Amya Miller continues to chronicle the day to day struggles of the people and relief efforts in the earthquake and tsunami ravaged areas in Japan...
I have been in Ofunato and Rikuzentakata for a week now and have found myself numb driving past and walking through the immense devastation. I have been told by the relief workers I am working with that shutting down my emotions is a necessary part of doing my job and while I have struggled with the idea of having to go “robotic” in order to function, I’ve done just that. Until yesterday.
This, I believe, was the first time in my over twenty years of interpreting that I broke down and cried in front of those for whom I was interpreting. The combination of humiliation, pain, anger and frustration is a pretty nasty soup of emotions.
Evidently I'm human. Evidently I can't go a whole week shutting out my emotions and being strictly professional. Evidently, all this comes at a price.
I arrived in Tokyo last night. It’s changed. The streets are darker, lights are out all over the place (rolling blackouts). Food is available but on my morning walk to the local Lawson to pick up water and milk tea, I noticed maybe a third of the shelves were still empty.
There are also significantly fewer gaijins. More on that some other day.
I’m finding myself facing a whole new kind of interpreting experience. I’m heading up north to Ohfunato today for two months. What am I doing? I can’t honestly say. I have been told relief/disaster work is very fluid and organic and things “just sort of evolve” and when I say I don’t understand what that means, I’m met with “you’ll understand once you’re there.”
I’m working with a US-based relief organization that has done this kind of work all over the world. I tried explaining Japan is anything but fluid and organic but they say they know what they’re doing and are prepared to use the “gaijin card” to get things done if necessary. I’m prepared to insert myself into this, whatever that means and whatever form it ends up taking, but….
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