The Great Tohoku Earthquake & Tsunami

I find it hard to write about what I've witnessed.

Iwaki is located south of Fukushima on the eastern coast of Japan. A great wave, hundreds of miles long, hit the coast a little over a month ago. Thousands died. Thousands are still missing.

Several of us went northward to visit the province last Saturday. Buried in the rubble were homes, possessions, and families.

It is the worst thing I've ever seen.

Iwaki

The Wave

After the earthquake, the ocean itself receded hundreds of meters. This process, known as "withdrawal," is deceptive and often prompts people to pick up beached fish and shells. A few who have experienced this sort of thing before or have heard stories from their grandparents know that this is a classic sign of tsunami. In other words, "RUN." 

Ocean, seawall, piano keys

A tsunami itself is not a wave, but a flood. It is a wall of dense water that is stacked from the back, and hits with the momentum of an army of freight trains. Tsunami travel at more than 500 mph across the ocean without losing much momentum. The deadly Sumatran tsunami in 2004 originated more than 3000 miles away from its areas of impact. As a tsunami nears land, the water slows and stacks up on itself. The more narrow the obstacles in the chute, the higher the water rises, pushed from behind.

It was 2:46 pm on a Friday. Children were at school, parents were at work. Families were separated.

The tsunami measured up to 37 meters tall. Who could stand a chance?

Gazing at the wreckage, it was as if a monster had reached out of the deep and engulfed the city with its massive arms, and then, like a child with a sand castle, steamrolled it, back and forth until nothing made sense and everything was chaos. The reason? Cold, capricious fun, or maybe boredom.

In the Nebraska, we fear tornadoes. These devastating twisters wreak havoc on rural communities, and have even destroyed entire towns. But that doesn't compare to 13,000 dead and 14,000 missing. That doesn't compare to 160,000 living in shelters. That doesn't compare to thousands of homes and families destroyed. That doesn't compare to nearly 100 children now confirmed as orphans. That doesn't compare. That doesn't compare...

Hope

Throughout this process, I am amazed at the resilience of the Japanese. We visited a nearby relief shelter, stationed in a school gymnasium. The mood was almost festive. Thanks to some missionaries from the local church who showed up to do music and give back rubs, many people were smiling amid the devastating situation. 

The shelter was clean and organized. Incredibly so. Newspapers lined the floor and hundreds of people slept on mats with makeshift cardboard walls for 'houses'. Privacy was impossible, but at least they had each other.

Cherry "tree" and space heater, Iwaki shelter

The Japanese response in some ways puts hurricane Katrina to shame. Despite having little fuel, clean water, food, medicine, and shelter, the Japanese faithfully take care of themselves. There has been little looting, and even the homeless have been allowing refugees to take shelter with them beneath tarps.

But I do not write to indict the American mentality, nor to praise the Japanese response--only to paint a picture. People are trying to stay hopeful. The shelter we visited even has its own indoor cherry "tree."

I didn't feel right taking pictures of people--my own admission of weakness as an amateur journalist. I wasn't gawking, but I didn't want to look like I was, either. Though, many people came up to our photographer and wanted their pictures taken. They seemed eager for us to hear their stories.

Their survivor stories are their new realities.

We may have caught a brief moment of sunshine during our visit, but it is difficult for me to believe that it is like that all the time. The physical destruction is a calamity in itself--measuring 25 trillion yen ($300 billion), but how do you count human suffering?

The cost cannot be measured.

What is the actual cost of a 200-year-old family business that was destroyed? A child orphaned? An entire city demolished? History erased? What is the current exchange rate in dollars to tears?

Meaning

It is imperative in times like these that those who reflect on the tragedy don't stop short of meaning. We shouldn't artificially construct tacky, pre-fabricated explanations, but we must also distill what few drops of meaning we can from this broken barrel. We are called to point the way. Even if it is inadequate, we owe it to ourselves and our God to try.

Unfortunately, I feel like I'm at the end of a Coen brothers movie, having watched something horrible, and asking myself "What was the point of that!? What did we learn from all this!?"

The simple, existential answer is, "nothing."

On the other side of the coin is the Christian storybook, saying "God has a reason, He will bring good out of this."

I find both of these instinctive explanations tempting, but foolish. They are both too trite and simplistic. It seems to me a vile sin to offer a trite answer to explain great human suffering.

I have wrestled with this ever since the disaster originally happened more than a month ago. It has only pained me more to see the site of the tsunami for myself, but I am glad I did. On one hand, I feel that the more pain you experience as you grow older, the more pain you take on, and the harder faith becomes. On the other hand, I hope that this loss of innocence will result in clearer vision, despite the burden.

