“This is my destiny,” he added quietly, when asked about the
challenges of being both a father and mayor. “I hope my children
understand that.”
Rikuzentakata, a small city in Iwate prefecture, northeast Japan,
was described as being “wiped off the map” after being deluged by
the epic tsunami triggered by the Great East Japan Earthquake on March 11
last year.
One of Japan’s worst-hit cities, Rikuzentakata saw hundreds of buildings
destroyed by the tsunami, leaving behind mountainous piles of debris strewn
across the heart of the community.
Just days after the disaster last year, The Sunday Telegraph witnessed
at first-hand the scenes of devastation in Rikuzentakata, where close to
2,000 people out of the disaster’s total death toll of 19,000 are believed
to have perished. Today, the city’s landscape has changed dramatically. More
than 960,000 tonnes of debris have been cleaned up across the city and
thousands have been temporarily rehoused in 2,281 neat white box-like homes
which now dot the higher inland areas.
Like many regions across the disaster-hit northeast, the city currently has a
clean slate to rebuild and is on the brink of launching its reconstruction
efforts.
Back in the mayor’s office, Mr Toba holds “before” and “after”
images of Rikuzentakata as he lists in a heavy voice a string of statistics
engrained on his memory over the past year: “A total of 1,555 people
died, with 289 still missing, 3,803 buildings collapsed, 68 city office
workers killed, 113 temporary workers were killed at public facilities, 51
voluntary firefighters killed.”
It is noticeable that having successfully cleared away mountains of debris,
the next phase of Rikuzentakata’s recovery may soon come to fruition:
rebuilding.
“Last December, plans for the future of Rikuzentakata were endorsed by
the national government,” he said. “We received the go-ahead to
proceed, so we are now at the start line.
“Rikuzentakata has the opportunity to become a model city for the world.
We can now begin to build a new city and hope to complete it within eight
years.”
With a budget increased from the usual annual 110 billion yen (£850 million)
to 600 billion yen, plans include a significantly higher sea wall, a
national park area where the main city was once based, specially-designated
as business and commercial districts and a residential area built on
elevated ground.
Mr Toba added: “It still does not feel like it really happened. Time has
gone very quickly. Everyone may seem more normal on the surface but things
are not settled. It will take more time.”
This is something that his own two sons Kanato, 11, and 13-year-old Taiga –
along with hundreds of other children across northeast Japan who lost a
parent in the disaster – are perhaps all too aware of.
A five-minute drive away is Takata Elementary School, where the two boys were
in class when the 9.0-magnitude earthquake shook the region, causing pupils
to dive under desks and books to tumble off shelves.
The tsunami soon swept towards the school, wiping out all buildings in its
pathway.
All but seven pupils survived but most were touched by the disaster. Today,
more than 60 of the schoolchildren – like the mayor’s sons – lost one or
both parents; close to a dozen are orphaned; more than 70 per cent are
living in temporary housing and the total number of pupils has shrunk by a
quarter to around 300.
Despite the traumas of the past year, a typical end-of-the-day scene was
unfolding one recent Monday afternoon at the school, which was also visited
by The Sunday Telegraph just after the disaster last year.
Pupils carrying satchels and textbooks drifted along the artwork-lined
corridors, while a troop of girls twirled sticks during baton practice and a
clutch of youngsters stumbled on stilts in the playground.
Last year, classrooms windows framed mile after mile of tangled debris, from
the detritus-filled playground just below stretching all the way to the sea
in the distance.
Today, however, the view is dramatically different: the debris has been
collected and cleared away as part of a painstaking effort between rescue
services, locals and armies of volunteers from across Japan and overseas.
But where once there was a fully-functioning city, now in its place is a
patchwork-like expanse of brown land, dusty, flat and almost completely
empty.
Among the clutch of schoolchildren gathered in a third floor classroom
surveying the views over the empty city is the mayor’s youngest son Kanato
Toba, a quiet, smiling boy dressed in a tracksuit.
“There were cars piled up and lots of debris a year ago, but now it’s
different, it’s all cleared up,” said Kanato, who currently lives with
his father and brother at their uncle’s inland house.
“I was worried at first that things at school would be a bit different,
but actually, it’s not so different compared to before.”
