confused, but took it nevertheless.
We were allowed into the station at around six o’clock. Miranda and I made our way to the Utsunomiya Line platform, the train line that would take us all the way to Koga. The staff told us that the line was not up and running yet, but that they were working to get it started. “Sorry for the inconvenience. Please continue to wait.”
An hour passed, followed by another. Every three minutes, a staff member would make an announcement. “The trains are not running, but we are working on the problem. Sorry for the inconvenience. Please continue to wait.”
In spite of myself, I began to cry. I cried because I had spent the night in a train station. I cried because I wanted to talk to my friends, to hear their voices and know for certain that they were all right. I cried because the train would not move. I cried for the cities in the north decimated by a cruel sea and an unforgiving earth. I cried because I was hungry and cold and tired. I cried for lack of knowledge and ability to do anything. I cried because there was nothing I could do for anybody, myself included. The world was thrown into chaos, and there was nothing I could do to make it better. I felt completely helpless. I had lost all hope.
Inside my head, I was screaming. I was furious, terrified, depressed, and a thousand shades of emotions in between. I couldn’t do anything to make it better. So I cried like a child on the train platform, in front of the dark, unmoving train cars. When Miranda asked me why I was crying, I told her, “There’s nothing I can do.”
She misunderstood me, but I let it go. I knew I couldn’t make her understand what I was feeling when I couldn’t even make sense of it.
At about ten o’clock, we caught a train headed to Akabane, which was just outside of Tokyo. We thought we would have better luck outside of the crush of Tokyo. We waited on another platform until after noon, when a train headed to Koga came.
On the trains, we were crushed by a sea of people, all desperate to get home to their families, or their belongings, or their pets. The crush of people was suffocating at times, and Miranda and I were bent at different angles as we tried to fit in. We made friends with an older woman and a college boy, making the ride easier to bear.
Miranda and I got off at Koga Station after six o’clock in the evening. We rushed down to the ramen shop outside of the station to fill our bellies with as much food as we could handle. We had not eaten a meal since eight o’clock the previous night.
I tried to inhale my ramen, but found my stomach would only allow a certain speed. Miranda barely touched her food. My stomach ached at the sudden introduction to food. Sated, we quickly made our way home. I fell into my apartment, found no damage to any of my things, and called home.
It seems as though that Friday happened months ago, not just a couple of days. It’s weird to think about everything that’s happened in the space in between.
I have done my best not to cry in the wake of all the horror surrounding me. Tears are useless at this juncture. I’d rather act and try to make things better. At least I can do something now. As soon as I can, I am donating 10,000 yen ($120) to the Japanese Red Cross. I’m putting together a care package for my friends up north. I’m encouraging others to help me with the packages and donations. It’s not a lot, but it helps.
Today I cried for the second time since the earthquake. I was at the grocery store near my apartment, gathering food. I was heading back out to my car when I saw a display of items for funerals: incense, envelopes for money, and so on. It was about one o’clock in the afternoon. The store had opened only three hours earlier.
Half of the items on the display were gone.
It hit me like a ton of bricks. I thought about the 10,000 possibly dead. I thought about the thousands of people without homes. Images flooded my head.
I ran to my car and cried. Peoples lives were destroyed, entire communities disappeared. No matter what I did for the people still alive, the others would still be gone.
An aftershock just shook the apartment. Every time I feel one, my blood runs cold and I duck beneath my table. I feel like a child in a thunderstorm. Sometimes I think I’m imagining them.
I’ve dragged this on long enough. Time to go do something productive. Take care, my friends, and stay safe.
~Mai
Things are going well in my area, all things considered.
Gasoline is difficult to obtain. Half the gas stations I see are closed due to lack of petrol. The ones that have remained open cap you at 1000 yen’s worth of gas, which is about 7 liters (less than 2 gallons). I managed to get some earlier today, which means I have enough gas to get to work for the next two or three days. I’ll keep trying everyday to get more.
Bread and rice has all but disappeared from the shelves at every grocery store I’ve been to. Bottled water cannot be found, nor can flashlights. Frozen dinners and cup noodles are my staple for the next couple of weeks, since it’s all I could get my hands on that wouldn’t perish. I have enough food to last me a week and a half, which is how much time I have left in my apartment until I’m scheduled to move out. I’m not worried on that front.