In my mind, this calamity grieves God greatly. This is not "an opportunity." This is not a "tool." This is not "God's punishment." This is not "OH, well, gosh, if they only had Jesus they'd be filled with hope and joy! YA-HOO!" Let us not forget that whole families were buried by water beneath their own homes just a month ago.

On the other hand, God is not distant from this situation. God allowed this to happen. The love of Christ still pervades. We must wrestle with that by faith. We may never know why. But we must know our place when disaster is permitted to strike.

The Bear

While in Iwaki I saw several different "Pooh Bears" that stood out from the wreckage, and, whether in ironic memorial or in a desperate attempt at hope, someone had stood one up along the side of the road. As cars passed by, they could see this happy, loving bear smiling at them from atop the rubble.

He was no doubt the lost toy of some child. His smile was not mocking, but kind. And, most importantly, he was standing in the front lines with the best of them, amidst the chaos, as if to say "I see your pain, and I love you. I'm still here with you."

This picture to me symbolizes the admission of sadness and loss, and despite, hope.

Is that not our place in this time? To stand together with this deep loss, to step along side the Japanese and help carry the burden? To be a friend, and reach out to offer hope and a future?

Instead of seeing this as an "opportunity" to preach Christianity, can we instead show love, and make others ask, "why so much, why me?"

If no one is asking, then something is wrong.

Fragrance

The church we visited in Iwaki is a wonderful example of this. They have worked for the good of their community, and because of that they have earned an excellent rapport. They are allowed into the relief shelters, where they give foot & back rubs and perform live music. It seems to me that there is no difference between ministering to someone's physical needs, and ministering to their spirit. How simple is this? In fact, the latter demands the former.

Our place is with those who suffer. The tsunami reminded us that we are small, and our lives are short. I never thought I would be within range of a nuclear meltdown, but here I am. If it is all we can do, then can we be salt and light? Can we be a pleasing fragrance in the middle of this abyss?

Let us not pretend that we know why God allowed this destruction. Let us not pretend we have an easy solution. Let us mourn with those who mourn. Let us pour out our spirits to help others in their time of need. Let us pray for their safety, prosperity, and hope.

Let us help the victims to face a better tomorrow.

Earthquake, Tsunami, Chain Reaction ... Mothera is scary when he's real...

DONATE TO RELIEF FOR JAPAN:

http://crashjapan.com/

http://redcross.org

First, I want to thank all of you who have shown an interest in this crisis around the world. As I have watched your responses on Facebook, Twitter, and news websites, the outpouring of emotional energy, empathy, and compassion has been tremendous.

Here's to hoping that your momentum carries over into international aid.

Earthquake

Friday was the first earthquake of my life. It seems it was about 3pm in the afternoon that I first realized I was bouncing. 230 miles away, the Pacific plate was making some serious progress in its quest to burrow beneath the North American plate. I didn't know it at the time, sitting in my closet-office talking to Alysondra on Skype, but I was actually moving. I moved a whole 8 feet East. I DO miss my friends in the states, so I guess it felt good moving a little bit closer to home.

In all seriousness, this quake is obviously no trivial thing, but a waking nightmare for thousands of people. On the other hand, here in Higashikurume my living room was not turned upside down. My train was not derailed. No mudslides or boats crashed into my house. At no point during the event did I feel afraid. I didn't know that, not far from me, offices and houses were being shaken like a child shakes a candy box, trying to get every last piece.

It began slowly at first. I looked around, confused. Why am I bouncing? I wasn't shaking my legs. No one was behind me grabbing my chair, and there was no jackhammer doing construction near my apartment. I took out my headphones and thought for a moment--then it dawned on me. Oh, yeah, Japan has earthquakes! I slid down to the floor underneath my door frame and waited.

The quake rolled in ambling, almost leisurely, as if it had plenty of time to make its point. At its climax, the building groaned and creaked like an old spinster on a hiking trip, then the vibration dwindled away, as if it was feeling lazy but didn't want to stay. At no point did I feel unsafe. If I could have guessed, in my infinite earthquake innocence, I would have given it a 6 on the Richter Scale--impressive, but not scary. In fact, I was exhilarated. I felt like I had just taken a roller-coaster ride for the first time. After it passed, I resumed what I was doing, and, later, checked my house to find that a book had been tipped over on my shelf. 

Tsunami

More than an hour later, I was shocked to find out via websearch that I had just sat through a 7.9. Then an 8.9. Then an 8.4. Then a 9. There didn't seem to be a clear consensus for about 5 hours. I was aghast that such a powerful beast had slipped by without me giving it the time of day.

