Japanese Relieve Pain With Phone Calls to Lost Ones
OTSUCHI, Japan (Reuters) -- In a garden on a hill, under the wide boughs of a cherry tree, a white phone booth glistens in the early spring light.
Inside, Kazuyoshi Sasaki carefully dials his late wife Miwako’s cellphone number, bending his large frame and cradling the handset.
He explains how he searched for her for days after the devastating earthquake and tsunami a decade ago, visiting evacuation centers and makeshift morgues, returning at night to the rubble of their home.
"It all happened in an instant, I can’t forget it even now,” he says, weeping. "I sent you a message telling you where I was, but you didn’t check it.”
"When I came back to the house and looked up at the sky, there were thousands of stars, it was like looking at a jewel box,” the 67-year old says. "I cried and cried and knew then that so many people must have died.”
Sasaki’s wife was one of nearly 20,000 people in northeastern Japan killed by the disaster that struck on March 11, 2011.
Many survivors say the unconnected phone line in the town of Otsuchi helps them keep in touch with their loved ones and gives them some solace as they grapple with their grief.
Earlier in the day, Sachiko Okawa calls Toichiro, her late husband to whom she was married for 44 years. She asks him what he has been doing with his days since he was swept away by the tsunami a decade ago.
"I’m lonely,” she says finally, her voice cracking, and asks Toichiro to watch over their family. "Bye for now, I’ll be back soon.”
Okawa says she sometimes feels like she can hear Toichiro on the other end of the line. "It makes me feel a little better.”
The 76-year-old, who learned about the hillside garden from friends, often brings her two grandsons here so they can also talk to their grandfather.
"Grandpa, it’s been 10 years already and I’m going to be in middle school soon,” says Daina, Okawa’s 12-year-old grandson, as they all squeeze into the phone box. "There’s this new virus that’s killing lots of people and that’s why we’re wearing masks. But we’re all doing well.”
The phone booth was built by Itaru Sasaki, who owns the garden in Otsuchi, a town some 500 km (310 miles) northeast of Tokyo, a few months before the disaster, after he lost his cousin to cancer.
The phone now attracts thousands of visitors from all over Japan. It is not only used by tsunami survivors, but also by people who have lost relatives to sickness and suicide. Dubbed "the phone of the wind”, it recently inspired a film.
Inside, Kazuyoshi Sasaki carefully dials his late wife Miwako’s cellphone number, bending his large frame and cradling the handset.
He explains how he searched for her for days after the devastating earthquake and tsunami a decade ago, visiting evacuation centers and makeshift morgues, returning at night to the rubble of their home.
"It all happened in an instant, I can’t forget it even now,” he says, weeping. "I sent you a message telling you where I was, but you didn’t check it.”
"When I came back to the house and looked up at the sky, there were thousands of stars, it was like looking at a jewel box,” the 67-year old says. "I cried and cried and knew then that so many people must have died.”
Sasaki’s wife was one of nearly 20,000 people in northeastern Japan killed by the disaster that struck on March 11, 2011.
Many survivors say the unconnected phone line in the town of Otsuchi helps them keep in touch with their loved ones and gives them some solace as they grapple with their grief.
Earlier in the day, Sachiko Okawa calls Toichiro, her late husband to whom she was married for 44 years. She asks him what he has been doing with his days since he was swept away by the tsunami a decade ago.
"I’m lonely,” she says finally, her voice cracking, and asks Toichiro to watch over their family. "Bye for now, I’ll be back soon.”
Okawa says she sometimes feels like she can hear Toichiro on the other end of the line. "It makes me feel a little better.”
The 76-year-old, who learned about the hillside garden from friends, often brings her two grandsons here so they can also talk to their grandfather.
"Grandpa, it’s been 10 years already and I’m going to be in middle school soon,” says Daina, Okawa’s 12-year-old grandson, as they all squeeze into the phone box. "There’s this new virus that’s killing lots of people and that’s why we’re wearing masks. But we’re all doing well.”
The phone booth was built by Itaru Sasaki, who owns the garden in Otsuchi, a town some 500 km (310 miles) northeast of Tokyo, a few months before the disaster, after he lost his cousin to cancer.
The phone now attracts thousands of visitors from all over Japan. It is not only used by tsunami survivors, but also by people who have lost relatives to sickness and suicide. Dubbed "the phone of the wind”, it recently inspired a film.