Facing the Wave (16 page)

“In the early days after the tsunami, the families pulled their dead out of the river, and brought them all the way up here from the mud. It’s hard to know how to behave until you are in that situation. Those are moments of true feeling, of true behaving, and we must not forget them.

“Some days I thought I didn’t understand Buddhism well enough,” she says. “But I learned two things: we have to behave as humans and feel the situations as they come before us. Every day is important. No regrets. This is all we have.”

Masumi sleeps with two cups of salt at the head of her bed and a long hunting knife above the pillow. We’re at her parents’ house in Sendai again. There’s one ghost on her, she says, and there may be one on me; she’s trying to protect herself from acquiring others. She calls Jin, the shaman, who lives in Shizuoka, seven hours’ drive south of Sendai, but he says he can’t come. A cool mist stirs into the day’s heat and humidity, and flies, gnats, and mosquitoes roar around. Like all of us, they float through wind-driven layers of dust and radioactive particles.

It’s the autumnal equinox, when people in Japan clean the graves of their ancestors and place cut flowers on them. According to Shinto beliefs, the dead need affection. Even after death they continue to be a “living” presence in the household. They are demigods, guarding the house and instructing young and old in matters of moral rectitude. But the untethered dead, the unclaimed, are fearsome ghosts, longing to reattach themselves to the living, polluting the sanctity of blood ties, of loyalty to household, community, and livelihood.

The loyal bonds to family, called
kizuna
, must be guarded, not severed. The family itself becomes a religion conjoined with a deep sense of belonging to place. Some days, it must be a balm for those times when we feel lost and alone; other times, I wonder if it doesn’t seem like a prison.

Another earthquake comes as the Pacific plate bulges and rolls back down into Earth’s mantle. Earth’s grand way of recycling.
Each terrestrial movement reflects a shift in the mind. A jolt and a lurch and I grab the edge of the futon. The mirror shakes so hard I can see only a shattered, cut-up version of my eyes looking for a body, a room.

The ocean is a bright edge that keeps trying to bring time and life back around, but its credibility has been marred. Who can trust it to move anyone here into the future? There are 5.7 and larger earthquakes every day, and there’s a typhoon on the way. September’s seismic brain is a cranial nook jolted and cushioned by bone.

Because it is still hot and humid, face masks have been discarded and we get respiratory infections. Japan’s air has been corrupted. We breathe it in. We eat produce grown in sandy, radiation-swallowing dirt. We carry the dead and the broken inside our bodies; we carry ghosts and hydrogen explosions; we take them with us; we take them home.

Early morning. A slight shake. The grinding-firing of Earth’s mantle polishes itself into a mirror. Autumn is on the way. Nothing will shine then. All will drive toward the subdued, reduced to the rust of the season, its beautiful desolation.

A farmer tells me that at this time of year the nuts of ginkgo trees ripen and heavy persimmons fall from trees. Two hundred thousand sunflowers, thought to absorb radiation, are still blooming in Hokkaido. TEPCO is trying to stem the flow of radiation from its stricken plants but so far has failed. Cell phones will soon be equipped with dosimeters—radiation detectors. Scientists ponder the effect of global warming on seismology. The earth’s crust may be more fragile than it first appeared, so when glaciers shrink or break off, the realignment of Earth may result in violent tremors.

Kazuko, Masumi’s mother, stands in the ruins of Grandmother’s house—her childhood home, once a big, two-story farmhouse that looked out on the family’s rice fields. She is cutting the red Gerber daisies her brother planted. When the last flower is snipped, she stands straight, holding the bundle, when something catches her eye. She spins on her heels: “They’re here! Look!” She drops the flowers to the ground and runs over the bridge to the half-ruined house of her uncle and aunt. Tears stream. She has not seen them since the disaster.

We stand at the long veranda of the traditional Japanese house. The interior is in ruins: there is no glass in the windows, only parts of a subfloor, and no sliding doors. From the shadows Great-Uncle Satoru comes forward, wiping dirt from his face. He is bent all the way over in an L from osteoporosis and has trouble walking. His wife, Satsuko, appears. She’s ten years younger, with a farmer’s robust body, rough hands, and a beautiful face.