Tuning in to the footage didn't take long to give me a different perspective on what was going on. The Tokyo Metro is shut down.. millions of people stranded.. a giant wave is crashing into the city of Sendai right now.. boats and houses and cars all floating around like playthings.. airports are flooded.. a refinery burns.. several nuclear power plants shut down.. My little quake caused quite a ruckus.

The destruction seemed so direct, definitive.. callous. How could such a powerful force be? How could a wave be massive enough to wipe out an entire city? How could a nuclear plant be in danger of meltdown? Can't we just have one disaster? It was as if nature wasn't satisfied enough yet, and kept saying "and NOW, THIS is gonna happen." It was a chain reaction of disasters outside of anyone's control. 

But it wasn't a matter of satisfaction. No one was getting anything out of it. The tsunami didn't hesitate in wiping out an entire city, despite the fact that it would cause immeasurable suffering and wailing. Why? And who could give such a callous force so much power to do its will, even if that means to mercilessly and relentlessly destroy without warning?

It is hubris to even continue living in the knowledge that such power exists. Tokyo is, reasonably, the largest metropolis in the world. Japanese architects have been making earthquake resistant buildings not for decades, but for centuries. There's no such thing as a "ranch" style home here. Japan has been preparing for years for a quake that would break records. It's one of the most earthquake-aware, earthquake-safe countries in the world, yet that didn't stop whole cities from being destroyed in minutes.

The Kobe earthquake of 1995 leveled most of a city, resulting in 6000 deaths. That quake was a 7.3, almost indiscernibly small next to Friday's on a scale of actual energy. Callous, wanton energy. The same earth that nurtures us also has the power to obliterate us.

Tokyo's tallest building for a long time was Tokyo Tower in Minato. Built exactly like the Eiffel tower (only 13 meters taller), this frequent tourist destination looks out over the entire city, and is a symbol of Tokyo. Or, if you look at humanity as a whole, it is a symbol of man's accomplishment. After the quake on Friday, the top of the tower was bent, possibly symbolically "bowing down" to the power that had humbled it.

In honesty, Japan is lucky if this was the "big one" of a century (which we hope it was). No matter how how well-designed the towers, if Friday's epicenter had hit Tokyo, casualties would not be in the hundreds or the thousands, but the millions. We would not have lost a city, but a metropolis. Even Tokyo's strongest and most-ingeniously built skyscrapers would have contorted violently at the hands of a 9.0 quake. The raw power of such an event could have leveled the skyline.

What kind of being would allow such power to exist? In times like this it is neither right to accuse our Creator, nor to thank Him. It may very well be that the hand of God prevented an obscene power from wreaking its evil in Tokyo, but evil was still loosed, and the tragedy is real. We are not grateful, but we are humbled.

The "why" is an unanswerable question, and therefore irrelevant. Our natural reaction to the callous acts of nature is to be callous ourselves. This we must not do. We must keep our hearts soft and accept the pain in order to empathize with and reach out to those around us.

A Chain Reaction

I remember what I did after I found out about the tsunami. I went to the store to get emergency supplies, and dinner. A feeling of fear and panic was obvious, as cars rushed by to pick up loved ones, and families flocked to the supermarket for emergency food and water. I had wanted to buy some to-go sushi from the supermarket, but all the onegiri (pre-made meals) were completely sold out. Disappointed, I came home and watched a movie. It was my anti-climax.

My feelings were of helplessness and powerlessness. Even as people were suffering just on the other side of my city, I could do nothing for them. There are no words to describe the feeling of helplessly watching someone else suffer, and wondering if you're next. I'd imagine that's how ancient Christians felt when they were thrust into an arena to fight lions.

Later that night, the tension overwhelmed me, and I had to get out to see and feel something. As I walked outside, I was drenched in the palpable solemnity. The stream that runs next to my house is lined with well-lit bike paths on either side. It is a rarity to see it empty on any given night, even late in the evening. Yet I heard and saw no one for minutes. I think others must have sensed this powerless tension, too. When I finally encountered others, there was a nervousness and a restlessness. Disorganization, chaos, and confusion are uncharacteristic of Tokyo. Sirens wailed in the distance. Trains, packed full of work refugees, howled into the station as family members waited anxiously in nearby cars.

As I write this, I feel even more aftershocks in the earth. The groaning. It is a reminder that the earth, too, is in pain, and will pass away like we shall. Maybe nature was unleashing its own pain on us that night. I continue to hope for a time of no more groaning. 

I love you all. Please know I appreciate your thoughts, prayers, and concerns. So far, I'm alive, and I'm carrying the fire.

Michael out.