Q&A with TOMODACHI Program Participants and TOMODACHI Alumni: Aoi Hayashi

Aoi Hayashi is an alumna of the TOMODACHI Summer 2017 SoftBank Leadership Program. She is currently studying tourism at Rikkyo University, where she hopes to become a future leader in the tourism industry. She is particularly interested in accommodations; she is exploring that interest by researching the impact that staying in extraordinary places has on people as a long-term intern at a luxury hotel and a travel agency.

In the future, she hopes to create new innovations in the tourism industry, in either the travel or accommodation sectors, and build an international network of personal connections in an environment that allows her to engage with people on a deeper level.

She first participated in the TOMODACHI Generation Global Leadership Academy 2019, a program for TOMODACHI alumni, as a senior in high school. She participated in the same program this year as a junior in university. The program, which discussed decision-making in times of crisis and sustainability, gave her the opportunity to reflect on her personal experience of the Great East Japan Earthquake as a TOMODACHI alumna from Tohoku.

This special edition of our Alumni Highlight is a firsthand account of her personal experience of the Great East Japan Earthquake. 

Trigger Warning: The following firsthand account of the Great East Japan Earthquake on March 11, 2011, contains material that may be triggering for some, including descriptions of traumatic events, injuries, and emotional trauma. We at the U.S.-Japan Council recognize that the events of March 11, 2011 impacted and continue to impact members of our audience, both here in Japan, and abroad, in a multitude of ways. We acknowledge that this material is very sensitive and may be difficult for some to consume, but would also like to remind people to never forget what happened. Still, we would like to encourage all readers to prioritize their health and well-being.

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Days 1 and 2 of the 2021 TOMODACHI Global Leadership Academy (GLA) have ended.

During the last two days, I’ve reflected on the events that occurred at 2:46 pm on March 11, 2011, more than I imagined within this environment of mutual trust that a TOMODACHI program creates as a result of the input and output [of others] and honest, deep communication.

My experience in this environment has finally allowed the fact that I have returned to TOMODACHI for the first time in a long time to really sink in.

This is a very special home and family for me. Everyone in my cohort of the sixth TOMODACHI SoftBank Leadership Program has matured and is doing their best in their own respective ways since the last time I saw their faces. Seeing them motivates me to work harder.

Moving forward, there is still a lot of work that needs to be done in preparation for the final presentation. I would like to work together with the members of my team to create something that can transcend borders.

In the ten years that have passed since March 11, 2011, there are more and more people who are unaware of what that moment was like for a child who was directly affected by the disaster.

I have realized that my role has since evolved, that I need to pass on this experience to the next generation.

Telling this story is something of a catharsis for me that will allow me to organize my thoughts. It’s likely that I have a mild panic disorder. When I try to talk about the disaster, even if I am smiling, tears leak out of my eyes of their own accord. My breathing becomes shallow and I can’t speak. Despite that, I want to communicate my experience. I would like to write about what I have experienced, thought about, and lived with for the ten years that have passed since that fateful day.

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When I was 10 years old in the 4th grade, I was just getting up from my chair to say hello on my way home. Suddenly, a TV came down from [the ceiling] above my head, and I could only desperately grab the legs of my desk in fear. At that moment, I didn’t hear screams or cries of “Help!” Rather, I have a memory of people around me sobbing and saying things like “Thank you for everything, Mom and Dad,” and “I didn’t want to die yet, I wanted to live longer.”

At that time, my dad was working at the school I attended and was going to each classroom to encourage people to evacuate. He came to my classroom and ran again, assuring me that it was fine, and telling the class to run away. The next time I saw my father was a few days later, in front of a list of names in front of a shelter where I had searched for his name many times before.

The schoolyard that remained was cracked and split in half. An old lady who lived near the school begged for help as blood flowed from her head. I couldn’t think. I could only stand there holding my friend’s hand. She never stopped crying.

Eventually, our lines started to move all at once. I didn’t know why I was running or where I was heading, but I remember seeing my classmates struggling to climb the hill in time, and desperately pushing their heavy backs.

