A Tokyo Reunion (Revisited)

In the aftermath of Japan's devastating 2011 earthquake and tsunami, family—as it always does—came first.

Tokyo skyline, Jan. 23, 2021 (photo credit: Nryate / Creative Commons)

On March 11, 2011, at precisely 2:46 in the afternoon, just before schools let out, Japan experienced the strongest earthquake in its recorded history—a devastating 9.1 on the Richter scale. Its epicenter, deep below the North Pacific, was 81 miles east of Sendai, the largest city in Japan’s Tōhoku region, and 231 miles northeast of Tokyo, which, with its 37.1 million residents, is by far the world’s largest metropolitan area.

The Great Tōhoku Earthquake, as it later came to be known, triggered a massive tsunami with waves up to 40 meters (132 feet) high. More than 450,000 people were left homeless as a result of the tsunami; more than 122,000 buildings were completely destroyed by the earthquake. Together the two disasters resulted in nearly 20,000 confirmed deaths—2,500 men, women and children are still missing.

In addition to the devasting loss of life and property, the tsunami caused the meltdown of three nuclear reactors at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant, which released toxic radioactive materials into the air and ocean, forcing thousands to evacuate their homes and businesses. Over 12 years later, some nearby areas remain closed due to contamination and many residents have permanently relocated.

I mention all this not to dwell on the past, but to celebrate the strength and vibrancy of the Japanese people. I’m in Tokyo now visiting family and awestruck by the resiliency of this megacity. Japan’s history of rebirth and rejuvenation after disasters—both natural and manmade—is testament to the human spirit and our ability to persevere even in the face of monumental tragedy. In the last century alone, Tokyo rose from the ashes twice—after the firestorm that gutted the capital city following the 1923 Great Kantō Earthquake, and after the U.S. firebombing near the end of World War II.

A residential section of Tokyo after the U.S. firebombing of March 9-10, 1945.

TFP readers will know that my wife’s family—and by extension, mine—is from Tokyo, where her father and mother run a sentō (public bath) that their grandson Max hopes one day to run.

My little story below, first published just 11 days after the Great Tōhoku Earthquake struck and eight months before Max was born, is another small reminder of the resilience of humanity and the bonds that tie us together across great oceans of time and distance.

MJ

---

FROM THE ARCHIVES
The Wall Street Journal, March 22, 2011 

A Tokyo Reunion

Fears of a mass exodus spread this weekend, as my wife and I flew from Chicago to Japan. There we found professional baseball, ice-cold beer, grit, and perseverance.

Miyako City in Iwate Prefecture after the March 11, 2011, earthquake and tsunami.

By Michael Judge

TOKYO — Amer­i­can Air­lines flight 153 from Chicago to Tokyo was nearly full and pleas­antly mun­dane—young moth­ers bounced in­fants in the aisles, busi­ness­men worked in the glow of their lap­tops, el­derly cou­ples stretched their legs near the re­strooms. In the wake of the Great Tōhoku earth­quake and tsunami, with the num­ber of dead or miss­ing sur­pass­ing more than 20,000, the or­di­nar­i­ness of the 13-hour flight was a com­fort.

Given the fear of af­ter­shocks and the on­go­ing cri­sis at the Fukushima Dai­ichi nu­clear plant some 150 miles north­east of Tokyo, my wife Masae and I had joked that we'd be the only ones on the Sat­ur­day flight. Shortly be­fore take-off, the As­so­ci­ated Press ran a ban­ner on their mo­bile site say­ing that traces of "ra­dioac­tive io­dine" had been de­tected in Tokyo's drink­ing wa­ter. Spinach and milk were also "tainted." For­eign­ers were al­ready leav­ing in droves—a mass ex­o­dus from the world's dens­est metropolis was feared.

In­deed, when we told friends and ac­quain­tances we were plan­ning to re­turn to Tokyo, my wife's home-town and the city where we met 17 years ago this spring, some treated us like char­ac­ters from Al­bert Ca­mus's The Plague. Didn't we un­der­stand the risks in­volved? Why sub­ject our­selves to pos­si­ble con­t­a­m­i­na­tion if it could be avoided? Many gov­ern­ments were send­ing planes to evac­u­ate over­seas na­tion­als. Wash­ing­ton warned against all "nonessen­tial" travel to Tokyo.