But the tsunami remains a subject that the children understandably find hard
to discuss. Kanato’s face clouded over as he quietly said: “No, I don’t
talk about what happened among my friends. We don’t normally feel like
talking about it.”
His elder brother Taiga, who has since moved on to the local high school,
appeared equally hesitant: “I was impressed at how fast the rubbish was
cleared away. We’re feeling a bit more settled now but there’s no big
difference in our lives between a year ago and now.”
Back in the classroom, the smiles and laughter soon return as Kanato chats
with his best friend about their love of basketball and shared dislike of
maths, their least favourite subject.
“These children feel better when they act as though everything is normal,”
said Yuko Murakami, a 43-year-old teacher who was making wooden music boxes
with a class when the earthquake struck.
“Kanato, for example, behaves as usual, there are no changes on the
surface. But inside he is very sad, he’s just trying hard to be fine. His
brother Taiga is the same.
“We have counseling for pupils and the teachers are also learning
counselling techniques. But the children generally have a very positive way
of thinking.”
The school reopened on April 20 and despite having no running water until
June, the priority of staff has been to create a normal environment for the
troubled pupils.
But for teachers and pupils alike, it has been a difficult year. Ms Murakami
last year wept when she told The Sunday Telegraph about the trauma of
that day. Her composure slipped again as she recalled how the pupils
gathered in the playground after the earthquake, before she saw telephone
poles falling down one by one in the distance – and realised the tsunami was
approaching.
“Pupils draw power from the positivity of their teachers,” she said. “At
home, I may feel down but when I come to school, I always act well and happy.”
Kunio Kunoshita, the school principal, said: “We had no experience of
this kind of disaster before but our priority has been to give children a
positive and safe environment with a regular routine where they can forget
what happened and play with their friends.
“But I worry about what will happen to them in two or three years time. I
worry about whether they will have any hope or positive feelings about the
future of this city.”
Driving through Rikuzentakata today, it is clear the city is at a turning
point. Cranes and bulldozers surround the final clutch of destroyed
buildings still standing, while businesses are slowly reopening on higher
ground.
The local Maiya supermarket is up and running, alongside smaller shops
including a stationers, a café, convenience stores and even a noodle shop on
a converted bus.
Meanwhile, a hospital recently opened, a new road is being built and the
scaffolding will soon be removed from a new bank branch to be unveiled on
March 12.
But a post-disaster darkness lingers beneath the surface, with many residents
suffering emotionally.
“There are still many problems here,” said one psychologist from
Tokyo, travelling on the bus to Rikuzentakata where he has been carrying out
extensive voluntary counseling since the disaster.
“Our last questionnaire in December found that more than a half of
residents are suffering from Post Traumatic Shock Disorder (PTSD) or
depression.”
And beneath their smiles and small talk, every resident soon reveals a
personal tale of heartrending loss and survival.
There is Ritsuko Iwai, a petite 68-year-old diagnosed with PTSD who sits
quietly in her temporary home and describes how she almost drowned as she
scrambled up a cliff, with water up to her knees, in a bid to escape the
tsunami which claimed her home and the lives of her friends.
Hitomi Oumi, a 35-year-old city office worker who was six months pregnant at
the time, talks of seeing the “dust” from buildings being slid
forward by the tsunami before fleeing in her car, thinking that her father
was following behind. Her father did not survive but her first baby – called
Junon, meaning the “sound of happiness” – was born a month early,
after a traumatic period of being homeless, with no water or electricity and
a diet of emergency food pouches.
Following such trauma, it remains difficult for many residents to face the
future with confidence, according to Mutsuko Ozawa, 56, who runs a cattle
farm and lost her mother, sister and nephews.
“A year may have passed but it is still hard for many people to have a
clear vision of the future,” she said. “Many are worried about how
things will unfold next and how we will manage.
“The next step is prioritising building residences on higher land. People
here feel miserable, like refugees, and want their own homes again.”
At the far end of the barren disaster zone, however, is one enduring symbol of
survival: a single pine tree near the seafront, the only one of a
60,000-strong protected forest to have survived the tsunami.
The tree is dying – due to salt water in the roots – but remains a beacon of
hope for locals, with scientists and officials currently regenerating a new
generation of pines from its seedlings.
It is a timely symbol, as Rikuzentakata – and the nation – prepare to gather
and mourn those who died in memorial services on March 11, before embarking
on the next chapter of rebuilding.
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