The Latest at Goethe

First the crisps fell off the shelf, then the high-rises tilted menacingly. In Tokyo, too, it was quickly apparent that this was not one of those earthquakes they are so accustomed to in the region. Goethe staff member Franziska Kekulé experienced the day in Japan’s capital city.

It is Friday. The day begins like any other day, perhaps even a little better. After the snow flurries and constant rain at the beginning of the week, the temperature is now a spring-like 15 degrees and the sun is shining. The mood at the Goethe-Institut Tokyo is just as sunny: language students are signing up for the new courses, co-workers are looking forward to a weekend in Seoul or a wedding in India and are setting up their final appointments before the weekend.

My last appointment at noon takes me to the quarter of Harajuku. On the way back to the institute, I stop by at a small shop for onigri – a late lunch. Just as I am joining the queue at the till, the quake begins. Since there are constantly minor tremors here in Japan, half of which are hardly noticeable, I think nothing of it and simply wait in line along with the others for it to stop. But it doesn’t stop.

On the contrary, it increases in strength. Magazines and crisps fall off the shelves and the high shelf at the back of the shop tips over. The saleswomen giggle nervously. The queue at the till breaks up. Everyone exits the shop and runs outdoors. On the street, the cars come to a halt, people are pouring out of the surrounding office buildings. An older lady grabs me by the arm, points to the high-rise behind the shop and explains that it would be safer further down the street. She speaks from experience since she was there for the 1995 earthquake in Kobe.

We grasp a handrail at the side of the pavement to keep our balance. We stare upwards. The high-rises across the street tilt more to the right and left the higher they go. At the very top, the long steel aerials bend over the roof ledges. My companion reaches for her mobile to see the earthquake sensors, but the phone network seems to be down. More and more people gather on the street, many are wearing helmets then – suddenly – it’s over.

The railway is at a standstill

I try to ring the Goethe-Institut, but the mobile networks are overloaded. The people crowd into the streets. From all sides I hear “daijoubu?” (“everything OK?”).

When I reach the institute I become seriously worried for there is not a soul in sight in front of the building. The lift is out of operation, so I take the stairs. Upstairs, our receptionist awaits me with the same “daijoubu?” but is far more composed than the people on the street. Almost the entire workforce is sitting at their desks wearing orange helmets with dangling whistles. I learn that the institute is one of the most earthquake-proof buildings in all of Tokyo and it’s best to remain indoors here.

Even the shelves, lights and cups are unscathed here. Still, I follow the general example and arm myself with helmet and whistle. From the balcony, we can see the black cloud of smoke on the horizon right behind Tokyo Tower, the Eiffel-like television tower. Across the street in the Canadian Embassy, the pool that we ogle enviously every day is half empty – the water simply spilled over. We then hear a sustained announcement that sounds like a bad disaster movie: “This is a major tsunami warning!” and the embassy staff in black suits set up large tents in the embassy’s garden.

The television gives us brief bad news: Japanese Railways has ceased operations for the rest of the day since all of the tunnels first need to be checked for damages. We are stuck here. Most of the employees live far away, so co-workers who live nearby offer use of their flats. Some colleagues and a students decide to stay overnight in the office.

Reluctant pilgrims

In the evening, I make my way home with the rest. The streets are like a pilgrimage: hundreds of people – some still in their helmets and with “earthquake kits” (a silvery backpack with food, etc.) troop over the pavement, the cars are backed up on the streets, there are meters-long queues in front of payphones, at bus stops and taxi stands. But Tokyo’s crisis management system is already hard at work: the gymnasiums at the universities, bowling alleys and public buildings are open to all who cannot make it home tonight. It is possible to top up phones for free in the mobile phone shops, get free beverages at selected vending machines and makeshift signs on the streets lead all the reluctant pilgrims to the nearest WC.

I am lucky to have only a two hour journey home; my roommate needs almost twice as long from the other end of the city and some of my friends do not arrive at their homes until the next morning.

Saturday morning, a strong aftershock tears us from our sleep. There are more over the course of the day. On television, we see the havoc wreaked by the tsunami. It is hard to believe that it is only a few kilometres away. The streets are deserted; many convenience stores and supermarkets are sold out. Although the trains are now running again, things are nowhere near back to normal. We set up a phone chain with all our co-workers to keep up-to-date. Now, our greatest fear is of the nuclear reactors in Fukushima. Although over 300 kilometres from Tokyo, it is not far in the event of the worst-case scenario.

Franziska Kekulé, 27 years old, is a Japan expert and has worked as a trainee at the Goethe-Institut in Tokyo since October 2010.

Addendum: Due to the escalation of the situation in Japan, the Goethe-Institut Tokyo is closed – initially for one week. Some employees have already left the country, amongst them the author. We are assessing the situation daily and will decide how we will proceed further in close agreement with the German Embassy.