Facing death

I was twice chastised by my graduate school professors for asking this question.  One said I was being melodramatic and the other said I had the luxury of pondering this question because I was a "person of privilege."  Utter horseshit.  I could not disagree with them more.  It's an important question and I stand by it.  We should all ask ourselves this:  would you knowingly go to your death to save someone important to you?

The two of us sat overlooking the Tokyo skyline.  I asked him where he was when the tsunami hit.  We had worked together for seven weeks but I had yet to bring this up.  It's not an easy question to put out into the open.  I'm asking him to recount a potentially traumatic memory.

"I was home.  First came the earthquake, right?  After the shaking stopped I went out to check out the house.  I didn't see any damage so I decided to ride around on my bike and check on friends in the area."  He stops here to take a drag on his cigarette.  I don't say anything.  He gets to set the pace here.  Not me.
"I got to the bridge.  I've never seen traffic like that.  The roads were jammed with cars in every direction.  People were barely moving."  He pauses again.
"I ran into a friend of mine on the bridge.  He told me there was a tsunami warning on the PA system from City Hall but neither of us really thought much of it.  They weren't saying a tsunami was 'imminent' or anything like that.  Just that there was a tsunami warning out there."  He swigs his beer.
"In hindsight I don't know why they didn't do a better job of warning people.  You know?  I mean an earthquake that big is bound to cause a whopper of a tsunami, right?  Think about it.  A good half of the people on that bridge stuck in traffic were driving towards the tsunami."  He shakes his head and I can't tell if he's angry at the officials that didn't do a better job of warning people or if he's wondering the same thing I am.  Would I knowingly drive into a tsunami?
"Then I saw this friend of mine," he continues.  "He was sitting in his car stuck in traffic."
"Did you talk to him?"  I finally speak.
"Yeah," he says.  "I asked him where he was going.  He said he was going home to check on his family."  We look at each other.
"Where did he live?" I ask.
"Down by the bay."  Neither of us speak for awhile.  He lights another cigarette and I sit with him not saying anything.
"He died," he says.  "I don't know if he ever found his family or helped them get away.  All I know is, he died."

What I really want to know is whether this friend knew he was driving towards his death.  This is a question I feel I can't ask.   I feel I'm violating his friend's privacy, or encroaching on the moments leading up to his death.  I make myself come back to the conversation at hand.  I need to speak.

I know "I'm sorry" doesn't cut it.  There's really nothing I can say that will make either of us but especially him feel any better.
"Were you close?" I finally ask.
"Not really."
"Oh."  Good one.  How do I follow up with that?  I don't dare say "it's not as bad then" or even worse, "that's good."  Like I said, there's really nothing good or right or appropriate to say.

I decide to switch gears.
"Would you do something potentially dangerous to help a loved one if you knew there was a chance you could get hurt," and I pause, "or die?" I ask.
"You mean, would I have driven home knowing a tsunami was on the way?"
"Yeah, I guess that's what I mean."
He pauses.  "I think I would," and then asks, "would you?"
"I would, too," I say.  "There are people I would die for."  At this, he looks up.
"Really?"
"Really."
"You've thought about it?"
"I have."
"Huh."  We're silent again.

Whether his friend knew he was driving to his death or even the possibility of death we will obviously never know.  I find myself frustrated.  I want to know.  I have to live with not knowing.  And then it hits me:  I'm alive.  I get to live and if that means I don't get to have the answer to this question, so be it.  I'm still alive.