A Personal Reflection on the 14th Anniversary of the Great East Japan Earthquake (6/100)

Today marks the 14th anniversary of the Great East Japan Earthquake. At the time, I was six months pregnant and living in Sendai.

That day, my son and I were at a pool for a trial lesson of a kiddie swimming class, which was scheduled to start at 2:45 PM. I had helped my son change into his bathing suit, handed him over to the instructors, and taken a seat in the observation area on the second floor. Just as the children were about to walk down the stairs to the pool on the ground floor, the earthquake struck. At first, it felt like any other tremor, but suddenly, a violent jolt threw us off balance. I could no longer stand upright. I crouched down on my knees, only to be tossed around the floor on all fours.

I knew my son was just around the corner, but I wasn't able to get to him. The shaking was so intense that pieces of the ceiling came crashing down. The woman next to me clung to her young daughter, screaming, "I don't want to die!" I don’t know why, but I reached over and hugged her tightly. I’m not sure if I was trying to comfort her or reassure myself. In that moment, I truly believed those might be my last minutes on Earth.

As soon as the shaking paused for a brief moment, I sprang to my feet and rushed to find my son. There he was, sitting in his bathing suit with a back float secured around his waist. Just as I grabbed him and his clothes, another violent tremor hit. This time, I was able to hold him close. It went on like that for what felt like an eternity—each time the shaking stopped, I would try to dress my son, only to be interrupted by another tremor, making us fear for our lives. I remember sitting in the hallway with my back against the wall when someone with TV service on their phone told me that the earthquake had registered a seismic intensity of 7.

Once the tremors subsided, a staff member instructed us to evacuate the building. Fortunately, no one was injured. But as soon as we stepped outside, the grim reality set in. Car alarms blared, block fences had collapsed, and sirens from ambulances echoed throughout the city. It was sheer luck that I had walked to the pool that day instead of driving. Since the electricity was cut, all the traffic lights had stopped working, making it impossible to drive home safely. Holding my son’s hand, we began walking home on foot.

Along the way, we reached a railroad crossing, but the warning signals were still blaring, as the earthquake had struck just as a train was approaching. The signal continued wailing endlessly, and I wasn’t sure if it was safe to cross. However, if we didn’t cross there, it would mean an extra hour of walking—something I was in no condition to do. As I hesitated, an elderly man approached, lifted the crossing barrier, and reassured us that the train wouldn’t be moving after such a strong quake. Trusting his words, my son and I hurried across the tracks and continued home.

We lived on the 14th floor of an apartment complex, and with the elevators out of service, we had no choice but to climb 14 flights of stairs. Let me remind you—I was six months pregnant. It felt like an eternity, resting every 15 steps or so, but we finally made it home. Since our building was earthquake-resistant, we only suffered minor damage. A cupboard had fallen over, some belongings had been scattered across the floor, and our goldfish’s aquarium had lost half of its water, soaking some family photographs. But compared to the devastation my friends endured, our losses were trivial.

I received many concerned messages from friends and family. Although I was grateful, I was also anxious, knowing I had no idea when the electricity would be restored and when I could charge my phone. My iPhone was my only source of information, and I was worried about the battery running out. I found a pay phone not far from home and made a phone call to my mother. The sound of her voice was comforting. It was the first time I had broken down in tears since the earthquake. Just the day before, I had found out that I was having another baby boy, and now I was wondering if our lives would be back to normal by the time he was born. Thankfully, since we lived near the city center, our electricity was restored on the third day.

 A family who lived on the second floor invited several families with young children—especially those from higher floors—to stay at their place. We pooled our food supplies and "camped out" in their living room. It was a relief for the children to have playmates, but for some of us, particularly those whose husbands were either still unaccounted for or unable to return due to disaster relief duties, it was difficult to watch other families remain together.

My father-in-law drove from Akita to bring us to his home. Along the way, we picked up my husband’s coworker’s family, who also had relatives in Akita. Six of us, plus my father-in-law, were literally crammed into the small sedan.

I had expected to feel some relief upon arriving at my in-laws' home, but instead, I found myself disheartened. People there were complaining about supermarket shortages—even as stores remained relatively stocked with groceries. Knowing that my friends back in Sendai were struggling just to buy rice made my heart sink. My son was so stressed that I heard him say "earthquake" in his sleep. After so long, I was grateful to finally bathe, but I couldn’t stay there any longer. After ten days, I asked my husband to take us back to Sendai.

Water had been restored while I was away, and just two days after returning to Sendai, a worker from Niigata Gas came to restore our gas. I broke down in tears and thanked him profusely. Wanting to help others, I invited a friend over — someone whose gas hadn’t yet been restored — so they could take a shower. I knew just how comforting it was to finally bathe again.

After that, life slowly began to return to normal for us. Unfortunately, I couldn’t say the same for many others.

So much more happened in those days, but this post is already long enough. Even now, 14 years later, the memories remain vivid.