Nonessen­tial—a strange word. Was it nonessen­tial to at­tend a fam­ily wed­ding we'd been look­ing for­ward to for months? When the wed­ding was even­tu­ally can­celled, was it nonessen­tial to be near loved ones at a time when so many had lost theirs? My wife and I had cho­sen to live in Amer­ica—we hadn't cho­sen to aban­don our fam­ily in Japan.

Friends in and around Tokyo as­sured us that life here was con­tin­u­ing as close to nor­mal as pos­si­ble. To save elec­tric­ity, trains ran less fre­quently and some busi­nesses closed ear­lier. There were long but or­derly lines at gas sta­tions. Af­ter much de­bate, open­ing day of Nip­pon Pro­fes­sional Base­ball, the equiv­a­lent of Ma­jor League Base­ball, was de­layed—by four days.

Still, on the train into the city on Sun­day, we were re­lieved to see kids play­ing base­ball and soc­cer in the parks. Laun­dry hung from clothes­lines out­side apart­ment build­ings. Restau­rants and cafes were busy out­side the Nip­pori train sta­tion. Tokyo was full of life and open for busi­ness—even as cities as far away as Los An­ge­les sold out of potas­sium-io­dine pills over fears of trans-Pa­cific traces of ra­di­a­tion.

Pub­uriba, the pub­lic bath run by my wife's par­ents, was bustling late Sun­day af­ter­noon: El­derly men and women and fam­i­lies of all sizes and ages sought out the com­mu­nal com­fort only a sentō can pro­vide. But be­fore we could set­tle in, we jumped into my fa­ther-in-law's car and drove across town to dine with our nephew Tomo and his fi­ancée Yurie. They'd de­cided to post­pone their March 26 wed­ding plans un­til Sep­tember, but they re­mained in high spir­its. Over ice-cold beer and the best Ko­rean bar­beque I've ever had, Tomo, Yurie and a hand­ful of rel­a­tives and friends gave thanks for our be­ing to­gether, no mat­ter the oc­ca­sion.

On Wednes­day we plan to visit the grave of my wife's ma­ter­nal grand­mother, Makino, in the town of Noto on the Ja­panese Sea. She died last year at the age of 100. She was 13 when the Great Kantō Earth­quake of 1923 struck, lev­el­ing Tokyo and sur­round­ing cities and killing be­tween 100,000 and 140,000 peo­ple.

Two decades later, my wife's pa­ter­nal grand­mother, Kaneyo, and her two youngest chil­dren died af­ter flee­ing the fire­bomb­ing of Tokyo during World War II. The bomb­ing com­menced on Nov. 17, 1944, and didn't stop un­til Aug. 15, 1945, the day of Japan's sur­ren­der. More than 100,000 Ja­panese men, women and chil­dren, nearly all civil­ians, died in those nine months.

But my father-in-law’s mother and siblings didn't die in Tokyo: They died in the moun­tains of Ya­m­a­gata Pre­fec­ture, 220 miles north of the cap­i­tal. Weak­ened by the jour­ney, ill­ness and star­va­tion, they couldn't di­gest the rice they were fi­nally given in Ya­m­a­gata, and they died of "burst stom­achs," ac­cord­ing to my fa­ther-in-law, Ya­sumasa. Mirac­u­lously, he was the only sur­vivor.

Yes­ter­day, while we were shop­ping at a crowded Ike­bukuro de­part­ment store, news came that gray smoke was ris­ing from two of the dam­aged re­ac­tors at Fukushima Dai­ichi, forc­ing work­ers to pull back mo­men­tar­ily. Shop­ping con­tin­ued apace.

News that an 80-year-old woman from Miyagi Pre­fec­ture and her 16-year-old grand­son had sur­vived for nine days in the wreck­age of their home—which had been moved one kilo­me­ter by the force of the tsunami—filled the tele­vi­sion, and was on every­one's lips.