Adaptation

Quoth anthropologist Anthony Oliver-Smith in the introduction of Anthropological Research on Hazards and Disasters:

"In very graphic ways, disasters signal the failure of a society to adapt successfully to certain features of its natural and socially constructed environment in a sustainable fashion" (303).

Somehow, given recent events — the 7.0 magnitude earthquake that rocked Haiti last year, the 6.3 Christchurch earthquake in New Zealand last February and now, the March 11 9.0 Tohoku earthquake and tsunami — I beg to disagree.

While it is indeed possible to reduce the gravity and impact that a so-called "natural disaster" will have on the so-called "victims" of the incident, it would be impossible, I think, to completely avoid being affected at all. It is a known fact that the Japanese have been preparing for a large earthquake for years — after all, the country is situated right in the middle of the Pacific Ring of Fire, which is infamous for its annual number of earthquakes and volcanoes, and the country has been subject to more than a couple tremors and a few big quakes (Kanto in 1923, Kobe-Osaka in 1995) in its long history.

Even given the earthquakes that have happened over the past few years in various regions around the world, no one could have anticipated or accurately predicted just how strong the March 11 quake would be. Perhaps they may have been able to say that a tsunami would sweep the nation's northeast coast if the impending quake was strong enough and centred in just the right place, but that would have been it. It always has been, and still remains, nearly impossible to give more than a few minutes' warning — enough to stop the rapid trains and minimise the death toll.

Would it be fair to say that Japan has not managed to adapt to its natural environment? I say no, because the tsunami barriers were built to withstand earthquakes up to a certain magnitude and waves up to a certain height. Sure, the Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923 previously held the record of Japan's biggest quake — it clocked in with a stunning magnitude of 8.3 — but the Japanese did their best to retrofit their buildings for the quake that they were sure would hit.

This retrofitting is what minimised the effects the quake had on the nation's capital of Tokyo — buildings swayed like leaves in the wind, but nothing major collapsed and the metropolis was back up on its feet within a day.

This retrofitting is what kept the nuclear reactors at Fukushima from completely falling apart — they were built to withstand a magnitude 7.9 quake which, before March 11, would have been considered quite big. It's funny (in an awkward sort of way) how magnitude 5.0 quakes are considered small, and 6.0 is considered worrisome, when that was all it took to devastate Christchurch a few months ago.

Yes, perhaps now the Japanese will reexamine their blueprints, modify the earthquake section of their building codes, but it's not as if they failed as a society on March 11 when entire towns were swept out to sea — it's quite the opposite. The nation's ability to prepare for earthquakes was showcased on that fateful day — a quake that big anywhere else and the critically affected radius would have been much, much, much larger.

Firsthand experiences

Reading through my classmates' posts makes me feel like I got off easy because I had been home, safe with my housemates and with a good amount of food, unlike Tomoka369 and Rena, who were both out of their houses when the quake happened. The imagery of thousands of people walking is incredibly powerful to me and served as a harsh reminder of how reliant we have become on our technology — a few of my classmates mentioned how chaotic the transportation situation became and posted photos.

Some of the most interesting posts in my opinion were from the people who had not actually been in Japan during the earthquake itself. Though many of them shared what they had been doing at the time of the quake, many of the exchange students spent their time discussing the role that the mass media played in spreading awareness (and perhaps fear) outside of Japanese borders. Tani brought up some good points about how many people outside of Japan remained unaware of what was actually going on, and Simen from Norway reiterated the sensationalist nature of the media, which leads me to believe that many people who decided to either leave or return to Japan may not have been completely informed about the current situation.

My classmates' posts definitely helped supplement the excerpts of Quakebook, which I've been reading recently. For those who don't know, Quakebook is a crowd-sourced-from-Twitter ebook that was published just last week and chronicles the earthquake from multiple perspectives, some from inside Japan, some out. All of the stories I've read so far have one thing in common: They highlight in some way, shape or form the fact that Japan has united itself as one, whether it be by talking about the people helping strangers or the massive relief effort that everyone seems to be contributing to. It's beautiful (perhaps in some twisted way) how such strong bonds can emerge in such a disastrous situation.

