Preface
I was watching NHK news a few days after the March 11 earthquake
and tsunami. The coverage of the tragic and unfolding events in Japan was
unprecedented – there had never been so much technology available to record a
natural disaster of this magnitude. The raw footage was shocking and the
24-hour media coverage of the aftermath was mesmerizing. Like so many, I was
glued to the television – I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t.
An older man was shown walking through the rubble of one of
the devastated towns. The camera, of course, was following, waiting for that
one shot or one quote that would make the evening news. He walked in a steady
fashion; strong Japanese legs carried him through the mud and over the remnants
of his neighborhood. We learned that he was a volunteer firefighter who had
left his family at home when the tsunami warnings came over the sirens. It was
his job to secure the first line of defense near the harbor.
He stopped suddenly and turned towards a house that had been
flipped on its side and dumped near a gray stone wall. The reporter shoved a
microphone in his face and asked him a question off-camera. Tears welled up in
his eyes and his face wrinkled with emotion. With a cracked voice he said,
“There is nothing to say.”
The moment hit me so hard. I was stunned and shocked all
over again by the enormity of the tragedy. I could feel this man's despair
through his silence.
I thought, “Yes, there is nothing that can be said in such a
situation,” but somehow, all of us who were not there have to say something.
Each one of us has to decide what we can say and how loud and far that voice
can go. We have to speak for those who cannot.
The following short story is my message of hope – the words
are my voice.
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