I never thought at my age, that I would be in this spot. But this is where I am at 74, in the taiikukan (体育館 gymnasium) of a middle school in Miyagi Prefecture, now known as a hinanjo (避難所 evacuation center) for people who lost their homes to the earthquake and tsunami that hit the region on March 11. I lived in a little house that I shared with my son, his wife and my two grandchildren. Arigataikotoni (ありがたいことに thankfully), this house was spared but it's been drenched in a meter of sea water. My son travels every day from the hinanjo to pump out the mud and clean up the mess. The grandchildren have relocated to my daughter's house in another prefecture, and it's hard to say when we can live together as a family again.

I'm not complaining. It's a miracle that none of my family are missing. But let me say this: life in a hinanjo is like living an slow death. It's not just the discomfort and stress of sleeping among 200 other people in a gymnasium. In the mornings, we elderly are awake at 4 a.m. but jitai suru (辞退する refrain from) using any amenities until 8 a.m. We want the working people to get their turn first. And at night, we try to go to bed as soon as possible, so others can do the same. Still, the darkness is overwhelming and the yoruno jikan (よるの時間 night hours) are so long. It's hard to get to sleep when people are constantly coughing and sobbing, and coming and going by one's pillow. In the mornings we're left feeling drained.

But far worse is the feeling that I'm a burden, and have nothing whatever to do. At home, there was always some chore to be done. Now I can hardly hear myself think and the hinanjo meals that consist mainly of cold convenience-store foodstuffs aren't exactly beneficial to my seishin (精神 spirit) or my shoukaki-kei (消化器系 digestive system).