37 Frames : Great Tohoku Earthquake & Tsunami 2011 Japan… Back on the Tohoku Road: Light + Lanterns

“For some moments in life there are no words.” ~ David Seltzer

August 6th. Peace day in Japan. A year certainly defined by anything other than tranquil times. The poignancy not lost as we share our most recent experiences and reflections today.  As we find ourselves back on the Tohoku road. Part 1 of 3.

This was a very special trip north, even in light of all previous visits, both documented and not barely 5 months on from March 11th. As always it was moving, difficult and hard to articulate. Traveling the entire coast. Hopefully a few words + images can convey what is in the heart and tell a little part of the story. The next bit. Grateful always for those who share their stories so openly, willingly. Who welcome us into their lives. Whose paths we cross. Of course always wishing we never had to. For those who trust us with their moments when grief still washes over like a king tide. And for those continuing to be aware of the situation, here and abroad, for encouraging us to carry on coverage in this small way. Again with the giant disclaimer, we are photographers, nothing else. Aiming to tell a story through our photos. Be a small voice. And we feel… and we may ramble on a bit… and clarity is always a bit soggy.  On this trip particularly there was a point of departure.  It was Eileen Elias Freeman who wrote “let us love the world to peace.” If we could, then this would be a good a place as any to start.

We were back in Ishinomaki for the Kawabiraki Festival. On arrival there was much noticeable change in the streets. Especially the downtown area. Collapsed buildings had been completely demolished. Remnants of homes now permanently removed save for the stark foundations. Roads cleared and accessible. Some stores open and trading. Debris removed.  People out and about. Power lines restored. Tsunami-wrecked buildings yet to be attended to were clearly labeled dangerous and taped off. The river was lined with giant blue tarp-wrapped sandbags. Boats moored in buildings now find somewhere else to anchor. Countless planters of sunflowers, standing tall and so strong said more than words and actions.

In Ishinomaki the Kawabiraki Festival traditionally marks the start of the boating season. It takes its origins as a memorial ceremony for water-related deaths as well as to commemorate Shigeyoshi Kawamura, who greatly contributed to the development of Ishinomaki through enormous reconstruction of the Kitakami River. Kawa (River) + Hiraki (Opening). In Ishinomaki it has been hosted since 1916 and is generally a very lively, exuberant affair, known for its impressive fireworks display on the 2nd day, featuring hanabi lit from underwater. The decision was made to hold it but as such this year, very, very understandably it was much more subdued and low-key.  We were told for as many local people that came out to take part in the festival, there were just as many who stayed ‘home’, wherever that may be now, unable to yet come to grips with this new reality. The festival runs over 2 days. So drenched in meaning it was almost unbearable. A memorial never more fitting, never, ever more cripplingly sad.

There was life in the streets and an energy and purpose. It was normal and not. All at once. When we could we tried to do some before and after shots. To get some sense of how life is now and was then.

Here we are following the local monks to the memorial ceremony to commence the festival. The UCC Coffee shop still teetering, but much of the street now upright. Kind of.

Here on the intersection of Kitakami River boats once dramatically rested, ripped from their berths. Now the takoyaki stand does brisk business.

We remember the big red iconic boat the tsunami swept into town.

But now the Tokyo Disney Bus passes through on that very same street.

Above a young couple in traditional summer attire crosses the road. On the way to the festival. A few months earlier and they would have been met by this…

And so to the ceremony. We were met at the entrance by hundreds of lanterns created by local school children. They formed a path of light and color, hope and love and of course more than a few Kitty-chans and characters.

To the right the Kitakami River remains high. The ground sunk, pathways permanently drowned. Bulldozers are common place. Nakaze Island now almost cleared. In March it was a scene so overwhelmingly haunting as I followed a lone mourner through the rubble. And now what the tsunami deposited is gone, but of course it’s always still there. Just out of reach. Indelibly etched into consciousness.

The past is still there occasionally bobbing along in the water, tangled up in flotsam, a curious encounter for ducks.

And then as the water continues downstream on the right, preparations for the festival flow on the left. The wind talks, flags fly, lanterns wait to be lit and we meet remarkable people and stories.

