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.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Karma and the Number 3
Please excuse me. I've taken some time off for myself and have been absent. I've given myself some time to recover and relax. I needed this. Feeling more like myself again, I now have more to say. More than ever, perhaps. It's with this in mind that I say today's post will be long. It's also important.
May 8th marked the anniversary of the 41st birthday of a woman I never met. It also marked the 5th anniversary, if I can call it that, of her murder. I worked with her family for years as their interpreter as they struggled through the US justice system that found and imprisoned the man that murdered their daughter, niece, cousin and friend. To date, it is still one of the most difficult assignments I've ever worked on. To date, the family still grieves.
As May 8th neared I thought more and more about this woman. What would she be like if she were still alive? What would she be doing? All this was brought full circle as I stood and listened to a mother talk about the work she needed done on her house.
This elderly woman was at home drying her hair when her husband called out to her that he saw black water in front of their home. By then the earthquake had shaken their home but as they were both safe, she went on with her day. They live far enough inland, several kilometers from the Port of Ofunato, that they were among the many who never expected a tsunami to ever come to their neighborhood, street, yard and home.
She ran into the room where her husband lay. He no longer has use of his legs so she propped him up the best she could and ran out of the house, away from the street towards the back of their home thinking she would drive them to safety. Outside she saw two neighbors and they helped her get her husband into the car. They too jumped in. Then they saw the second wave. Their homes are 20 meters away from the river bank. The river runs a good 10 plus meters below the bank. The tsunami pushed up the river several kilometers inland and overflowed down the bank and onto the street. The four people in the car now had two waves to escape from. One wave was in front of their home, and the overflow from the other direction. The two waves collided and all four were soon engulfed in water as they sat in the car. Their car wouldn't start. Other cars nearby without occupants began to float away. The weight of the four in the elder couple's car kept their car in place. They sat there as the car filled with water.
After 30 minutes or so, the waves started to recede. Once the water went down from the floorboard, the elderly woman (whom I keep calling "mother") started the car and drove to high ground. I listen to this thinking how lucky she, her husband and her two neighbors are. Then came the real story.
"We just spent two million yen on this house," she says.
"Oh, really? What did you have done?" I ask, thinking the question is innocent enough to be safe as well as respectfully curious.
"We used to have two stories," mother replies. My gut tells me I have just made a huge error in asking for details.
"We had a fire last August," she continues and chokes up. I curse to myself.
"Our daughter committed suicide and the upstairs caught fire." She's openly crying now. I am silently verbally berating myself every way I know how.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper.
"We spent another one million yen on her funeral." Of course they did.
"I was so looking forward to spring," she says. Of course she was. Her daughter's suicide, the long winter and the spring that follows. Who woulnd't look forward to new buds and rebirth?
"And then this. I just don't believe it." She cries again.
It's at this point I'm reminded of two things simultaneously. One is a Japanese saying "What happens twice, happens three time." I equate it to the saying I've heard in the US, "things happen in threes." There's also another Japanese saying which literally translated goes "the third time makes you honest" which I equate to "third time's a charm."
I'm standing in front of mother looking for the right words. The idea of good and bad happening in threes is tempting to say but one misstep and I could end up implying there's another hardship yet to come.
While I'm trying to think of what to say I'm reminded of something this woman's father (the one who was murdered) said to me once. One night when he had enjoyed his beer, he told me his life story. The short version is, it wasn't pretty. That life dealt him a continual series of blows and nasty surprises is simply insulting in how it understates the facts. As I listen to mother tell me about her life over the past 50 days, moving from shelter to shelter, cleaning things on her own, her aching back, I hear the voice of the father who buried his daughter over and over in my head.
"My ancestors must have done something pretty awful for me to have this kind of a life," he said to me. That night as he drank he repeated those words over and over, sometimes blaming his ancestors, sometimes hoping his life's difficulties were atonement enough. Does mother, this woman here telling me about the two waves colliding into her car, who also buried her daughter, who rebuilt her home only to have it damaged again seven months later, does she believe she's atoning for her ancestors' sins, too?
