Chapter 1 Earthquake

Earthquake (jishin)

End of autumn –

an old woman carrying in her arms

sheafs of cut rice.

banshu ya

robā no tenaru

inaho kana

What you learn when you are very young, you will remember all your life. When I was still just a baby, I learned a great lesson from my grandmother. It happened during one of the worst disasters in our history.

The Japanese say there are four great terrors in life: jishin (earthquake), hi (fire), kaminari (thunder), and chichi (father). Of these, earthquake is dai-ichi no, number one. Japan is a land of earthquakes. Many of our mountains are active volcanoes, including Fuji-san, which last blew up in 1707, covering Tōkyō with ash. Japan gets about a thousand earthquakes a year, many of them in the Kantō region. A major earthquake happens in this area about every sixty years. On the first day of September 1923, Kantō Daishinsai, a Great Earthquake, measuring 8.2 on the Richter scale, struck the Kantō plain, including the port cities of Yokohama and Tōkyō, my hometown.

I was just a toddler, so I do not remember much of what happened, but my grandmother told the story of that momentous event many times.

It was very hot that day, with strong southerly gusts of wind blowing from a typhoon offshore. Summers were always hot and humid on the coastal plain, so houses were constructed to be light and airy. Our family kaku was a large two-story house with thick wooden posts and beams supporting a kawabuki roof thatched with miscanthus reeds. The thick thatch provided insulation from the summer sun. Between the widely spaced posts there were sliding screens made of wood and paper, white paper shōji on the outside and decorated paper fusuma partitioning the rooms inside. The formal kyakuma rooms on the sunny south side, reserved for meeting important visitors, were closed. But all the other screens throughout the house had been pushed aside to allow the breeze to blow freely through the house. This was our air-conditioning.

All over the city the midday meal was being prepared over charcoal fires. In our house the cook was preparing the meal on the big earthen kamado stoves. Even though the kitchen was on the north end, the cool, dark side of the house, it was quite hot standing over the glowing coals. Next to the rice chest there was a vase filled with fresh pine branches, a traditional offering to Kojin, the god of fire. If Kojin was not properly respected, this wild god might become angry and burn the house down. In a land of active volcanoes, earthquakes and houses made of wood and paper, fire is dai-ni no, the second greatest terror in life.

Inside one of the family rooms, my grandmother and mother were waiting for the meal to be served. They were sitting in the traditional seiza style, with legs folded under, on zabuton cushions placed on the thick tatami mats that covered the floor. They were stitching together a small quilt for the baby my mother was expecting, while I played with a small rice-filled silk ball made from pieces of my grandmother’s baby kimono.

Suddenly there was a violent shaking. In less than half a minute our world turned upside down. The solid earth beneath the house heaved upward like a quilt being shaken and we were all tossed around like rice-filled silk balls.

Just as suddenly, the earth stopped moving. That first shock wave was so strong that everything in the house was smashed to the ground. Fortunately, the thick timber posts and beams did not fall down.

As soon as the shaking stopped, my grandmother dashed to the kitchen to make sure the hot coals had not set the house on fire and she gave orders to put out the fires. Then she told everyone to grab their bedding and run outside into the garden, all the servants as well as the university students who lived in the ryō, the dormitory attached to the back of our house. It was not safe to stay inside. The aftershocks might still collapse the beams or the roof might catch fire from windblown sparks. Already fires had started in the neighboring houses and it was getting very hot.

On the altar in the family altar room there was a taraka-hako, a valuable treasure box made of black lacquer with gold metal trim on its double doors. Inside this box there was a zushi, a small carved sandalwood container, and inside this container there was a tiny sandalwood zō of Shō Kannon, our family deity. That box was the first thing Grandmother saved.

Grandmother directed the servants to haul the rice from the storehouse. The thick walls of the kura were made of white plastered clay designed to protect the building from fire. But Grandmother wanted to make sure our main source of food was completely safe. She told the servants to throw the bamboo bundles of rice into the well. It was a big well, about 1.5 meters across and 50 meters deep, lined with concrete. Even if the water got hot enough to boil, it would still protect the rice from burning up.

The whole city with its closely packed wooden houses caught fire within seconds. Tall columns of black smoke and flames rose everywhere. We lived on the edge of the city but it was still not safe to stay there. Grandmother directed the servants to take essential household goods and personal belongings and pile them on a daihachiguruma, a long cart with poles for pulling. I was tied on top and the servants hauled the cart. Grandmother and my parents ran alongside. We ran away from the burning city into the trees. We ran for several hours.

