Reflection two and a half years later

“I want a house to die in.” Ms. Kato did not desire and long for her clothes, furniture, or even some of her best friends that got swept away instantaneously over the horizon on March 11. She was ready to die, and that reality crept cold on my spine. On March 11 2011, one of the biggest earthquakes ever recorded hit the northern part, the “Tohoku” region of Japan. Countless numbers of people delivered a helping hand from all over the world. I also went up to Tohoku as a volunteer, endlessly scraping mud in order to reopen a gas station. But when the healing from the physical damage had slowly progressed, the emotional devastation of the people grew. After all the bricks, trees, volunteers, and bodies were cleared out, the blurred view suddenly became a reality. People not only had to individually stabilize their lives, but they had to unify as a community to restart their towns. I was at first hesitant to become an interviewer for Voices from Japan, an exhibition featuring tanka poets (type of a short Japanese poem) of the Tohoku region. I agreed to be a part of the project because as a Japanese in an international community, I did not want anyone else to take on the role. Not because my English or Japanese is perfect, not because I have been an interviewer before, and definitely not because I’m brave or fearless. I did it because I have respect, cultural knowledge, and love for both countries. Ms. Kato was a 77 year-old woman, very talkative and sweet. She welcomed us to her temporary house which was a small apartment room just enough for her and her husband. Kato talked about how her tankas, which she had been accumulating for over 30 years were washed away and swallowed far away into the sea. But that wasn’t all that had strayed. Kato lost a few of her closest friends and a prized home, a home with countless memories where Kato wished to spend her last days. When Kato uttered, “I want a house to die in,” it shocked me. After surviving a huge tsunami shortly after a massive earthquake, Kato was thinking about death. When I thought of death, horror came to mind. The topic itself came across as taboo. It went against what my mother had repeatedly told me: always look at the bright side of life. After several hours of interviewing, we were ready to depart from Kato’s house. “Thank you so much for everything. I’ll see you again.” Kato engulfed my palms with hers, gazed at me with the most gentle eyes, thanked me repeatedly, and promised to meet again. “Matane,” she voiced. Matane is a friendly way of saying I’ll see you again. It was the last words of my grandfather. I still remember his hands gripping mine, reminding me that he was still fighting to stay alive. “Matane” was the last of my grandfather’s life but it seemed like the beginning of Kato’s. To me, the word was no longer just a reminder that my grandfather had passed away. It was a promise between me and Kato that we’ll see each other again someday. Unknowingly, Kato gave me an alternative interpretation to the most tragic event in my life. Through this experience, I came across the true power and importance of human bonding. Whatever life throws in your way, even if it is a major setback in life, the people around you will get you back on your feet if you allow them to. There is a Japanese saying, “一期一会” (ichi-go ichi-e) meaning, “because somethings in life happens only once, take advantage of that every moment.” I am utterly grateful to have been given such a life-changing opportunity to mature as a human being.