As I wandered about documenting some of the preparation and meeting the sweetest girls in yukatas, I saw in the distance a lady guiding possibly her daughter into the ceremony. She caught my eye as clearly her companion had special needs. And then something came into view they were lost on the crowd. I came back to meet Trace and found she had found them and they had found her.

And this is how we met  Kiyoko and her daughter Emiko. And this is their story.

They found a seat on the bench next to Trace. Well almost on top of Trace in an effort to be near her. Before they had even sat down Kiyoko zoned in and opened up. Her husband was a ship engineer. She had been to Australia twice. She liked it very much. But now she has forgotten all her English, you see. This is her daughter Emiko. She told her to speak English and then laughed a lot. Around this time I came back. And we were all introduced. And we talked about why we were here and what we were doing. There was much kindness in Kiyoko’s eyes, but certainly much sadness behind them. She was worried I was cold and pulled a towel out of her bag and wrapped it around me. “I’m fine, really, thank you so much.” Returning it.  She promptly wrapped it around Trace. Emiko was mid-way through a crepe, thoroughly enjoying it with most of it around her face. Then Kiyoko said very matter of fact, “My husband is dead. My mother, too”. “We are living in an apartment now, our home is gone.” She told us her jacket was ¥1000. Her husband was the Shachō, that meant she was the Boss’s wife. It is hard to take care of Emiko, I will do my best.  I have a car. Actually I have some photos in the car. Do you want to see them?” Sure, we said. “Be back in 15 mins.” And she was off. I took the chance to take a few more photos, while Trace waited with Emiko, clearly horrified her mum had left and giving Trace some very suspicious looks. But surely enough Kiyoko was back in a bit with a mountain of photos. And so we talked and she shared her many memories and Emiko sat quietly by, finishing the chocolate crepe. Every last morsel. Aware always.

Kiyoko’s home was destroyed. Cars rested on top of cars. But JAF was really good and came quickly to help remove them. She proudly showed us photos of everything. Because without photos who would believe it? We all agreed. In one of them Emiko was happily posing, in a pink apron, smiling away making the peace sign. She helped to clean up, too. She knew and understood what happened. I am not sure of all the exact details, but Kiyoko’s husband was in his office near the port when a truck smashed through the building and killed him. She talked about each photo. She had made copies and laminated them. Lots of them. They were her lifeline. Sometimes she showed us the same photo and told the same story. Sometimes more than once.

The photo on the right below shows the message crudely written on the wall of her house after March 11th. It informs on the whereabouts of the Yasuda family and the passing of her husband and mother. She would come back to this photo. And tell us again.

Tears brimmed in the background behind laughter. Then Kiyoko then gave us two beautiful bags that Emiko had hand-made. She had bought them back from the car, too. She would like us to have them and refused all protestations.

She then gave us a photo of her and insisted we keep it. “This is my mother, Emiko and me, taken in 2000.” We couldn’t take such a treasure. She insisted. “I have more copies.” “Please don’t forget us”, was all she said.  We assured her we wouldn’t. We are friends from now. A  sprinkling of English and plenty of smiles and hugs sealed the deal. Then her friend arrived, also with her special needs son, also on her own to care for him now. And we spent some time together. Her son quite remarkable at English. And loved saying “cucumber” and “how are you?”. Their reality colored with a new level of challenge and pain, palpable and inconsolable. Kiyoko and Emiko moved us hopelessly. Kiyoko in her need to share her emotions and fervent wish for all to never, never forget March 11th.  Emiko in her awareness of her old but much changed surroundings and the way to move forward.

We left Kiyoko and Emiko on the bench as the ceremony practice began. Kiyoko being scolded by her friend as we left. “Please don’t start me off crying again. Please. I have shed too many tears these past months”. We reluctantly left them both consoling each other and went off to document the proceedings promising that we would check in on them again soon.

Children prepare to take offerings to the makeshift shrine. They thought we were very funny but happily unposed. Just the way we like it. They practiced to the beat of quiet hand claps how to walk and place baskets of flowers, fruit and other objects at the altar. They were excited but serious once it all started. Their energy giving much light in every sense to the proceedings. Local and international volunteers were on site. Helping the children here was a buddhist group with members from as far as Mongolia.

Then it was time for the lanterns to be lit with dusk not too far away.