This day, hearing this story from mother, I cried with her. Enough with keeping up my professional facade. I cried for mother standing in front of me. I cried for her daughter who took her own life. I cried for the woman I never met who was murdered. I cried for her father. I cried for those who are trapped by karma. I cried over stupid Japanese and English sayings about the "power of three", none of which were helpful in alleviating mother's pain. I cried for the fact I simply can no longer seem to find the right words when they are most needed. I can only sincerely hope my tears with mother that day were enough to convey how very, very, very sorry I am for what she had to endure.
May 8th marked the anniversary of the 41st birthday of a woman I never met. It also marked the 5th anniversary, if I can call it that, of her murder. I worked with her family for years as their interpreter as they struggled through the US justice system that found and imprisoned the man that murdered their daughter, niece, cousin and friend. To date, it is still one of the most difficult assignments I've ever worked on. To date, the family still grieves.
As May 8th neared I thought more and more about this woman. What would she be like if she were still alive? What would she be doing? All this was brought full circle as I stood and listened to a mother talk about the work she needed done on her house.
This elderly woman was at home drying her hair when her husband called out to her that he saw black water in front of their home. By then the earthquake had shaken their home but as they were both safe, she went on with her day. They live far enough inland, several kilometers from the Port of Ofunato, that they were among the many who never expected a tsunami to ever come to their neighborhood, street, yard and home.
She ran into the room where her husband lay. He no longer has use of his legs so she propped him up the best she could and ran out of the house, away from the street towards the back of their home thinking she would drive them to safety. Outside she saw two neighbors and they helped her get her husband into the car. They too jumped in. Then they saw the second wave. Their homes are 20 meters away from the river bank. The river runs a good 10 plus meters below the bank. The tsunami pushed up the river several kilometers inland and overflowed down the bank and onto the street. The four people in the car now had two waves to escape from. One wave was in front of their home, and the overflow from the other direction. The two waves collided and all four were soon engulfed in water as they sat in the car. Their car wouldn't start. Other cars nearby without occupants began to float away. The weight of the four in the elder couple's car kept their car in place. They sat there as the car filled with water.
After 30 minutes or so, the waves started to recede. Once the water went down from the floorboard, the elderly woman (whom I keep calling "mother") started the car and drove to high ground. I listen to this thinking how lucky she, her husband and her two neighbors are. Then came the real story.
"We just spent two million yen on this house," she says.
"Oh, really? What did you have done?" I ask, thinking the question is innocent enough to be safe as well as respectfully curious.
"We used to have two stories," mother replies. My gut tells me I have just made a huge error in asking for details.
"We had a fire last August," she continues and chokes up. I curse to myself.
"Our daughter committed suicide and the upstairs caught fire." She's openly crying now. I am silently verbally berating myself every way I know how.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper.
"We spent another one million yen on her funeral." Of course they did.
"I was so looking forward to spring," she says. Of course she was. Her daughter's suicide, the long winter and the spring that follows. Who woulnd't look forward to new buds and rebirth?
"And then this. I just don't believe it." She cries again.
It's at this point I'm reminded of two things simultaneously. One is a Japanese saying "What happens twice, happens three time." I equate it to the saying I've heard in the US, "things happen in threes." There's also another Japanese saying which literally translated goes "the third time makes you honest" which I equate to "third time's a charm."
I'm standing in front of mother looking for the right words. The idea of good and bad happening in threes is tempting to say but one misstep and I could end up implying there's another hardship yet to come.
While I'm trying to think of what to say I'm reminded of something this woman's father (the one who was murdered) said to me once. One night when he had enjoyed his beer, he told me his life story. The short version is, it wasn't pretty. That life dealt him a continual series of blows and nasty surprises is simply insulting in how it understates the facts. As I listen to mother tell me about her life over the past 50 days, moving from shelter to shelter, cleaning things on her own, her aching back, I hear the voice of the father who buried his daughter over and over in my head.