By the time we reached the hill, it was snowing. When I found my grandfather and grandmother and tried to go home, my friend holding hands hadn’t been picked up yet. I still can’t forget her hand that wouldn’t let go of mine as she begged with me not to go or her crying figure [as I walked away]. I don’t know what happened to her after that, where she is, or what she is doing now, but I pray that she is happy.

The road we usually used to get home was covered in rubble; there was barely enough room for a car to pass. I ate the persimmon seeds that my grandmother gave me to stave off the hunger I felt. I couldn’t see my mother that day.

I couldn’t sleep that night because I was so scared. Luckily, I was able to sleep next to my grandmother that night. We were still experiencing aftershocks every few minutes. The windowpanes rattled as a result of the aftershocks.

At dawn, I heard the sound of my mother’s car outside and jumped up. My mother had returned with two teachers she knew. At that time, the town broadcast continued to play faintly in the background. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I understood that it was an emergency.

My older brother and I were loaded into my mother’s care and we headed to the shelter. I don’t know if I was asleep, but I don’t remember much. When I awoke, people in white protective clothing were walking around. It was like something out of a film. More recently, the sight of people coming out of trains wearing masks all at once in response to COVID-19 gave me intense nausea and chills. Perhaps on some unconscious level, I am remembering what happened to me that day.

When I entered the evacuation center, I was given a few thin blankets, a bottle of water for three people, and a messy rice ball. My brother split it and gave me the bigger half. Even though I’m sure he was hungry, he prioritized my well-being. Years later, he hasn’t changed.

After a while, my mother brought back black granular iodine tablets. We all swallowed them one by one, while my mother cried quietly. There was a small baby next to us. The mother also cried and crushed the medicine into a powder and gave it to her baby to drink. If you think about it, that child is already the same age that I was at the time. There was no food in the convenience stores around me. I ate chocolate that was in my mother’s car little by little.

We got into the car early the next morning to find my father. I scanned the lists of the shelters I knew over and over again. Miraculously, in the midst of listening to the acquaintances I met along the way and continuing to call my father’s cell phone that constantly failed to connect, we were reunited with him.

I take great pride in and have immense respect for my parents who were not only alive but continued to help others in the midst of a disaster, the magnitude of which they had never before experienced until the very end [of that fateful day].

I relied on acquaintances who helped me move to Tochigi and Saitama Prefectures. At the time, the word “Kizuna” was broadcast on TV many times. Every day I wrote “Kizuna” in Kanji, Hiragana, and in Katakana over and over in a notebook that I had received; I wanted to be a reporter at the time, so I wrote articles every day that described the things that angered me, the things that made me sad, everything that I was feeling at that time. That notebook is still at my parents’ house. Looking at it now, it’s as if my whole body returns to that time. Even now, I don’t touch it often.

In the end, I lived in Saitama Prefecture for the next year. My parents were dispatched outside the prefecture, so I could only see them on Saturdays and Sundays. I lived in a small rented apartment with my cousin’s sisters and grandparents. The temperature was close to 40 degrees Celsius, the air conditioner was broken, and I couldn’t sleep because of the heat. My cousin was studying for her entrance exams using a cardboard box as a desk. Looking back, I think she had incredible guts.

Thanks to the support of teachers and friends, I was able to live comfortably in Saitama for a year. At that time, it was decided that our family would return to Fukushima to live together. I rebelled, but my homeroom teacher encouraged me by telling me that I would be absolutely fine, that I could do it.

The first day in my new school was hell. Standing in line for the opening ceremony, I felt like vermin. I wondered why I had to go to such a place every day, even though this was the same Fukushima that I had known. Chills ran down my spine and I couldn’t stop shaking. I waited under a blanket for my mother to come home, and she hugged me fiercely. She told me that if I was still dealing with these worries after a week, that I didn’t need to go to school anymore, but even if no one acknowledged me, I had to become indispensable.

