Where the Dead Pause, and the Japanese Say Goodbye: A Journey (38 page)

In Minamisanriku, waves from the 2011 tsunami reached fifty-two feet in height, and they destroyed over 95 percent of the town and over 50 percent of the population. The water demolished nearly every single building in the tsunami plain, except for three. A government building was stripped of its walls, so only its twisted red metal ribs remained, along with the ruins of the fire department, which became a shrine for dead emergency workers. Off-duty firemen still visited often to pay their respects. Off in the distance, there was a hospital where 74 out of 109 patients had been killed. Those who lived had managed to make it to the roof.

Minamisanriku is also famous for the story of Endo Miki, a twenty-five-year-old city worker who sacrificed her life to continue broadcasting the message that the tsunami was coming, and warning her fellow townspeople to flee. Among the lives she saved was that of her mother, who, in one of the city’s safe evacuation zones, listened to her daughter’s voice until Endo stopped speaking completely.

There are several temporary housing communities for former residents of Minamisanriku. The one I visited that day was in a peaceful little valley, just over the hill from the remains of the town. Once again, there were identical, rectangular houses standing side
by side, with laundry racks to the back. Inside the community building, which was much smaller than the one in Ishinomaki, a dozen elderly women were already hard at work making rosaries and folding origami flowers. My son was a momentary distraction, as he chattered in Japanese, before he ran outside to play with another boy who lived in the community. A couple of kindhearted Pure Land priests who had driven up from Chiba Prefecture offered to oversee an impromptu game of soccer.

This group of survivors had already been through Kaneta’s Jiz
-making class, and they were now receiving their finished statues. Kaneta pulled out a small Jiz
—no more than two inches high—and placed it on the table next to a grandmother holding a six-month-old baby. “There you go,” he said, gesturing to the clay figurine. “There is Hina.” Then he turned to me and made a quick introduction.

The name “Hina” most often means “sunshine” when it is given to a Japanese girl. Hina had been just a baby when the tsunami struck. Her grandmother had been taking care of her, and she immediately strapped the baby to her back, headed for the hills, and literally hiked over the mountains to safety. Fortunately, Hina’s mother and father had been out of town the day of the tsunami, and both were safe. But the family lost its home, and was forced to move to the temporary housing unit.

Just over a year ago, there was good news. Hina would have a baby brother. The entire community was excited. So many people had died at Minamisanriku, and the impending arrival of a new addition gave everyone a feeling of hope. In November of 2012, Hina posed for her “Shichi Go San” portrait, which commemorated a special Shint
rite in which girls aged three and seven, and boys aged five, receive blessings at the local Shint
shrine and dress up in traditional outfits.

In December, Hina’s baby brother was born. About a week later, Hina had a fever—nothing too high, but certainly high enough that her parents and her grandmother kept a close eye on her condition. And then she died. It was a freak incident. Hina had contracted a respiratory illness caused by the RS virus. Children frequently get infected with this virus around the age of two, but their bodies are usually able to fight it off. For reasons unknown to doctors, Hina was unable to do so. An autopsy was performed at the hospital, and doctors initially assumed that little Hina died of MRSA, the antibiotic-resistant staph bacteria. In the end, it was simply a virus.

Kaneta explained this to me while Hina’s grandmother cried silently, as she rocked her baby grandson, whom I will call Kasugi. “I’m so very sorry,” I said, chastising myself for not having looked up more phrases to say to the grieving.

“Now you take this Jiz
,” Kaneta said to the grandmother, “and you put it on the altar for Hina. And then we are going to have to let her go.”

The grandmother nodded. She had big round liquid eyes, like a deer, and gave herself over completely to crying. Beside her sat a family friend who occasionally took over care of the baby.

The day proceeded quietly. Some of the women tried to bring out another of the community’s boys to play with Ewan, but the boy would not come out. “PTSD,” they all said to me; the term is the same in Japanese as it is in English. Kaneta briskly went in and out of houses to check on people. Ewan continued playing outside with a new friend and with the priests, who were now folding paper airplanes with oversized origami paper. One of the ladies gave me a little charm in the shape of a princess, made out of
chirimen
, or scrap fabric. “For your boy,” she said. “For protection. We make these things here when we are bored.”

Finally I asked Ewan if he wanted to go for a walk with me. As
we were strolling through an alley separating two rows of houses, a voice called out to us. It was Hina’s grandmother. “Hello,” she said wistfully. “Won’t you come in and play with Hina?”

I hesitated only for a moment. “Yes, of course,” I said. “We’d be delighted.” I took Ewan’s hand and explained we would be going inside the nice lady’s house to play. We worked our way over to the entrance, took off our shoes, and went inside.

A
T THE END
of February in Japan, you start to see a special kind of doll displayed in the windows of department stores and traditional shops and homes. These dolls are called
hina
, and they are part of the tradition of honoring Girls’ Day on March 3. The dolls—figures of the emperor, empress, and their attendants—are placed on a stage covered with red cloth, and they are dressed in elaborate and multilayered silk robes that mimic those worn in the Heian era (794–1185
AD
). Even today, the reigning emperor and empress of Japan dress in a similar fashion when posing for formal portraits. The most elaborate of the
hina
dolls include miniature tangerine trees, cherry blossoms, and diamond-shaped rice cakes, foods traditionally associated with late winter and early spring.

For most people, the dolls are a chance to honor a treasured daughter, and to admire a family heirloom, as many of the doll collections can be several hundred years old and passed down from mother to daughter. After March 3, the dolls are swiftly put away for another year; it is considered bad luck to leave them out.

Some parts of Japan still remember what the dolls were actually supposed to do. The month of March could be very cold and potentially dangerous for the young and vulnerable. So the old Japanese used to make straw dolls, and people prayed for the bad luck and evil spirits to attack the dolls instead of their children. The straw dolls were later sent down the river, taking everything evil with
them. The modern-day custom of displaying
hina
dolls originates in the tradition of creating evil-attracting dolls by hand.

Some parts of Japan, like tradition-preserving Ky
t
and the city of Tottori, which is three hundred miles southwest of T
ky
, on the Japan Sea side of Honsh
, still practice the doll-floating tradition, called
hina-nagashi
or
nagashi-bina
. In Ky
t
, the ritual is formalized, with actors dressed in Heian-period costumes sending elaborate straw dolls down the Kamigamo river. In Tottori, the feel is more rustic, and local children and visitors do the floating themselves. It is cheery to be outside in the cold and to see young children, brightly dressed in colorful kimonos, sending homemade dolls down the river.