Preface

(Originally written in March, 2011.  Please visit my photo essay to see images relating to this story.)

My name is Ethan Backer and I am a freelance photographer/photojournalist, based out of the Cambridge/Somerville area. Seven months ago I moved to Nagaokakyo, Japan, to teach English. Nagaokakyo is a sleepy bedroom community about 20 minutes south west of Kyoto City. When the tsunami hit Japan I was both captivated and frustrated by the media. I decided that I wanted to go up north to see for myself. I found a travel companion in my friend Wesley Cheek.

Wes is originally from Florida but studied abroad in Japan then returned as a member of JET (Japan Exchange and Teaching) and never left. Nine years later he is still teaching English, is fluent in Japanese, married to a Japanese woman and they are expecting their first baby in August. It took a little convincing to get permission from the Mrs. but with her blessing and school break just around the bend, our sights were set. For the record, Wes made this trip possible and interpreted the peoples stories for me. In many cases, when I say I, I mean we. To hear some of Wes’s accounts of our experience listen to The Majority Report podcast’s between March 27 and March 31.

The story

The buildings were eviscerated. Those left standing were completely gutted. Insides…now outsided in broken heaps of what was once someone’s home, someone’s business, someone’s belongings. An antique pin, a wallet, costume jewelry, children’s toys, photo albums. Everyone always says that in an emergency they would save their photo albums first, if there is time. The photo albums and the toys always stood out. Clean up crews purposefully displayed them in case the owner, or relative, should happen by. Splintered wood, twisted steel girder, an upside down car… a tea cup.

The sight of the damage sneaks up on you suddenly. Everything is fine…everything is fine… every thing is fine… everything is in ruin. There is no middle, no grey, no compromise. If the tsunami touched you it punched you with all of its force. Buildings were not protected by the building in front. The water crashed through like an expert martial artist breaking a stack of boards. Topography alone was their savior.

I did not want to take disaster pictures. I watched the news. I saw the video footage and scoured the pictures on line. The sexy news stories of destruction and death were being told in pornographic detail. The quantity of millisieverts of radiation were being counted. The bodies were being tallied and the estimates were being made as to the economic impact that this disaster would have on the third largest economy in the world. The spotlight focused on the problems and cast a shadow on the survivors and their future. I wanted to focus strictly on the surviors and their stories. However, broken stuff was all around and to deny the extent of the damage would be just as irresponsible as focussing on it entirely.

Thousands of people died on March 11th when a 9.0 magnitude earthquake caused a massive tsunami that devastated the eastern seaboard of Japan. Tens of thousands of people lived. They continue to live in shelters, homes of relatives, and the remains of their home, all but leveled. For them, surviving the nightmare that was the tsunami is just the beginning. The challenges these people face are almost too numerous to count. In a matter of hours, they lost their friends, family, home, land, and livelihood. Some were stripped of literally everything but the clothes on their back and the breath in their lungs. How does one cope with such loss? Where does one even begin to pick up the pieces?

By the time we got up to the Miyagi province, from Kyoto, two weeks had passed since the tsunami. The search and rescue crews were gone, the roads were cleared and the people were just starting to put their lives back together.

Kesennuma is a small fishing community in north east Japan and the first we visited. The scene upon entering the disaster area was one part “Three Little Pigs” one part Salvador Dali painting. When the big bad tsunami wolf blew, the older, wood frame structures were mostly turned to jagged piles of wood. The newer brick or concrete buildings mostly kept their shape, if not their contents. Roof lines tilted impossibly sideways on crippled, seemingly melting frames.

We parked the van in a lot next to the water. Zoom lens over my left shoulder, wide angle over my right, I walked slowly, surveying the scene. Wes and I, distracted by different examples of fucked upedness, separated and lost each other. I worked my way to the top level of a parking garage for a birds eye view.

As a photographer, my job is to tell stories with pictures. I found myself struggling at times with the concept of trying to make a beautiful picture of such an ugly subject. The idea of a future someone saying, “great shot” about a picture I took, that tells the story of someone else’s bad day… It made me uneasy. Sometimes beautiful is a pattern. Sometimes beautiful is ironic. Sometimes beautiful is a perfect moment of pure emotion, honest…truth. Beautiful is truth. From the top floor of that parking garage I saw something beautiful. I saw hope. I saw courage. I saw strength through my 200 mm zoom lens. On a roof top apartment, of a four story building, surrounded by foundations and bits and pieces of what was, I saw a little old lady in a floral top hanging her laundry to dry. Set against any other backdrop, the act of doing laundry is mundane but not here. In Kesennuma, on March 27, 2011, doing laundry was more than doing laundry. She was planting her flag.