While final preparations took place we had the opportunity to meet the Ishinomaki Mayor and the Vice Chairman. Both of them so pleased to meet us, so interested in what we were up to, so thankful for coming back and continuing awareness and hopeful to meet again and again. The Vice Chairman, who simply wanted to talk, with such kind eyes, behind which there must be so many horrors, so many stories in just 5 short months.

And then another story came our way. He and his translator came right up to us and enquired as to our activities. Could we explain how we ended up here and what we were doing? They were so interested. So we briefly gave a quick run down, made much easier with his lovely translator who we later found out was a volunteer and also the President of a travel company. He then introduced us to the man at his side. Whose story I already knew, which moved so many so deeply after March 11th. The stuff of goosebumps. We met the Editor in Chief Hiroyuki Takeuchi of the Ishinomaki Hibi Shimbun. This is the city’s daily newspaper. Following March 11th six of the paper’s staffers researched stories before passing them on to three others who printed news of the disaster the only way they could: by pen and paper. For six consecutive days after the twin disasters, reporters used flashlights and marker pens to write their stories on poster-size paper and posted the “newspapers” at the entrances of relief centers around the city. Seven of the handwritten editions of the Ishinomaki Hibi Shimbun have been acquired by Washington, DC’s Newseum as part of its permanent collection, and some will soon be on display at Time Warner World News Gallery.

Amazing. And he wanted to know about us. We asked about him. And he said “we are all so tired. So deeply tired. But we will carry-on.” Before we could talk more the memorial started.

Some moments.

The Ishinomaki Vice Chairman, Nagakura-san.

Thousands line up to pay their respects. Patiently waiting. Always.

A very moving chorus. Which ended with most in tears.

A woman in the crowd who lost a child. Clutching his photo… We would normally never take such a photo. But the overwhelming grief is just so immense, in no way diminished months later. Reality the only thing to settle. Sometimes such an image speaks more to the heart of the situation than anything else can.

The mayor, Dr. Kameyama speaks.

And then deep in prayer Toro Nagashi begins. This is a Japanese ceremony in which paper lanterns are floated down the river. Toro (Lantern) + Nagashi (Flow). Watching the beautiful colored lanterns floating down the river as the sun set, all silently prayed for the repose of the many lost lives of the Great East Japan Earthquake. In Ishinomaki City alone, 3149 people died in the disaster and 900 are still missing. On every lantern was written the name of a deceased loved one. Kiyoko was sure to tell us about this and how we had registered her husband and mother’s names. Some 10,000 lanterns were set afloat in memory. Lantern after lantern flowed past. An endless parade. At once fleetingly beautiful and epically sad as you realise the scale. A sight never easily forgotten. Coincidentally today in Hiroshima the same will be done in remembrance of the bombing.

As the first lanterns flow.

And they flow and flow.

And twilight comes. And more shimmer in the night.

Always reminded that the river is a graveyard.

Eerie and somber, amplified by the rubble and twisted remains, the lanterns float to the sea.

A few long exposures try to emulate the feeling, the ephemeral beauty and spirit.

And twilight gives way to the night. And still so many come. The passing of the lanterns silent, all done in the dark. A weak video light here illuminates the colors, the beauty. Imagining always all this done in the candlelight and darkness…

Locals and volunteers standing side by side. Creating bucket lines for lights. Delivering the lanterns lovingly to the river, one by one by one. Touching, remembering, feeling all those they represent.

The last of the names float down the river and out to sea.

Back at the memorial the lanterns created by the children twinkle in the night. A color cast of hope and memories and life.

Not bearing to watch them extinguished we walk back to our car. The Toro Nagashi  long gone out to sea. We pass I-Plaza, one of the volunteer bases from March. And see a sunflower standing strong in the night. Australian support hangs in a nearby shop window. We pass it. Origami cranes dangle over head, lining the street. Perhaps decorations for tomorrow’s more festive events. We’ll wait and see.

Everyone slowly making their way home, again wherever home may be now. Light here and there in the darkness. And we wait for tomorrow. Mindful at every interaction never to forget the past.

“I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars.” ~ Og Mandino

Read Part 1: Back on the Tohoku Road: Light + Lanterns

Read Part 2: Recovery road + that glittering sky

Read Part 3: Ghost towns, a miracle tree + the August view

Read previous Tohoku stories from March, April & May here…