On earthquakes
When I arrived to my city in Japan we were promptly given an earthquake preparedness training session. It consisted of our boss telling us that our area was overdue for the massive tokai earthquake, which could come tomorrow or could come far in the future, and for which there was basically no point in preparing much since it would be improbable that we wouldn’t die in it. In the event that we made it through, we were promised that the city has tons of supplies stockpiled, but told that we might as well put aside an earthquake emergency bag just in case. And so we all did-- some liters of water, a flashlight, a set of clothes, a passport photocopy, a few granola bars, and extra medicine. We got used to the daily chimes around the city, which came through the same speakers that would warn us of tsunami, and learned not to worry too much about the danger signs posted all around the coast.
It couldn’t have been more than a few weeks before a voice came through those speakers. It was hard to make out because of the echoing, but the two words I could hear were “tokai jishin.” I wasn’t sure what to do, so I went downstairs to see the reaction of the people in the shopping mall where I lived. No reaction, as everyone milled about shopping. I went to the local koban and asked the policeman there about the announcement. Jishin no kunren, he explained, just a drill.
There were always earthquake drills. Every year people would pour out to participate in preparatory activities, practicing first aid and pretending to tend to people in evacuation sites. My students calmly walked outside with their seat cushions on their head, muddying their indoor shoes while teachers laughed at an unlucky teacher’s helmet, which was tinged yellow like the egg in oden. At some schools there was even a soundtrack to be played for these drills, which featured crashing and screaming sounds to cue the evacuation. Another day students gathered in the gym to look at danger-maps of where they lived. In this small town sandwiched between the mountains and the ocean, almost no one’s home would be safe after the inevitable tsunami and land slides. We went to the earthquake preparedness center and watched simulations of a tsunami, stared at the markings two-stories high predicting how tall the tsunami would be in various parts of the bay, and rode on a platform that shook to simulate various earthquakes. We were running out of time so the woman fast forwarded to the highest level (7 on the Japanese scale). It lurched for a few seconds before stopping at a severe tilt. “That’s the building collapsing,” she explained. Our pamphlets described the 7 as such: Voluntary movement is impossible.
But life went on even so. Every few months there would be a trigger of some kind, and then for days you’d just lie awake at night wondering if you’d die by falling furniture, tsunami, or something else. When you did sleep, you’d dream about floating on a roof in the middle of the bay after the tsunami came. In the end there was nothing you could do but put a few more items in your emergency bag, so you’d remind yourself that no one is guaranteed to live until tomorrow and there’s no point in worrying about it even in an earthquake prone area, and you’d get over it for a bit. You’d tell yourself that the Chinese “prophet” who claimed to have predicted China’s earthquake was a quack and there was no point in believing his prediction for tomorrow, but get worried when NHK started broadcasting a show about how to flush your toilet when the water supply is down and how to make a lamp using cooking oil. You’d tell yourself that you don’t believe that kind of stuff, but you’d take your piano and TV off the shelves before you went to bed and you’d be mildly surprised when you woke up in the morning. Your enjoyment of your ocean-view apartment was bittersweet. You’d look at the dead volcano on the horizon and wonder if an earthquake would wake it back up. You’d realize that even if it struck after you left, you’d still know that a large percentage of your students would probably be injured or killed.
This is what life was like living in the part of Japan that’s supposed to get huge earthquakes. In reality there were never any strong ones as long as I was there, and the 6-pointer waited until just a few days after I left to hit. When I moved to Cambridge, I couldn’t understand how they could possibly build everything out of bricks, and it was an almost tangible weight lifted from my mind when I realized that I would need to worry about earthquakes no longer.
When I first heard about this earthquake, via a text simply asking if my friends were alright but not specifying where the earthquake hit, I just knew that it was the tokai earthquake. I imagine that the JETs living in Sendai were never warned quite so severely about earthquakes as we were. Sendai’s not supposed to have 8.9 earthquakes; we are. And so even though my family and friends in Japan are safe, I can’t stop thinking about the destruction. I can’t concentrate in lab and keep morbidly watching footage of the tsunami. There’s no rational reason why I should be more than the standard level of upset or sympathetic for a country where I once lived and for people who I never met, yet I am shaken.
It is the unearthing of two years of suppressed fear for my life. It is seeing what easily could’ve been my life played out by others. It is seeing that despite the assurances that there would be stockpiles of food and water for us, there probably wouldn’t have been enough. It is seeing the houses gutted and flattened by the tsunami, and wondering if my “modern” apartment would’ve ended up the same. It’s the knowledge that I wouldn’t have had time to make it to the evacuation site before the tsunami came either. It’s the suspicion that I would’ve been one of the thousands missing too. I suppose it’s what people call “survivor’s guilt.” It’s tons of nervous energy that can’t really be channeled into anything productive, so it just morphs into helplessness. It’s the feeling that I shouldn’t be this upset since me and mine are fine, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am upset.
And so I’m writing a check for $233 to Red Cross, $100 for each year that I lived there. I’m organizing a collection box to extend the Japanese Association of MIT’s collection efforts to my dorm. I’m hoping that you will donate as well.