Many other people also ran away from the city, carrying whatever they could. The earth kept heaving for several hours. People on foot were thrown to the ground each time. Everyone tried to watch out for cracks, but there was a lot of dust, ashes and a strange acrid smoke that choked the air and made it difficult to see.

We fled to a hill called Asukayama, about ten kilometers from our house, where there was a big park. Many people camped out on that hill and watched the blazing hono-o engulf the city.

Over the next five days there were nearly a thousand after shocks. The shock waves, especially the first big one, collapsed the numerous wooden buildings, killing the people inside. 
But the greatest destruction and loss of life was caused by fire. We call fire, Edo no Hana, flowers of Edo, the old name for Tōkyō, because there have been so many disastrous fires in our city. This time, gas in broken gas lines ignited by charcoal fires caused the greatest conflagration. A typhoon wind whipped the flames into many separate firestorms that swept through the crowded city. Water lines broke, making it impossible to stop the inferno, which raged for two days. At least 140,000 people died.

We stayed on Asukayama hill for several days until the fires died down. When we came back we saw more big cracks in the ground, over a meter wide. It was very dangerous to walk around. People were afraid that if they fell into those cracks they would not be able to get out. The cracks were deep and sometimes the aftershocks closed them up without warning.

Most of the houses had burned to the ground, everything was gone. Our house was one of the few that had not burned. It sat in the middle of 2,000 tsubo of land, about 2.5 acres. Because our house was surrounded by a lot of land, it did not catch fire from the neighboring houses. It was kiseki-teki na, a miracle due to the blessings of Kannon-sama. Many people who had lost their homes took refuge on our land. Some of them were our neighbors.

Grandmother instructed the servants to take the amado, the heavy wooden storm doors, off the house to put over the cracks, with thick tatami on top, so people could sit on them. I remember how strange it was to see them sitting on tatami outside. Inside the house we are always careful to walk on tatami only in our split-toes tabi socks, so as not to damage or soil the delicate plaited straw mats.

The refugees had lost everything. They had nothing to eat. Grandmother had the rice that had been thrown into the well hauled up. It was wet but safe. She had it boiled and gave the taki dashi to the refugees. When the weather was not raining, they sat on the tatami on top of the shutters to eat their boiled rice. The homeless bomei-sha were very grateful for food and a place to sleep, even if it was outside.

Whenever I heard my grandmother tell the story about rescuing the rice and then giving it away to the people who did not have any, I thought my family did a great service. I feel happy that I grew up in such a family. From a very early age I learned the importance of jihi, helping others.

Preface

Preface (jobun)

At the ancient temple of Butsuryu-ji,

amongst the autumn beauty

of colorful changing leaves,

I slept

one night.

kaibyaku no

hiraki tamaishi

butsuryu-ji

hitoyo yadorinu

momijiba no aki

I first met Goto Hiroko in the spring of the year 2000. For me, it was an auspicious beginning to the new millennium. But then, according to the Japanese calendar, it was simply another year in the reign of the current emperor, nothing special. A group of us, adults and youngsters, had come all the way from a little town in Iowa, nestled in the middle of corn fields that had once been tall-grass prairie, to a little village in Japan, nestled at the base of Fuji-san, the most sacred mountain in Japan. We stayed one week as guests of Goto-sensei’s International Cultural Academy.

Sensei’s house sits about halfway up a hill of pines overlooking Fuji-san. We slept on futons on the floor all over the house. We were crowded but happy. With Sensei’s smiles and quick attention to our every need, we felt like “mother is at home.” Brenda Wright, who hails from New Zealand but has taught English in Tōkyō for many years, translated for us, effortlessly switching from Japanese to English, then English to Japanese, and once, to our amusement, from English to English! Sensei’s students, a close knit group of women who have studied calligraphy and tea ceremony with her for some 30 years, came every night and cooked delicious meals for us.

One evening as we sat around the living room, on chairs or on the floor, Sensei suddenly brought out a small album of her childhood photos. In one she appears to be 4 or 5, dressed in a sailor suit with short hair, one arm resting on the table and a take-charge look on her face. In another she looks like a teenager, striding down the street in a short dress, bobbed hair framing a striking face. She laughed and covered up the photo, perhaps embarrassed by her bold stride, the same one she still had at 79 (80 by Japanese reckoning). That evening Sensei also showed us a small book with a delicate painting of white clover blossoms and calligraphy on the cover. It was the diary of her pilgrimage from Kyōto to Tōkyō to pray for those who died in the war. She hoped some day it would be translated and published in English. Looking at those old photos and hearing little bits about her spiritual journey, I wanted to know more.