Kazuko, Masumi, and I bow. Emotions spin: everyone is sad, happy, uneasy. We step up into the open room. No need to take off our shoes. When the tsunami roared through, it tore away all the tatami. The
moya
—the miniature Shinto shrine meant to protect the dwelling—has been dug out of the mud and returned to an alcove. A Danish modern table and four chairs brought by volunteers sits in one corner so covered in dust we could write our names on it.

“We’re very tired,” Satsuko says. “We’ve just finished planting our crop of winter vegetables. We ride our bicycles here from our temporary apartment because the tsunami took our car. That’s why we haven’t been able to visit you on the other side of Sendai.”

On the table there’s a thermos of tea and two sets of discarded work gloves. A
jyoren
—a heavy, old-fashioned hoe—lies on the floor. We sit in stunned silence. The house seems unreal, as if we were on a stage set. This exhausted couple are the players.

Great-Uncle Satoru sits bent with his head tipped down. He rubs his forehead, obviously agitated. A wind picks up. Through its wounds and openings, the house receives all the dirt and rain that the ruined coast can give.

Eleventh-century
emaki
—scrolls that illustrated the
Tale of Genji
—were rendered with a
fukinuki yatai
, “roof blown off” perspective. Every room was open to the omniscient viewer from the top down so that the intimate happenings of palace lives and the characters’ interconnections were revealed. Here, the roof is on, but with no windows or doors, the interior can be seen from the side, at ground level. Either way, there is no privacy.

Before the tsunami the houses of this extended family were linked: Kazuyoshi and his wife lived with his parents in front; Great-Uncle Satoru and his family lived in back, on the other side of the channelized river. Now the view from Satoru’s house is all crumbled foundations and nothingness—a scene of utter destruction. The ocean glints beyond.

In the distance a fire breaks out: it is the mountain-sized debris pile catching fire. Heat has caused internal combustion. It is over 100 degrees Fahrenheit with 100 percent humidity. Three orange cranes use their buckets to squash the arrowing flames.

Yesterday, working alone, Satsuko and Satoru covered the salty tsunami-rinsed soil with seventy bags of manure and planted seedlings ordered from a nursery in Yokohama: green onions,
bok choy, peas, and broccoli. Then they watered each plant by hand.

“Uncle won’t eat anything bought at the store,” Great-Aunt says. “He’s losing weight. We have to plant these vegetables quickly.”

She shows us where water rose inside the house to within five inches of the ceiling, and the upper corner of the room where the Wave drove through like a sharpened spear. “We were watching the tsunami from the
nikai
[the second floor],” Uncle Satoru says. “I heard the voice of the water. Of the ocean and that small river. It told me to run but it was too late. We were so scared. Our son was with us. He was angry because we hadn’t left for the evacuation center. He had been watching the river and saw that the water didn’t look right. It seemed weird, he said. The water got high very quickly. He yelled at us to run upstairs. We did. But even so, the water lapped at our heels.

“Right then, we thought we would die. The first wave wasn’t too big, and when it pulled back so fast, we were sure the next one would take us. It didn’t, but it took my sister’s house just in front.” He points toward the foundation where his sister’s house should be. “We watched it disappear. It happened so fast. The roof came off and it was floating. Our house and the ones behind us are the only ones that didn’t wash away.

“Night came. Some of our neighbors were sitting on their roofs. The Japanese army came in helicopters, but all the lights of Sendai were out and it was hard for them to see us. We tried to get on the roof too, but we couldn’t because of our age. So our son went up and waved his flashlight. They found us that way.

“We heard the helicopter over us. A soldier came down to the roof on a rope and climbed into the second floor. He put a harness on each of us and, one by one, pulled us up into the helicopter. We were lucky that way. The people in the evacuation centers were cold and had no food, but we were taken to the army base and fed and kept warm.

“We stayed one night. After, we went to the evacuation center, where we lived for a month. In the beginning there was not enough food, but the PTA and the principal of the school asked farmers from inland areas to provide rice and vegetables. A month later, we moved to the little apartment where we are still.”

Great-Uncle Satoru rests his head on his hand, his posture one of defeat. His voice is tired and sad. “I grew up here. I spent my entire life here. We always grew our own rice and vegetables and flowers. We had lots of room, lots of space. The apartment where we live now is very small. I feel crazy there. So I ride my bicycle over here and meditate!”