The next day, a girl spoke to me. She asked if we could be friends. Those words made the 12-year-old me happier than anything in the world. It seems she got engaged to her boyfriend recently. I cried when I saw her happy message. She has been frail-bodied since I met her, something that has caused her a lot of pain and worry. I hope with all of my heart that she finds happiness.

In sixth grade, I was bullied and hated everything as a result. My life at the time revolved around the chorus club, but even that was difficult. We attended the rigorous practices every day, often walking out in tears. We stood for so long that we couldn’t bend our knees. We even restricted our drinks and food. It felt as though the venue was swallowing us whole; it was unlike anything I have ever experienced. I was very disappointed when we narrowly lost the competition. Regardless, I would like to extend a special thank you to my teachers who brought me to the competition.

Despite that, I was selected to play the accompaniment on the piano for the graduation ceremony. I can say it now, but at that moment, I felt invincible. The people who had bullied me, those who had looked down on me, they had all said that I couldn’t sing without the piano. That small win was huge for me.

That same year, I went to Hokkaido alone with the support of the Red Cross. When I travel, I feel as though I am somehow alive.

In junior high school, I took up the clarinet because the school experienced some issues forming a chorus club. While the club I ended up in wasn’t very strong, my experience showed me that I was fascinated by the feeling of everyone working together to make one thing. That feeling of working together with everyone toward one goal may have been the one thing that made me feel less lonely.

With the help of a wonderful tutor, I was able to successfully pass the entrance exam for my first-choice high school and join the wind ensemble club. Everything in my life revolved around this particular club. In order to secure a ticket as a regular participant in one of our competitions, I practiced to the point where my mouth bled. I eventually reached my mental limit due to a combination of the person-to-person conflict within a strict organization, and the dismissal of a conductor I had trusted more than anyone else.

I was truly at rock bottom. All of my energy had gone into conserving my energy during classes [over the years] so that I could put it toward club activities. At the time, I was desperately trying to believe that there was something I should be doing with my life. I thought I would be able to get by even without a dream.

I discovered TOMODACHI at a time when I was wondering what to do. I felt like participating in this program was the only thing I had left. My parents understood my desire to go somewhere new and start from scratch, so they encouraged me to go [to the United States].

I arrived in the United States on my seventeenth birthday. I couldn’t contain my excitement. I wondered what was beyond the sea, what sorts of things I would see, what sort of people I would meet.

As a result of going to the United States [through this program], I met 99 friends. Although we all have Tohoku in common, our personalities were so different. We cried together, we laughed together; it was an irreplaceable time [in our lives].

We shared our thoughts, our values, and spoke about the future of Tohoku. That experience taught me that there was no need to fear serious conflicts.

Above all else, I learned that a place exists in this world where I can open up to others. I learned how to deal with anything and how to voice my opinion. Not one person [in this cohort] looked down on me or pitied me in this environment. Even now, these are people who say to me, “If something is hard, let me share your burden; let’s think of [a solution] together.” I am filled with hope, the desire to move forward, and the desire to never give up as I think about the future that we envisioned for Tohoku together. These people give me confidence when I am at a standstill. They [continue to] teach me that if you face an issue head-on, you will find a wonderful solution provided that you don’t give up.

Moreover, I have never met the sorts of adults I have encountered [in this program] up until now. They constantly thought about what they could do for Tohoku, for us high school students. I am someone who is naturally distrustful of adults, but working with them taught me that there are always adults out there whom you can trust. Even now, I look up to them; they understand me, and I often go to them for advice.

Through my experience as part of the sixth cohort of the TOMODACHI SoftBank Leadership Program, I have learned how to interact with colleagues, the importance of trust, and the importance of connections. This experience has served as a foundation for me to become a strong individual. Moving forward, I would like to give back, not only to Tohoku but to the world, simply by being myself.

With her fellow TOMODACHI alumni at the TOMODACHI Generation Global Leadership Academy 2019. (Aoi is third from left)