Four years passed. I visited Sensei once more, this time with my three sons, and Sensei visited my sons’ home in Chicago and my home in Fairfield. Between times we kept in touch by email. The idea of translating her little book kept nudging me. However, I wanted to do more. I wanted to record the whole story of Sensei’s remarkable life. That would require an extended visit to interview her at length. Sensei speaks English but not fluently, so we would have to work through a translator. Naturally I thought of Brenda, so I asked her to ask Sensei for permission to record her memoirs. At first Sensei modestly demurred. The Japanese say, deru kui wa utareru, “the nail that sticks up gets hammered down.” Publishing a memoir would certainly involve standing out. But finally she agreed because she felt it was her duty to pass on to the younger generation the stories from the old days.

We picked a month early in 2005 for the project, when Sensei and Brenda would both be on break from classes. This time I traveled alone to Tōkyō, where Brenda met me and then we took the bus to Fujiyoshida. Sensei’s youngest son, Sumio-san, who was now living with his mother, met us at the station in his taxi and drove us up the snow-covered mountain to the familiar house. Brenda, who still had tutorial students in Tōkyō during the week, could only translate on weekends, so four other volunteers took time from their busy work schedules to help with the translation. In the evenings Sumio-san translated for his mother as we sat around the kitchen table after dinner. And sometimes, when Sensei and I were alone, huddled together with our legs under the quilt covering the heated kotatsu table, she would pull out an electronic translator and her huge dictionary and translate for herself.

It was not easy. I remember the very first day. I began by asking a simple question. Being an American, I was probably too direct, a very un-Japanese quality. The translator, who was, after all, not a professional translator, was nervous. Brenda murmured assurances in Japanese and I smiled encouragement. What followed appeared to be a delicate feeling out of nuances of language and meaning. Meanwhile, I sat, hands poised over my keyboard, and waited and waited and waited. First the translator translated the question, which took many more words than I expected. Sensei responded, at length. Then the translator and Sensei talked back and forth for awhile, apparently clarifying her answer. Finally he turned to me and spoke in English, but I had difficulty understanding his accent. I looked helplessly across the table at Brenda. As a teacher of English as a second language, she understands how Japanese pronounce English, so she repeated his words for me. Two hours and less than one page!

There were other difficulties. Memories are sometimes pleasant, sometimes not. And Sensei is a traditional, reserved Japanese woman. At one point, talking about young men going off to war, lovers separated, Sensei got teary and said, “I do not want to talk about it.” Sometimes Sensei got a bit grumpy when I asked questions that were too personal, or when we went back over the translation and she had to correct some mistakes again. With so many different translators, inevitably there were differences in the translation. Sorting them out took a lot of time and patience. Thank goodness for the dish of sweets Sensei always kept on the table! Translating her poetry was the most difficult of all. Poetry is so subtle and Japanese poetic language has many nuances. Following one of these sessions, Sensei told us a “ghost story” from one of her adventures. Then she said, “I love stories. It is a lot easier than translating poetry. I can just burble along.”

Between sessions we played. Some days Sensei gave me calligraphy lessons, making many corrections in bright orange on my attempts. One time her calligraphy students treated us to a traditional Japanese meal at a restaurant. After sitting at a low table with legs folded under for awhile, they all urged me to “be comfortable.” Another time Sensei took me to a public bath, where we sat outside in a pool of steaming water surrounded by snow, with a view of Fuji-san.

In working with the interview material, I felt that the best way to organize it was somewhat chronological and somewhat topical. I have tried to retain the formal style and tone of Sensei’s words, as much as is possible in English. However, I have also included explanatory material to help English readers understand the background of some of the events as well as historical and cultural references.

In this translation, Japanese names are given in Japanese order, with family name first. Dates are sometimes given according to the Japanese system, based on the ruling emperor, as well as according to the Western system. The first occurrence of a Japanese word, except proper nouns, is italicized. Long syllables are transcribed with a macron: ā, ī, ō, ū. Long syllables are pronounced as a single unbroken sound twice the length of the corresponding short syllable. Omitting long vowel sounds can often totally alter the meaning of the word. For example, o-ba-san means “aunt,” whereas o-bā-san means “grandmother.” Double consonants should be pronounced separately and distinctly. For example, Kannon should be pronounced with a slight pause between the double consonants: Kan-non. The suffix -sensei (Goto-sensei) following a name indicates a teacher, -san shows respect to the person (e.g., Ama-san) addressed, -sama (e.g., Kannon-sama) shows extreme respect to the one addressed.

