in a secluded valley, we see an upside-down truck, its chassis twisted, lying submerged in mud. Beyond is the entrance to the temple, Ikoji.
The village name, Shichigahama, means “seven beaches,”though here, there is no view of the sea. Instead, a line of scalloped hills loops across the horizon, a supposed protection from tsunamis.
The temple is low and wide and is situated between the lane and the forest, not on a hill as many temples are. We poke our heads in, looking for the abbot. Instead, the half-rebuilt hall is full of carpenters laying down wide pine planks for the floor. “The abbot is not there, but his wife is in the kindergarten,” one of them says.
His wife, Mrs. Watanabe, greets us warmly and invites us into the brightly lit, modern school for young children. Tall and big-boned, she’s talkative and funny. She explains that just before the tsunami, a complete renovation of the temple had been completed by master carpenters from Akita, a town on the west coast renowned for its artisans. “It was scheduled to reopen on March 16. But the Wave took it away. Those same carpenters have come back!” she says, smiling at the irony. “We start all over again.”
“This temple was supposed to be an evacuation center!” she exclaims. “Can you believe it?” She shows us where water came to the ceiling. “But we always practiced for tsunamis with the three-, four-, and five-year-olds, and thought we were well-prepared, and would be safe.
“No one expected a wave to come here. As soon as the earthquake was over, people from the neighborhood arrived at the temple door. Some ran, some came by car, and the big bell, the
bonsho
, began ringing all by itself!”
A piece of land can be a knife, slicing water in half. “The wave came from two directions,” the abbot’s wife says. She moves around as she talks, gesturing with her hands dramatically. “The hills on the other side of the rice fields split the water. A wave came in, flowing past the kindergarten and temple. We had fourteen children that day.
“There are two kinds of tsunami warnings and the first one had sounded. Water was everywhere. We put all the children and teachers inside the bus. Then the second warning sounded, meaning another bigger wave was coming, so the staff drove the children up the hill.
“I waited for the woman who had gone back to her house, and sat, ready, in the car. She didn’t appear. My husband came running and said he decided that we must go without her. By then about fifty people had joined us.
“At first the car wouldn’t start [
laughter
]. Then finally it did, and as I started up the hill, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the second wave come right toward us. It was big, about seventeen or eighteen meters. It came over the hill and mixed with the water that was already here. It slammed against the fence and went through the temple and the school. Water hit the
bonsho
and it began ringing again. It was really snowing hard. We had closed the doors and windows of the temple, and the heavy shutters, but water and mud made its way in and covered everything. We saw the tatami from the meditation hall floating out in the rice fields.
“We stayed there overnight. The little hill had become an island in a sea of wreckage. Water covered everything below. An oil tank exploded nearby and there was a bright orange light. More explosions and a helicopter flew over, but didn’t see us. My husband went back down the hill to forage for food and blankets.
“Inside the kindergarten he found the freezer lying on its side with the door facing up. It was sleeping,” she says, getting up to pantomime how her husband opened the freezer. “Meanwhile, a friend of his who had studied with him at Daitokuji got through to some firemen and told them that there were fifty children and adults stranded on the mountain here. Incredibly, rescue workers arrived the next day. It was the children they were worried about. The
The village name, Shichigahama, means “seven beaches,”though here, there is no view of the sea. Instead, a line of scalloped hills loops across the horizon, a supposed protection from tsunamis.
The temple is low and wide and is situated between the lane and the forest, not on a hill as many temples are. We poke our heads in, looking for the abbot. Instead, the half-rebuilt hall is full of carpenters laying down wide pine planks for the floor. “The abbot is not there, but his wife is in the kindergarten,” one of them says.
His wife, Mrs. Watanabe, greets us warmly and invites us into the brightly lit, modern school for young children. Tall and big-boned, she’s talkative and funny. She explains that just before the tsunami, a complete renovation of the temple had been completed by master carpenters from Akita, a town on the west coast renowned for its artisans. “It was scheduled to reopen on March 16. But the Wave took it away. Those same carpenters have come back!” she says, smiling at the irony. “We start all over again.”
“This temple was supposed to be an evacuation center!” she exclaims. “Can you believe it?” She shows us where water came to the ceiling. “But we always practiced for tsunamis with the three-, four-, and five-year-olds, and thought we were well-prepared, and would be safe.
“No one expected a wave to come here. As soon as the earthquake was over, people from the neighborhood arrived at the temple door. Some ran, some came by car, and the big bell, the
bonsho
, began ringing all by itself!”
A piece of land can be a knife, slicing water in half. “The wave came from two directions,” the abbot’s wife says. She moves around as she talks, gesturing with her hands dramatically. “The hills on the other side of the rice fields split the water. A wave came in, flowing past the kindergarten and temple. We had fourteen children that day.
“There are two kinds of tsunami warnings and the first one had sounded. Water was everywhere. We put all the children and teachers inside the bus. Then the second warning sounded, meaning another bigger wave was coming, so the staff drove the children up the hill.
“I waited for the woman who had gone back to her house, and sat, ready, in the car. She didn’t appear. My husband came running and said he decided that we must go without her. By then about fifty people had joined us.
“At first the car wouldn’t start [
laughter
]. Then finally it did, and as I started up the hill, I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the second wave come right toward us. It was big, about seventeen or eighteen meters. It came over the hill and mixed with the water that was already here. It slammed against the fence and went through the temple and the school. Water hit the
bonsho
and it began ringing again. It was really snowing hard. We had closed the doors and windows of the temple, and the heavy shutters, but water and mud made its way in and covered everything. We saw the tatami from the meditation hall floating out in the rice fields.
“We stayed there overnight. The little hill had become an island in a sea of wreckage. Water covered everything below. An oil tank exploded nearby and there was a bright orange light. More explosions and a helicopter flew over, but didn’t see us. My husband went back down the hill to forage for food and blankets.
“Inside the kindergarten he found the freezer lying on its side with the door facing up. It was sleeping,” she says, getting up to pantomime how her husband opened the freezer. “Meanwhile, a friend of his who had studied with him at Daitokuji got through to some firemen and told them that there were fifty children and adults stranded on the mountain here. Incredibly, rescue workers arrived the next day. It was the children they were worried about. The
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