Because what really got you through those days of fear was the knowledge that if anything terrible did happen, millions of strangers would reach out in support. The hope that someone would look for you underneath the stories of flattened apartment. It was the trust that people would come together in a time of need. And Japan is in great need right now.
It couldn’t have been more than a few weeks before a voice came through those speakers. It was hard to make out because of the echoing, but the two words I could hear were “tokai jishin.” I wasn’t sure what to do, so I went downstairs to see the reaction of the people in the shopping mall where I lived. No reaction, as everyone milled about shopping. I went to the local koban and asked the policeman there about the announcement. Jishin no kunren, he explained, just a drill.
There were always earthquake drills. Every year people would pour out to participate in preparatory activities, practicing first aid and pretending to tend to people in evacuation sites. My students calmly walked outside with their seat cushions on their head, muddying their indoor shoes while teachers laughed at an unlucky teacher’s helmet, which was tinged yellow like the egg in oden. At some schools there was even a soundtrack to be played for these drills, which featured crashing and screaming sounds to cue the evacuation. Another day students gathered in the gym to look at danger-maps of where they lived. In this small town sandwiched between the mountains and the ocean, almost no one’s home would be safe after the inevitable tsunami and land slides. We went to the earthquake preparedness center and watched simulations of a tsunami, stared at the markings two-stories high predicting how tall the tsunami would be in various parts of the bay, and rode on a platform that shook to simulate various earthquakes. We were running out of time so the woman fast forwarded to the highest level (7 on the Japanese scale). It lurched for a few seconds before stopping at a severe tilt. “That’s the building collapsing,” she explained. Our pamphlets described the 7 as such: Voluntary movement is impossible.
But life went on even so. Every few months there would be a trigger of some kind, and then for days you’d just lie awake at night wondering if you’d die by falling furniture, tsunami, or something else. When you did sleep, you’d dream about floating on a roof in the middle of the bay after the tsunami came. In the end there was nothing you could do but put a few more items in your emergency bag, so you’d remind yourself that no one is guaranteed to live until tomorrow and there’s no point in worrying about it even in an earthquake prone area, and you’d get over it for a bit. You’d tell yourself that the Chinese “prophet” who claimed to have predicted China’s earthquake was a quack and there was no point in believing his prediction for tomorrow, but get worried when NHK started broadcasting a show about how to flush your toilet when the water supply is down and how to make a lamp using cooking oil. You’d tell yourself that you don’t believe that kind of stuff, but you’d take your piano and TV off the shelves before you went to bed and you’d be mildly surprised when you woke up in the morning. Your enjoyment of your ocean-view apartment was bittersweet. You’d look at the dead volcano on the horizon and wonder if an earthquake would wake it back up. You’d realize that even if it struck after you left, you’d still know that a large percentage of your students would probably be injured or killed.
This is what life was like living in the part of Japan that’s supposed to get huge earthquakes. In reality there were never any strong ones as long as I was there, and the 6-pointer waited until just a few days after I left to hit. When I moved to Cambridge, I couldn’t understand how they could possibly build everything out of bricks, and it was an almost tangible weight lifted from my mind when I realized that I would need to worry about earthquakes no longer.
When I first heard about this earthquake, via a text simply asking if my friends were alright but not specifying where the earthquake hit, I just knew that it was the tokai earthquake. I imagine that the JETs living in Sendai were never warned quite so severely about earthquakes as we were. Sendai’s not supposed to have 8.9 earthquakes; we are. And so even though my family and friends in Japan are safe, I can’t stop thinking about the destruction. I can’t concentrate in lab and keep morbidly watching footage of the tsunami. There’s no rational reason why I should be more than the standard level of upset or sympathetic for a country where I once lived and for people who I never met, yet I am shaken.
It is the unearthing of two years of suppressed fear for my life. It is seeing what easily could’ve been my life played out by others. It is seeing that despite the assurances that there would be stockpiles of food and water for us, there probably wouldn’t have been enough. It is seeing the houses gutted and flattened by the tsunami, and wondering if my “modern” apartment would’ve ended up the same. It’s the knowledge that I wouldn’t have had time to make it to the evacuation site before the tsunami came either. It’s the suspicion that I would’ve been one of the thousands missing too. I suppose it’s what people call “survivor’s guilt.” It’s tons of nervous energy that can’t really be channeled into anything productive, so it just morphs into helplessness. It’s the feeling that I shouldn’t be this upset since me and mine are fine, but that doesn’t change the fact that I am upset.
And so I’m writing a check for $233 to Red Cross, $100 for each year that I lived there. I’m organizing a collection box to extend the Japanese Association of MIT’s collection efforts to my dorm. I’m hoping that you will donate as well.
Because what really got you through those days of fear was the knowledge that if anything terrible did happen, millions of strangers would reach out in support. The hope that someone would look for you underneath the stories of flattened apartment. It was the trust that people would come together in a time of need. And Japan is in great need right now.