Nuclear Ginza

Above is the first part of Nuclear Ginza, a relatively short British documentary about working conditions in the nuclear reactors. I watched this over two weeks ago, but it still has not left my head, because the scenes it includes are disconcerting and, at times, downright sad. The producer of the film focusses his attention on the burakumin — Japan's equivalent of the caste system's untouchables — and attempts to interview individuals who have been subject to more radiation exposure than any human should have in his or her lifetime. If you have the time to spare, it's a great watch — albeit a slightly depressing one.

The worst part? You can still find job openings for nuclear plant workers on Hello Work, and they pay ludicrously high salaries... at an immeasurably higher cost. I'm slightly appalled at how Japanese people can luxuriously live day by day while this so-called illiterate lower class can exist in such poverty.

Beginnings

Where was I at 2:46 p.m. on March 11?

I feel like that's a question that I've had to answer multiple times. When I went home to San Francisco for the rest of spring break, I fielded this inquiry each time someone asked me to donate — I would hesitate for a second, reluctant to give money to a cause that I know needs more than just dollars and yen to support it, that needs more than the goodwill of samaritans thousands of miles away. This second of hesitation, of course, almost always led to the solicitor admitting immediately that, "donating isn't necessary and I'm sorry for wasting your time," and I would feel guilty and dig through my pockets for a couple bucks. If I was with a friend, however, they'd usually grasp my shoulder reassuringly and mention something about how I had been there so it was a bit of a sensitive topic for me. San Franciscans are naturally curious, so this inevitably would lead to a curious look (at best) or an awkward, slightly invasive question (at worst).

Anyway, I digress.

When the first tremors of what would soon come to be known as the Great Tohoku Earthquake began, I was skyping with one of my best friends back home. After a year and a half of living in Tokyo and eighteen years of living in one of the most earthquake-prone cities on the West Coast, it takes more than a couple of shakes to spook me, and so I remained cross-legged on my bed, nonchalantly chatting with my friend as I waited for the ground to stop hiccuping. It didn't. Thirty seconds or so later, the earth suddenly had a coughing fit and things started rattling around — I could hear the glasses moving in the cabinets downstairs and a terrified housemate running outside. Worried about her, I jumped off the bed and ran outside to check on her, leaving my laptop open in the process and inadvertently treating my friend to the bone-chilling soundtrack of books and knick-knacks falling off my windowsill and crashing to the floor. When the tremors finally subsided after what felt like an eternity but probably was really only a couple of minutes, I went back into the house to assess the damage — there was none. I suppose we got off lucky because we live in a house rather than an earthquake-retrofitted high rise that is designed to sway with the movement of the ground.

As I headed cautiously up the stairs, my phone picked up wifi again and my twitter app went crazy with people asking whether I was okay and warning me that there was a tsunami quickly approaching the northern seaboard. I didn't have time to grasp the seriousness of the situation because just then, the second round of shaking began and I ran downstairs again to stand with my housemates. Though we had never discussed it before, the same thought was running through all our heads: We're riding this through together. And so we stood outside our gates until the shaking stopped and my housemates calmed down enough to go back inside. We would remain downstairs together late into the night, talking about whatever we could to distract us from the constant shaking — products of the incessant aftershock and the jishin-yoi that came with them —while half-listening to NHK in the background.

I found myself checking Twitter obsessively. I don't think I've ever refreshed it so many times in a day. Since the phone networks were down, the site became one of the ways I kept tabs on my friends and checked to see whether they were okay. I don't think it ever dawned on me just how large of a role Twitter would take in the next few days as Tokyoites began to see and comprehend the full extent of the situation. As someone who can read and speak Japanese passably but not natively, I hardly had the patience to weed through the sites that we were being told to refer to for information about the rolling blackouts that would be implemented — not that they were much help anyway since they didn't stick to schedule — or the train schedule changes that would be implemented in what turned out to be a sometimes-futile attempt to prevent said blackouts.

After a dinner of whatever we could scrounge up from the depths of our cabinets, a bit of freaking out about whether we actually had flashlights in the house and Skype calls home, sometime in the early hours of morning, I went up to my bedroom and attempted to sleep. Attempted should be the key word there, because with each and every bump or creak in the house, I found myself on edge, waiting for nature's Godot. I'm still waiting.