Blackouts are scheduled for every night from 6:20 to 10:00. Last night, thankfully, the lights stayed on. People seem to be doing their part to keep power usage down. I know I am. My computer and refrigerator are the only things plugged in at the moment. All of the lights are off. During the day I use natural light, and at night I use the light from my computer and basically sit motionless in front of the screen. The blackouts are expected to go on until April, but I guess we’ll see what happens.
Meanwhile, as I write this, radiation is slowly leaking out of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant reactors. People within twenty miles are advised to stay inside. I’m about 140 miles away, so I’m in the clear. Just to be safe, however, I’m going to try and acquire some iodine, if it isn’t already sold out at the drug stores.
As I write this, over 10,000 people are missing and presumed dead in the areas hit by the tsunamis. Those still alive are without power and clean drinking water, the ones who still have homes in which to take shelter Thousands are residing in shelters found in school gymnasiums, city halls, or whatever buildings remain standing. Families sit worrying in the dark, wondering if other family members are alive or dead.
I’m thankful that I’m alive and safe, and that all of my friends are alive and safe. But I have friends up in Miyagi prefecture, huddling in the dark, surrounded by the ruins of their cities. I am fearful for them. I worry that something bad will happen and take them from me. I’d like to think the worst is over, yet I cannot be sure. It makes my stomach hurt and curbs my hunger, so I’ve been forcing myself to eat three meals a day.
The day of the earthquake (March 11, Friday), I was in Tokyo with Miranda. We had renewed our visas in Shinagawa and were messing around the city for a bit. We were heading into Harajuku station, intending to make our way to Ikebukuro, when the earthquake hit. We heard a horrible noise, like metal against metal, and wondered what it could be. Miranda thought the station was closing the metal doors. I thought the trains were grating against the tracks. Then we felt the earth move.
We ducked outside onto the sidewalk, watching at the world shifted around us. Trees shook in the earth. Signs swung wild and mannequins fell inside of stores. People were crying out in fear. Next to me, a mother gripped her young daughter tight, a look of sheer terror on her face. The earthquake continued to run its course for what seemed like hours until, finally, it started to slow, then stop completely. At the tail end of the event it felt like standing on waves, as though I were riding a surfboard.
People stood around, awed by the sheer force of the earthquake. The trees continued to sway, as did anything not bolted to the ground. Miranda and I looked at each other, shocked. We laughed it off, glad to be safe, and made our way to the train platform.
Standing on the platform, listening to the announcements by the station staff, we waited patiently for the trains to start back up. Then another earthquake hit, shorter than before and less severe, but terrifying nonetheless. After it had passed, the station announced that the trains would not be running for the time being until the tracks could be checked for damage. Miranda and I shrugged it off and decided to head to nearby Yoyogi Park, to sit and talk about what had transpired.
As we made our way out of the gates, a large crowd had gathered in front of a television screen in the front of the station. Miranda and I took positions in the crowd and watched as large waves crashed over Miyagi and Iwate prefectures, destroying buildings and moving cars, carrying what they could out into the ocean as though gifts to the sea gods. Hundreds of small, colorful dots bobbing up and down in a river of debris.
It was then that I began to panic. I tried to call my friends up there, but the phones lines were too clogged to get me anywhere. So I sent e-mails on my phone, trying to hear from someone, anyone. Were my friends okay? Was everyone still alive?
Again and again the images flashed on the television, and I watched, dazed and awed, my eyes fixed to the screen as though I could change what had happened with my mind. Finally, it was too much to take in. I suggested to Miranda that we head to the park.
We spent an hour in the park before making our way to Shibuya, an effort to kill times until the trains started up again. Almost everyone was accounted for, safe but shaken up. We huddled in stairwell for another couple of hours while night fell. People wandered aimlessly with us, having nowhere to go and nothing to do.
The trains were still shut down after nightfall. The buses were running, but the cars on the street were not moving. People gathered in lines by the hundreds, desperately seeking a way back to their homes. Confusion was thick in the air. I decided it was best to find shelter for the time being, so Miranda and I hunkered down in a hallway with scores of others. We sat on the freezing tile, huddling together for warmth, trying desperately to keep our spirits up. We told jokes and posed riddles. We tried sleeping.
I wanted desperately to call my parents, to let them know I was all right. To hear their voices as they told me everything would be all right, I just had to be patient. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream and fight. I wanted to do something other than sit huddled in a train station, waiting for an out that might not come for days.
