The Earthquake, Temples, and Spring at SFC | Naoyuki Agawa (Vice-President in charge of Shonan Fujisawa Campus)

2011.04.21

Chulalongkorn University, founded in Bangkok at the end of the 19th century under a royal charter, is the most venerable university in Thailand. In early March, an international conference was held there, gathering university representatives from the Pacific Rim region. On the morning of the final day, in a hotel conference room, each university reported on its recent activities. The Vice-Chancellor of the University of Auckland, New Zealand, spoke of his experience with the major earthquake that had recently struck Christchurch and expressed his gratitude for the support from various countries. Just after noon, all programs concluded. I returned to my room for a moment, packed my bags, checked out, and then had lunch with the conference participants before bidding them farewell.

This was my first visit to Thailand. Having been in meetings indoors the whole time, I had not yet taken a single step outside. There was plenty of time until my late-night flight to Tokyo. I decided to walk around the city alone. I got a map from the hotel, exchanged some currency at a bank, rode the elevated railway, and got off at a station by the river. The waters of the Chao Phraya River spread out before my eyes.

This river, which flows through the center of Bangkok, is frequented by all sorts of vessels. Barges laden with cargo, small tankers, naval vessels, tourist boats, and the commuter water taxis known as the "Chao Phraya Express," used by locals. The day before, someone from Chulalongkorn University had told me that the water taxis were very cheap, and that you could hop on anywhere and ride for as long as you liked. I was determined to ride one. I bought an all-day pass at the ticket window and stood on the pier. Before long, a boat resembling a slightly narrower version of the Sumida River water bus approached from downriver. A young crewman walked back and forth along the gunwale, blowing a whistle to signal. The boat brought its starboard side to the pier and went into reverse, spewing fuel-smelling smoke from its exhaust. The crewman quickly looped a mooring rope around a bollard to secure the vessel. Passengers disembarked, and as we new passengers boarded, the boat immediately left the pier and moved to the middle of the river.

Though it was still March, the temperature was 30 degrees Celsius. I had worked up a sweat walking through the city, but on the deck of the speeding water taxi, the river breeze was cool. I saw lovely hotels and shopping centers along the river. Colorful buildings in pink, red, and blue. The compact Royal Thai Navy headquarters. Parks. Large portraits of the King hanging here and there. Temples with peculiar roofs. The city was lush with greenery and overflowing with flowers.

And so, for the rest of that afternoon, I transferred between water taxis about five times, visiting two temples along the river, Wat Pho and Wat Arun, traveling up the river, across the river, and down the river. At Wat Arun, I gazed at the river from the top of a stupa. All kinds of people rode the boats, chatting, laughing, and disembarking at various piers. The Thai people I spoke with were all kind; when I thanked them for giving me directions, they would place their palms together in front of their chests and smile back, saying, "khàawp khun khráp" (thank you). At the entrance to a temple, a dog was sleeping soundly on its back with its belly exposed, and the Buddha statues sat or reclined with serene expressions. In front of the large Buddha at Wat Pho, I mimicked the Zazen posture and closed my eyes for a while. A gentle breeze blew through the spacious hall where locals were offering their own prayers.

I traveled quite a way upriver, then turned back, passed under several bridges, and finally returned to the pier where I had started. I boarded the elevated railway again and made my way through the evening crowds toward the hotel. On a street corner, I happened to run into one of the conference participants, who said, "The earthquake in Japan is terrible, isn't it?" "An earthquake? Was there another one?" I thought vaguely. I took the elevator up to the lobby floor, and when the doors opened, I saw my colleagues from Tohoku University, still in their suits and ties, speaking intently into their mobile phones. For a moment I wondered if they hadn't gone sightseeing anywhere, but then I immediately realized, "Ah, this is because of the earthquake." They told me that the Tohoku region was in a terrible state. They all looked anxious. They said they couldn't get in touch with people. On the television screen, footage of a giant tsunami was playing. It was then that I first recognized the gravity of the situation.

