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When I first heard about the recent earthquake in Nepal, I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach. Having lived through the 2011 Japanese earthquake, I remember the terror of feeling the ground lurch wildly beneath my feet, of knowing that death is near. I remember the shock and the gratitude of surviving, the guilt at learning that so many others did not, the helplessness when all we survivors had to offer one another was a shaky smile and a hand to hold. And when the nuclear tragedy unfolded, and I fled to the safety of Hong Kong, those feelings only intensified, although eventually they nearly disappeared. But when the dead are your countrymen, your loved ones and friends, when you would never consider leaving, the disaster changes you forever.
“I have always felt like an outsider in my own country, like I don’t really belong here,” my sweet, soft-spoken Japanese teacher had confided in me several times in the weeks before the tragic 9.0 earthquake on March 11th, 2011. “Everyone is so controlled, so serious… always holding in their emotions. I want to be open, to laugh, to cry… to express myself.”
The first time I met The Good Cop—as my husband called the easier of my two Japanese teachers, the one I didn’t need to work as hard for—I was endeared to her immediately. She told me that the little nihongo I remembered from decades ago was perfect. And when I showed her a picture of my beloved vizsla and asked if she had a pet, her eyes filled with tears. “I used to have a dog, but he lives here now,” she said, patting her heart with her hand.
In 2011, the Japanese people seemed so much happier and less reserved than when I had lived in Tokyo back in 1984-85, but only in comparison. Japan was and still is a land of rigid rules: a place where people are expected to conform, to fit in, where despite their admiration for many Western symbols of individuality—such as the American cowboy—self expression is not as encouraged as you might expect in a democracy.
On the surface, The Bad Cop, as my husband called the harder of my two teachers, seemed much more in keeping with the stereotypically polite, stern Japanese we remembered from our long ago sojourn in The Land of the Rising Sun. In the beginning, she was all business—assigning piles of homework, quizzing me relentlessly, frowning when she told me my Japanese was “not so good.” While I didn’t look forward to her weekly lessons nearly as much as The Good Cop’s, I certainly was better prepared for them, even though she never seemed very pleased with my efforts.
At times, The Bad Cop was so stern, I wondered if she bought into the age-old rivalry between Japan and Korea. Did she realize that I was half Korean, or did she think of me as just another American? When she finally asked about my heritage, I had no idea how she would react.
“I thought you must have some Korean blood! That’s why you look pretty good!” The Bad Cop was suddenly smiling.
Was that a compliment? I had never heard her say anything remotely positive to me before. Is she making fun of me? I didn’t think so, since I had never known the Japanese to employ sarcasm.
“Did you know we Japanese housewives love Korean soap opera stars?” she asked.
I conceded that I had heard this curious fact.
“I used to have a poster of my favorite Korean movie star on the wall over my bed. I took it down not long ago, but it was there for almost 14 years.” She nodded eagerly. “He’s really cute!” she added, covering her mouth with her hand as she laughed.
I resisted the urge to ask her how her husband and grown children felt about the poster, asking her instead why she took it down.
“I’m not that young anymore, and I started to feel a little foolish,” she admitted, looking away. “But even though I took his picture down, I’m saving all the money I earn from teaching Japanese so I can go to Seoul with my friends to watch his soap opera being filmed.” I had heard about these group trips and couldn’t believe I actually knew someone who was going on one.
I wanted to share her story with The Good Cop, who had once admitted she was a little intimidated by The Bad Cop. Maybe if the former saw this side of the latter, they could become friends, even though The Bad Cop had once told me she thought The Good Cop was a little too “soft” in her ways.
But before I could figure out a way to get them together, Japan was rocked by the devastating 9.0 earthquake and tsunami that left roughly 20,000 people dead or missing and triggered the ongoing nuclear disaster at Fukushima. Although my husband and I managed to evacuate to Hong Kong for nearly six weeks, I stayed in e-mail contact with my teachers until we returned.
Once back in Tokyo, we had barely a month before we were scheduled to go home to the States to prepare for our next posting in Beijing. It’s now or never, I thought, when my teachers invited me for a “good-bye” lunch with the two of them.
I was a little nervous about how my two very different teachers would interact after such an emotionally scarring event. Would each find the other’s reaction to the earthquake somehow distasteful? After all they had been through, I didn’t want my good-bye lunch to cause them any more pain.
From the moment we sat down together, all we talked about was the earthquake; to speak of anything else was unthinkable. We shared our stories of the shaking, the initial terror, the aftershocks. I was touched by how concerned they were that I had had such a horrific experience so far from home. They were genuinely happy that my husband and I were in Hong Kong when the risk of radiation leaks was the greatest. They downplayed the crippling fear that they must have felt for their country, their families, and themselves, and they shared their deep sadness at the loss of so many precious lives. They also expressed their surprise at the outpouring of sympathy from around the world, their gratitude for the aid from other countries.
I related the stories I had heard of the bravery and selflessness of the Japanese people following the tragedies. They listened solemnly as I told them I would never forget their awesome heroism and kindness and that I believed we could all learn from them.
“I am so proud of my people for their strength, their courage, and their bravery. I feel so proud and grateful to be Japanese,” The Good Cop declared quietly as the tears welled up in her dark eyes. “The earthquake has changed me forever.”
“I feel just the same way,” declared The Bad Cop, brushing away tears of her own as she reached out to clasp her new friend’s hand.
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It’s been roughly a month since the initial earthquake struck Nepal, killing roughly 9,000 people, and two weeks since a second serious quake struck the already jittery population. The need for aid continues as Nepal’s people pull together and the country struggles to rebuild.