We go outside to look at the garden. The rows are about forty feet long, roughly hewn, with tiny seedlings tucked into white salt-encrusted dirt. Two flats of flowers are yet to be planted. “I
need
the food,” Great-Uncle Satoru says, “but I
have
to have flowers.”

The wind kicks up with more determination: smoke and dust from the burning debris vent directly into our faces. There’s no way to avoid it. We sit placidly. Great-Uncle Satoru lifts his head and becomes more animated: “Because this house is still standing, I want to live here again, but the city of Sendai has not given us permission yet. I have a right to rebuild and live here. I’m seventy-five years old. I don’t care if another tsunami comes and takes me. The government gives money to the people who lost their houses, but not if the house is still standing. The rebuilding will be very expensive. If the government decides you can’t rebuild on the land, they won’t give you any money at all. It’s a great inequity.

“This house protected our lives. But the government is in a gray zone. They didn’t take this area into consideration. The other side of the river, where my sister’s house once stood … they are sure no one can rebuild there. Too dangerous. But here,
where there are still houses standing … there are many who want to stay but we have no leader.

“We Japanese tend to be too polite, so the government doesn’t do anything.” He looks at me, smiling faintly. “You Americans who immigrated from so many parts of the world are better at this than we are. We have to change how the country is ruled. And right now, I want the answer. Yes or no. But I won’t live anywhere else.”

Inland from the coastal zone farmers are harvesting rice, their golden sheaves laid along bamboo poles and left to dry. Men and women are planting winter vegetables in every spare piece of land. How else will they eat? A few miles from the coast, house repairs are going on, and people are buying used cars from small lots along the road.

As we go through the city, Masumi says she’ll never park her car on the rooftop lot at the Sendai station again, because those cars shook against each other so violently, not a piece of metal was left undented. Closer to the coast the Wave took the rest, one by one, street by street, bridge by bridge, and cars were hurled and tumbled, sometimes sinking with the drivers still in them. In Kesennuma alone, two hundred people were killed in a single parking lot. Now, homeless and jobless, the survivors walk or ride bikes to their farm fields. One hundred years of modernization seem to have been erased in one afternoon.

Central Sendai is a different story. It’s a stately city with tree-lined avenues, tall hotels, and Parisian-style stores that bespeak affluent Japan’s worldly tastes.

Kazuko and I wander through an elegant department store. Earthquake damage to buildings here has long since been repaired. Looking for a way to spend an hour, we thumb through fall fashions, Ralph Lauren jodhpurs, tall boots, heavy sweaters, ceramic teapots, makeup, and earrings. On the bottom floor, Kazuko buys imported meat, cookies, and coffee, and after, we pass through Tiffany’s to browse “eternity” rings on the way
out of the store. Diamonds and rubies, or sapphires? Which do I prefer? she asks. From the ruins of her childhood neighborhood to this store: it’s a jolt and a wonder, and we laugh about it. I suggest they change the name of the rings from “eternity” to
mokka
, at this moment. Now.

We walk the avenue under grand old trees in evening heat. Impermanence is a living experience, a rolling of the dice, a chance-dance, a breaking down of what seemed solid: kitchen, boat, car; wedding ring, child, lover; the annual cleaning of graves. True existence is nothing but nosedives and quick gulps of air, as Earth flexes her geologic muscles. In one minute, everything can change. Seashore to charnel ground; charnel ground to dance ground where the play of living and dying keeps taking place.

On the evening news we’re told that the three damaged reactors at Fukushima Daiichi are almost ready for “cold shutdown,” though that hasn’t happened yet, and radioactive water still streams into the Pacific. Hotspots are being found far south and west of the site. Airborne particles hit high buildings and mountains and fall in place. Wind, waves, and currents carry the radiated water up and down the coast, first north, then south, changing seasonally.

Early evening, almost dark, and raining again. “The windshield has tears,” Masumi says, laughing. We’re going to visit Masumi’s aunt and uncle. Dropping down from the highway to her aunt’s rented garden plot on the river, we take photographs of the tall sunflowers that separate her vegetables from other plots. “Growing food is what she knows how to do,” Masumi says.