From the beginning Sensei wanted to go where the famous haikai poet Bashō had traveled. I see many parallels in their spiritual journeys. They were both in their forty-sixth year when they began their pilgrimage. Bashō began his journey in Edo in 1689 with his disciple Sora, walking in pilgrim garb, visiting temples and making poetry on the spur of the moment. He called the book he wrote about his journey, Oku-no-hosomichi, Oku’s Narrow Path. Oku is the region north and west of Edo (old Tōkyō), which was quite remote in those days, a difficult path. Goto’s route was not exactly the same but it had its difficulties. Their journey went north, then west to the coast and south to Lake Biwa, near Kyōto. Her journey began in Kyōto and she followed back roads as much as possible, north and east to Tōkyō. She was also walking, visiting temples and making poetry as it arises spontaneously, although she was traveling alone and not dressed as a pilgrim. Their journey took over five months whereas hers is took less than a month. Bashō kept a journal of his travels as she did, an ancient tradition among pilgrims. Both used a pen-name. His family name was Matsuo but he took the name Bashō, which means plantain tree, from a humble tree growing outside his hermit’s hut. Goto was given the name Suigetsu, moon water, by her tea ceremony master. Bashō was a pilgrim of nature; Goto was a pilgrim of peace.

Goto-sensei’s roots are deep and mysterious, but now, thanks to the blessings of Kannon-sama, some have come to light.

Acknowledgments

Acknowledgments (shaji)

I came to Gichu-ji—

many hi carved in rocks all around.

One deep orange persimmon left on the tree.

gichu-ji ya

hi ni kakomarete

kaki akashi

First and foremost I would like to offer my deep appreciation to Goto Hiroko for her friendship and willingness to share her personal life with me.

I am greatly indebted to the following volunteers in Japan who helped with the interviews and translation. Without them Goto’s life story would not have made its way into English. Many thanks to Brenda Wright, for the poetry translation, clarifying questions, explanations of the nuances of Japanese culture and religion, careful attention to diction and grammar and copy editing; Watanabe Kazufumi, for his attention to the proper style of expression and his historical knowledge; Joon Ou, for his knowledge of American English, deep understanding of Japanese culture and religion and editing the spelling and usage of Japanese words; Takahashi Hatsue and Yagi Shiomi, for their untiring work, patience and hospitality; Goto Sumio, for help with his mother’s family tree and being available between official sessions.

Special thanks are due to Kihara-shin, a famous artist from Fukuoka, who painted the exquisite paintings of Kannon-sama, the grasshopper and the white bush clover.        

In addition I wish to extend my warmest thanks to my husband John for his support, which made this adventure possible.

Carole Lee Connet

Dedication

Dedication (sasageru)

To those who have died in war and those who have lived for peace.

Title

One Time, One Meeting

Memoirs of a Japanese Peace Pilgrim

Goto Hiroko and Carole Connet

© Carole Connet 2007

Synopsis

Synopsis

Ichi go ichi e is an old Japanese saying that means “one time, one meeting.” This memoir brings to light those brief but powerful encounters that change lives. It is also a universal tale of compassion arising from catastrophe and peace growing out of war. Hiroko Goto twice survived the almost total destruction of her hometown, Tokyo. As a young child, her grandmother’s generosity to the survivors of the Great Earthquake of 1923 deeply influenced her. As a young mother, having survived the Allied bombings during the Pacific War, she dedicated the rest of her life to peace. After the war, she made a Buddhist pilgrimage of 600 kilometers on foot to pray for the war dead. Now in her eighties, she continues to engage in relief work, international exchanges, and ecological projects. Goto’s exquisite calligraphy of her poems further enhances the story of a woman gifted with great art and great heart.

About the Authors

Born in 1921 in Shanghai, Hiroko Goto grew up in Tokyo. She has lived through the Great Earthquake of 1923, early loss of her mother, and wartime bombings. A devout Buddhist and master of tea ceremony and traditional calligraphy, she lives in the country near Oshino-mura, a village near Fuji-san, where she teaches and promotes humanitarian causes.

Born in 1944 in St. Louis, Carole Lee Connet holds M. A. degrees in history and professional writing. Previous publications include feature articles and a collection of poetry. A long-time practitioner of Transcendental Meditation, she lives in the country near the town of Fairfield, Iowa, where she writes, photographs, paints, teaches and participates in world peace programs.

The co-authors met in 2000, during one of several cross-cultural exchanges between Fairfield and Oshino. When Goto expressed a desire to have the diary she wrote during her peace pilgrimage translated into English, Connet was moved to fulfill this wish. The two stayed in touch during several more visits back and forth. Despite the language barrier, they found they were able to communicate on the level of the heart. Finally in 2004, Connet spent a month living with Goto during the translation of the diary and the memoirs of her entire life.