Up and down the streets of Kesennuma, the early stages of the renewal process were under way. A man shoveling mud from his living room floor, a woman preparing to clean her cabinets with a wrung out cloth. A make shift produce shop with fresh bananas, strawberries, lettuce, broccoli and most staggering of all, smiles on the faces of the vendors and their customers. Challenges exist, but determined people strive to overcome.

We were told that roughly 85% of Kesennuma’s population is employed in the fishing industry. On the day Wes and I arrived, the local fisherman’s union was set to meet with Mr. Yamada, former secretary of agriculture and fishing, and Mayor Sugawara. Men, mostly seasoned, tuna fisherman, sat with pained expressions on their faces. 18 ships out of the original 70 +/- were still sea worthy. If they could get fresh water, electricity, and fix their refrigerators, the men could start working.

They desperately wanted to be back on the ocean, doing what they love. Doing something… The fishermen from Kesennuma shared a united concern that if they were not out fishing they would loose their business to Taiwan, Korea, China, and domestic crews. A kick the the gut of men already down. The government estimated they could have the channel open and the fleet out by June. June is 8 weeks away. The channel to the harbor was damaged but a small temporary channel had been cleared and was big enough to get in and out. The men pleaded their case and Mr. Yamada assured the men of his support.

Wes and I spent five days visiting towns that no longer existed in any capacity as a town, wiped off the map as examples of how small and powerless people are when nature chooses to flex her muscles. We drove along the coastal roads, relieved and commenting on how perfectly untouched the building were, at elevation, and bracing ourselves for disaster every time our path pointed down hill.

On our second day we met 68 year old Hideo Kumagai. Mr. Kumagai injured his ribs, stomach and hand when the car he was driving was over taken by the tsunami. He was able to scramble to safety and escape with his life but lost his house, his rice fields and his company went bankrupt as a result of the tsunami. He said he is looking for a job but it is hard without a car to get him there.

Seventy-one year old Isao Sato is a strawberry farmer. I first spotted him poking around in a field, pulling an electrical cord from the earth. He points to his right. “This is where my house used to be… those were my strawberry fields.” He points behind him. “Over there was the designated evacuation center.” Fifty-four of his neighbors, are dead or missing. When the tsunami warning signal went off, many people ran to the designated evacuation center on a hill called Sugninoshita. Some people ran from the ocean to a bridge. Those that sought protection from the Sugninoshita were swept away when the giant wall of water overtook their building. Those that ran to the bridge, lived. Isao Sato has been living in a shelter since the tsunami and says, “it is okay for now. It will be, until it isn’t.”

In Minamisanriku, we happened by Mr. Okoshi and four bubbly children. Before the tsunami Mr. Okoshi owned a business that distributed sake and propane. On this day, Mr. Okoshi and the children were looking for his bottles of sake to donate to the fire department and propane tanks to fill his customers orders. The children laughed and played and took turns sweeping dirt from the concrete foundations, where houses once stood.

We continued driving south until we hit a road block . At a gas station where the road literally comes to an end; workers reported for their last day of business. Using a bicycle powered pump, gas station employee, Keichi Kumagai, syphons gas from the ground well, into the customers tank. Behind him, the remains of the gas station stood twisted in a knot, an 18 wheeler on it’s side tangled in the wreckage.

On our fourth day of shooting we followed volunteers from Peaceboat to the neighborhood of Shirasagidai in Ishinomaki. The government and military have taken responsibility for the evacuation centers but there are thousands of people, not living in the centers, who need help. NGOs such as Peaceboat are hitting the ground to assist the government in bring aid to those people not displaced by the tsunami. Aid workers explain that it is hard to give aid because many people turn down help. They feel they do not qualify for support and say things like, “We still have our home… we are ok, help others first, they really need it… I have enough.” They would say these things sincerely. If they had enough to survive they would volunteer themselves to the back of the line. If they had anything, they would offer you some.

Shirasagidai is a newer neighborhood with big modern houses. If you did not know any better you would wonder why this neighborhood is getting aid… If you did not know better. The fact of the matter is, even though a house was left standing, the job that payed the mortgage may be gone. The grocery store that serves the community may be gone and access to clean drinking water may be difficult. And, in at least one instance, a house built for a family of five now shelters seventeen. To communities such as Shirasagidai, Peaceboat brings diapers, clothes, assorted food items and a hot meal. At first the people try to turn down the help, but eventually accept it, thankfully.

The children we met along the way were always happy, smiley and playful. In some ways they are the lucky ones. Their minds can not yet grasp the enormity of the destruction all around them. In their naivety, the house with it’s sides torn off and innards exposed is cool, because it, “looks like a drive through.” and the foundations with no homes are fun to play on. The adults showed true strenth. They are perfectly capable of understanding their situation and the vast majority of them came across as positive and focused. They would smile while they work and were thankful for what they still have; determined to rebuild their lives.

To see pictures from this story, please visit my website at www.backerphoto.com and click the “2011Japan tsunami” gallery in Essays/Series.