Ten years after a tsunami killed more than 18,000 people on Japan’s northeastern coast, Noriyuki Suzuki returned to the place where his daughter was taken to death.
Mai was 12 when she died in one of the most harrowing stories of the March 2011 earthquake and tsunami. She was at Okawa elementary school on the day of what became known as the triple disaster. Instead of leading the children to a nearby hill, out of harm’s way, the teachers decided it was safe to stay.
“She was small for her age, but she still loved playing mini basketball,” he says of Mai. “She always had a smile on her face and was kind to her younger sister. She had so many friends. “
Suzuki was working when the city of Ishinomaki was shaken by a magnitude 9.0 earthquake on the afternoon of March 11. After checking on his colleagues, he returned home, convinced that Mai, whose school was on a hillside 4 km from the coast, was in no danger.
But rumors began to circulate that the tsunami had spread farther inland than anyone could have imagined; that entire neighborhoods have been turned into a muddy desert; and that something unspeakable had happened in Okawa.
“There was so much information that it was difficult to know what to believe,” says Suzuki. “I heard that the area near the school was isolated by the tsunami, but everything was fine. But as the hours passed, we realized that the tsunami had destroyed the entire city. “
In all, 74 children drowned, along with 10 teachers and staff tasked with ensuring their safety in an earthquake-prone region that lives with the constant threat of tsunamis. In Ishinomaki, 3,062 people died and 415 are still missing.
After the quake subsided, the teachers decided to take the 108 students from the school to the playground, instead of climbing a nearby mountain, where they would almost certainly be protected from the waves.
The children remained out of school for more than 40 minutes before their teachers, finally aware that a tsunami was approaching, guided them towards an elevated area near a river. It was there, at 3:37 pm, that the sea reached them. A decade later, the bodies of four of the children have yet to be found.
With local roads impassable due to earthquake damage and tsunami debris, Suzuki arrived at the school by boat two days later. Mai’s body was recovered from the mud that night. “I was taken to see her and I couldn’t speak,” he says. “The cruelty of it was too much to accept. Seeing your own son, lifeless in front of you … there was sadness, but also anger.”
He begged to be able to take Mai to his family, but was told by the police that she would have to be sent to an improvised morgue.
“I couldn’t bear the thought of her being there … it was so cold. I took off my sweater and put it on. She was still wearing her glasses, so I took them off and took them with me. When my family saw me coming home with her glasses in hand, they knew what had happened ”.
The Okawa families’ pain worsened when it became clear that the children’s deaths could have been prevented. At the time of the disaster, the city risk map did not identify the school as being in a tsunami risk area.
In 2014, the families of 23 children filed a lawsuit against the city of Ishinomaki and Miyagi Prefecture, demanding ¥ 2.3 billion (£ 15.3 million) for damages. Five years later, the Supreme Court awarded them ¥ 1.44 billion, recognizing that the tragedy could have been averted if local authorities updated their disaster prevention measures.
Previous court decisions had agreed with bereaved families that the students would have every chance of surviving if they had been directed to the nearby mountain.
“It seems wrong to describe this as a victory and it was a difficult decision for the education authorities,” said Suzuki, who supported the parents but did not participate in the legal action. “The board of education was instructed to designate evacuation sites, but did nothing. Ultimately, the lawsuit was about protecting the lives of children, so in that regard, the court made the right decision. ”
The Okawa tragedy would further divide the local community. With accelerated reconstruction in other parts of the city, the school remained untouched, becoming a place of pilgrimage for bereaved families who prayed and left flowers on an improvised altar on the school grounds.
Some parents said they couldn’t even look at the school and asked for it to be demolished; others, including Suzuki, believed that their symbolism could be used to spare future generations the fate of their own children.
In 2016, the city decided to preserve the school and, in the coming weeks, it will “reopen” as a memorial, with a space where visitors can pay their respects.
“I always thought we should keep the school as it is,” says Suzuki, head of a group of Okawa “storytellers” – people connected to the school who guide visitors and share the story of the children they once learned and played in their schools. classrooms.
“We cleaned inside … we didn’t want to leave it as it was because of the children, although visitors can only see it from the outside,” he says. “I know there are people who never want to see the school again, but once the decision was made to maintain it, we had to make sure that we honor their memories properly.”
When the people of Japan are silent at 2:46 pm on Thursday, Suzuki and his wife – whose parents, niece and nephew also died – and their youngest daughter will remember the girl with the radiant smile that they believe has never really left them.
“It has been a long and painful 10 years, but our feelings have not changed,” he says. “Mai is still the daughter we love. Her name is heard all the time in our house, not only in times of sadness, but also when we remember what kind of person she was, the things and places she loved. She is always by our side. “