The great earthquake had struck several hours earlier, while I was having lunch. As the tsunami subsequently surged, claiming thousands of lives and leaving tens of thousands homeless, I, completely unaware, was leisurely transferring between water taxis and touring temples in a relaxed state of mind. When I called my home in Yokohama, my wife told me she was safe but had been terrified by the violent shaking. "You're never around when it counts, are you?" That night, my plane departed from Bangkok as scheduled, and I returned to Haneda the next morning. Several people who had spent the night at the airport were still lying in the arrivals lobby.

For about a month after that, although I was not in Japan at the moment of the great earthquake, my experience was no different from that of my colleagues, acquaintances, and friends around me: worrying about aftershocks, concerned about radiation, thinking of the victims, fearing power outages, and walking through darkened streets with the lights turned off. At the university, we were busy responding for some time. We confirmed the safety of our students, canceled the graduation ceremony, and postponed the entrance ceremony. We revised our class schedules, cared for international students, and replied to inquiries from overseas. Even at Keio, far from the disaster area, the impact was significant.

Another half-month passed, and I visited SFC on the last Wednesday of March. It was my third visit since the earthquake. After attending an executive meeting, I stayed on campus and spoke with many people. SFC, which had suffered partial building damage, had tens of thousands of books fall to the floor in the Media Center, and endured prolonged power outages immediately after the earthquake, was beginning to regain some calm. Though cold days had persisted until a few days prior, this day was warm, with the soft sunlight of early spring pouring down.

Having a little free time, I decided to check on my office and walked toward the Kappa Building across the deserted campus. Beneath a clear blue sky, birds were singing and the buds on the trees were swelling. As I passed in front of the Media Center, I looked ahead and saw two students, a man and a woman, standing at attention and facing each other in front of the bust of Yukichi Fukuzawa. What were they doing? As I got closer, I understood. The male student was about to present the female student with her diploma.

"Diploma

Ms. SFC-ko

Having completed the curriculum of the Faculty of Policy Management as stipulated in the Keio University University Regulations,

this certifies that you have graduated from this university, and we hereby confer the degree of Bachelor of Arts in Policy Management.

March 10, 2011

Atsushi Seike, President, Keio University

Jiro Kokuryo, Dean, Faculty of Policy Management, Keio University"

After reading the words on the diploma, he held it out, and she accepted it reverently, saying, "Thank you." I was the only one in attendance. I clapped and said, "Congratulations. It's a shame the graduation ceremony was canceled." They replied with a smile, "But the internet broadcast was very good."

A person loses so much in a lifetime. Youth never returns, and dear friends eventually depart. On rare occasions, as with this great earthquake disaster, we can even lose an immense amount on the same day, at the same time. A family member who was healthy and laughing just moments before is gone in an instant. A precious home is gone. How painful it must be for the hundreds of thousands of people affected by the disaster. We, too, who are far from the disaster area, have certainly lost something in this earthquake.

But people also share much. We even share the experience of losing something precious. We can share it. There has likely never been a time when all Japanese people have shared sorrow and pain as they have with this great earthquake. And not just the Japanese. People in Thailand, people in America, people all over the world shared it with us. For the students graduating this spring, for whom a great earthquake struck just before their graduation and who had no ceremony, that very fact will surely become a shared, precious memory and bond throughout their long lives to come. And from that shared painful memory, hope and energy will surely spring forth. In the New Testament's "Epistle to the Romans," there is a passage that says, "suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope."

By chance, I encountered the two young people holding their own small diploma ceremony in front of the bust of Yukichi Fukuzawa, and I, who was not in Japan during the earthquake, was able to share a small part of their memory. And I fondly recalled the Bangkok river I had traveled up and down by boat, unaware of the earthquake, and the serene faces of the various Buddha statues I saw at Wat Pho on that afternoon, which now feels so long ago. Ever since, in my mind, this great disaster, the river and temples of Bangkok, and the spring at SFC have been mysteriously intertwined.

(Date of publication: 2011/04/21)