At about two o’clock in the morning we managed to catch a subway train out of Shibuya to Ueno, where we were sure we could acquire a train back to Koga, or at least out of Tokyo. We joined the ranks of a hundred other wanderers, sitting on yet another cold floor of a train station. We tried to keep warm and sleep some. We knew that at five o’clock we could get somewhere, anywhere.
Five o’clock came. We lined up inside of Ueno Station, at the ticket gates, met by a line of staff with bullhorns, telling us to stay calm and wait. The crowd was tired of waiting and shouted at the staff to get the trains moving. Tension was building. People were getting angry and restless.
An old woman gave Miranda and me some candy, pressing it into our hands wordlessly. The sugar helped. I gave her a piece of American candy I had on me as thanks. The old woman seemed confused, but took it nevertheless.
We were allowed into the station at around six o’clock. Miranda and I made our way to the Utsunomiya Line platform, the train line that would take us all the way to Koga. The staff told us that the line was not up and running yet, but that they were working to get it started. “Sorry for the inconvenience. Please continue to wait.”
An hour passed, followed by another. Every three minutes, a staff member would make an announcement. “The trains are not running, but we are working on the problem. Sorry for the inconvenience. Please continue to wait.”
In spite of myself, I began to cry. I cried because I had spent the night in a train station. I cried because I wanted to talk to my friends, to hear their voices and know for certain that they were all right. I cried because the train would not move. I cried for the cities in the north decimated by a cruel sea and an unforgiving earth. I cried because I was hungry and cold and tired. I cried for lack of knowledge and ability to do anything. I cried because there was nothing I could do for anybody, myself included. The world was thrown into chaos, and there was nothing I could do to make it better. I felt completely helpless. I had lost all hope.
Inside my head, I was screaming. I was furious, terrified, depressed, and a thousand shades of emotions in between. I couldn’t do anything to make it better. So I cried like a child on the train platform, in front of the dark, unmoving train cars. When Miranda asked me why I was crying, I told her, “There’s nothing I can do.”
She misunderstood me, but I let it go. I knew I couldn’t make her understand what I was feeling when I couldn’t even make sense of it.
At about ten o’clock, we caught a train headed to Akabane, which was just outside of Tokyo. We thought we would have better luck outside of the crush of Tokyo. We waited on another platform until after noon, when a train headed to Koga came.
On the trains, we were crushed by a sea of people, all desperate to get home to their families, or their belongings, or their pets. The crush of people was suffocating at times, and Miranda and I were bent at different angles as we tried to fit in. We made friends with an older woman and a college boy, making the ride easier to bear.
Miranda and I got off at Koga Station after six o’clock in the evening. We rushed down to the ramen shop outside of the station to fill our bellies with as much food as we could handle. We had not eaten a meal since eight o’clock the previous night.
I tried to inhale my ramen, but found my stomach would only allow a certain speed. Miranda barely touched her food. My stomach ached at the sudden introduction to food. Sated, we quickly made our way home. I fell into my apartment, found no damage to any of my things, and called home.
It seems as though that Friday happened months ago, not just a couple of days. It’s weird to think about everything that’s happened in the space in between.
I have done my best not to cry in the wake of all the horror surrounding me. Tears are useless at this juncture. I’d rather act and try to make things better. At least I can do something now. As soon as I can, I am donating 10,000 yen ($120) to the Japanese Red Cross. I’m putting together a care package for my friends up north. I’m encouraging others to help me with the packages and donations. It’s not a lot, but it helps.
Today I cried for the second time since the earthquake. I was at the grocery store near my apartment, gathering food. I was heading back out to my car when I saw a display of items for funerals: incense, envelopes for money, and so on. It was about one o’clock in the afternoon. The store had opened only three hours earlier.
Half of the items on the display were gone.
It hit me like a ton of bricks. I thought about the 10,000 possibly dead. I thought about the thousands of people without homes. Images flooded my head.
I ran to my car and cried. Peoples lives were destroyed, entire communities disappeared. No matter what I did for the people still alive, the others would still be gone.
An aftershock just shook the apartment. Every time I feel one, my blood runs cold and I duck beneath my table. I feel like a child in a thunderstorm. Sometimes I think I’m imagining them.
I’ve dragged this on long enough. Time to go do something productive. Take care, my friends, and stay safe.
~Mai