"My ancestors must have done something pretty awful for me to have this kind of a life," he said to me. That night as he drank he repeated those words over and over, sometimes blaming his ancestors, sometimes hoping his life's difficulties were atonement enough. Does mother, this woman here telling me about the two waves colliding into her car, who also buried her daughter, who rebuilt her home only to have it damaged again seven months later, does she believe she's atoning for her ancestors' sins, too?
This day, hearing this story from mother, I cried with her. Enough with keeping up my professional facade. I cried for mother standing in front of me. I cried for her daughter who took her own life. I cried for the woman I never met who was murdered. I cried for her father. I cried for those who are trapped by karma. I cried over stupid Japanese and English sayings about the "power of three", none of which were helpful in alleviating mother's pain. I cried for the fact I simply can no longer seem to find the right words when they are most needed. I can only sincerely hope my tears with mother that day were enough to convey how very, very, very sorry I am for what she had to endure.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Waiting for Sister
It was a small job. They hadn't gone into their home yet since the tsunami partly out of fear, partly out of dread. They wanted some help in looking through their things--not valuables necessarily. My take on this was they wanted company. They didn't want to be alone when they went back home for the first time.
I stood in the doorway trying to stay out of the way of the younger ones hauling things down the steep and cluttered staircase. I glance at the floor of the genkan (the front entry way) totally covered with muck and gunk except for one pair of shoes. I take a photo just because they seem so out of place. They're polished, clean and placed neatly in the corner as if they're waiting to be worn.
More youngsters go up and down the stairs. More stuff gets taken outside into the road for the family to sort through. I continue to stand in the doorway just sort of watching, making sure I'm not needed, fielding calls on the dreaded "white phone." (More on the white phone in another posting.)
There are three women who are from this house. A youngish woman and her teenage daughter and the mother. Three generations of women. I talk to the young woman making sure we're doing what she wants, who suggests we talk to "mother" and together we talk to the matron of the family to get her input.
Mother sees me, bows, thanks me profusely and we exchange gratitude, compliments and general goodwill. Out of the blue she changes the subject. "See these shoes?" she says. I nod. "They belong to my oldest daughter." She chokes up. I get it now. They're missing a family member.
The younger daughter, the one I'd been speaking to earlier says, "Mother said to put these shoes out for sister. We're waiting for her. These shoes are so she'll know to come home."
What do I say to this? Seriously. What do I say to this? I just looked down, fought back tears (and failed) and then when I finally looked back up, nodded to mother.
I stood in the doorway trying to stay out of the way of the younger ones hauling things down the steep and cluttered staircase. I glance at the floor of the genkan (the front entry way) totally covered with muck and gunk except for one pair of shoes. I take a photo just because they seem so out of place. They're polished, clean and placed neatly in the corner as if they're waiting to be worn.
More youngsters go up and down the stairs. More stuff gets taken outside into the road for the family to sort through. I continue to stand in the doorway just sort of watching, making sure I'm not needed, fielding calls on the dreaded "white phone." (More on the white phone in another posting.)
There are three women who are from this house. A youngish woman and her teenage daughter and the mother. Three generations of women. I talk to the young woman making sure we're doing what she wants, who suggests we talk to "mother" and together we talk to the matron of the family to get her input.
Mother sees me, bows, thanks me profusely and we exchange gratitude, compliments and general goodwill. Out of the blue she changes the subject. "See these shoes?" she says. I nod. "They belong to my oldest daughter." She chokes up. I get it now. They're missing a family member.
The younger daughter, the one I'd been speaking to earlier says, "Mother said to put these shoes out for sister. We're waiting for her. These shoes are so she'll know to come home."
What do I say to this? Seriously. What do I say to this? I just looked down, fought back tears (and failed) and then when I finally looked back up, nodded to mother.
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