James Whitlow Delano
: James Whitlow Delano
Interview by Svetlana Bachevanova
I found myself in Rome, Italy on 11 March 2011, when the black tsunami struck. The return flight I took the next day turned out to be one of the last commercial flights from Italy into Japan.
I had already begun to lay down plans on how to get to Tohoku before leaving Rome. The flight landed at 2pm in Narita. By 3am, I was heading north in a mini-van with trusted friends along the far, Sea of Japan coast of Honshu because of rumors about an imminent nuclear meltdown in Fukushima.
There would be an explosion at Fukushima Daiichi that rainy day which pushed a massive amount of nuclear fall out to the ground, preventing it from being carried away by the wind, resulting in the need for the nuclear no-entry zone. We were unaware of the severity of the situation on the other side of the island as we focused on getting over to Iwate Prefecture safely. The car was loaded with jerry cans of extra fuel, drinking water and food, all of which, we had been told would be in short supply.
By morning the rain had turned to snow. In the center of the island, gasoline was being rationed and lines of cars stretched for kilometers. Residents were so desperate for fuel that, after waiting all day long, they would park their cars in lines for the night and return to them in the morning. It was decided to hire a taxi which used liquid propane gas because that fuel was plentiful.
Supply lines in Japan were breaking down. Runs on food and water left store shelves empty and that meant little or no bottled water for sale at a time when radioactive iodine from the unfolding nuclear crisis was being detected in water supplies.
The snow intensified in the tsunami zone. I wanted to climb right out of the taxi window, so intense was the desire to record the unthinkable. Cars were folded like soft drink cans over bridge railings 15 meters above the water, trees were impaled through 3rd floor windows and boats were even deposited on rooftops.
Survivors shuffled through the mud and snow in a state of shock. Soon we joined these shuffling masses, feet soaked with freezing cold black mud carried in by the tsunami. Moving inside provided little relief because inside evacuation centers temperatures hovered below 10 degree C, which leaned heaviest on the very young and the very old. The survivors gathered in family groups on blankets striving to regain a modicum of privacy in a twilight pall of anemic lighting underpowered by gas-powered generators (again fuel was in such short supply). No words were necessary for communication. It was there I first encountered a peculiar infinity-stare, born of worry, cold, hunger and lack of sleep. It would become a familiar expression in the time ahead.
Soon, though, the crisis at Fukushima Daiichi began to eclipse the tsunami disaster further north. Last week a nuclear expert expressed concern that the tsunami and explosion-weakened structures could collapse in one of the seemingly ceaseless aftershocks here, tipping out radiation on a scale that would dwarf Chernoble, over a year after the multiple meltdowns. It took the Soviets just eight months to construct a concrete sarcophagus completely sealing that reactor. The reactors at Fukushima remain exposed to the open air. And so this crisis has not ended by any means.
On 11 March 2012, the one-year anniversary, a family stood dressed in black on an empty plot in Ishinomaki, Miyagi Prefecture, where their home had been swept away. One of them was holding a little Buddhist monument dedicated to a lost family member. I thought to myself, “I don’t want to do this”, as I approached to ask to make a portrait, but I knew I had to do it.
Our eyes met and smiles broke out. They offered me a couple of digital cameras so that I could take their photographs. They asked me to stand among them and be photographed. We parted laughing. We all laughed together that day, exactly one year after the tsunami had changed our lives forever.
Where did you go first to photograph? Did you plan the project Black Tsunami from the start or did it emerge as you photographed?
JWD. We cut across the island back to the Pacific Coast at Kamaishi because we had heard that stretch of the coast was particularly hard hit. As we arrived, it was immediately obvious that this had been the case as I almost climbed through the window of the car to get out into the snow and begin photographing a scene like none I had seen before. In 2008, I had documented the devastation wrought by Cyclone Nargis in Burma but even that paled in comparison to the total destruction brought by the tsunami.
Events were unfolding so quickly and access was not guaranteed. Frankly, I was expecting Japanese police, given my experience with American police forces, to cordon off the whole area. To their credit, police waved us through and the media coverage benefited the relief effort by allowing the world to grasp the magnitude of the event.
So, we were really putting one foot before the other in those early days. What moved me was the Biblical scale of debris in every city. Cars were folded bridge railings like soft drink cans 15 meters or more above the water, logs were impaled through third story windows and some boats were even deposited on rooftops.
Conditions were difficult following the tsunami. How did this affect your work?
JWD. We had to plan carefully. First and foremost, we did not want to be taking food or water, figuratively, out of the mouths of survivors. It was necessary to either sleep in relief centers or an hour away, where one could obtain food and water. I was firm in that I did not want to eat survivors'/refugees' food. If we stayed at relief centers, we would have been forced to do that as our own supplies would have run out.
I often turned down the kind offerings of people at relief centers. They generously offered food to us. I could not accept that.
Gasoline was rationed and gas lines went on for kilometers. People would park their cars in gas lines for the night, go home to sleep and return to them in the morning. So, we decided to hire a taxi that ran on liquid propane gas because that fuel was still plentiful.
Did you return to the same places you photographed during the year?
JWD. Yes, I did return to some of the same places during the year, though I followed where I believe the most important events were unfolding. I did return to Iwate Prefecture again when the cherry blossoms bloomed because of a moment standing in front of a pair of cherry trees.
A tug boat had been carried up and deposited next to them by the tsunami, and a house came to rest right beside them. It was not possible to tell from where the house had come. There were clothes up in the branches of the trees. I was talking to a Japanese photographer friend who told me that her grandmother had described Tokyo looking this way during the firebombing campaigns during the Second World War. I decided right then that I would have to return to that spot when or if the sakura cherry trees came back to life and bloomed. Well, when I returned, the tug boat was still there, the house and one cherry tree had been removed. Still the tree, in front of which she had shared the story, was then in full bloom, having come back to life.
I returned quite a few times to the nuclear no-entry zone, as that part of the story started to eclipse the tsunami story itself, as the situation seemed to get worse and worse, as revelations about the radiation leaked out. By then, I had educated myself on the nature and magnitude of the radiation and found places I was comfortable entering.
I returned again to Iwate in late-January to document the changes over the year. In the process, I found access to the pine forest in Rikuzen-Takata. This was significant because the city had been completely level by the tsunami. The centuries-old Takata Matsubayashi, Takata Pine Forest, of 70,000 trees had been completely wiped out by the tsunami except one tree which survived and became a symbol of hope.
Sadly, the salt water eventually killed that one surviving tree. I walked down to the beach and found that the beach that had been in front of the forest was completely gone. The land had receded almost 1 meter.
Stumps of the pine trees stood but the surf had undercut them so that the roots now projected into the air like the legs of king crabs at the waterline, creating an otherworldly appearance which communicated a stronger message than any words. I suppose that is what I was trying to do throughout my time photographing this multifaceted disaster, to make photographs that spoke stronger than any words could possibly do.
How did you gain access to the Fukushima nuclear power plant and what was your experience there?
JWD. I entered the no-entry zone by slipping in unnoticed. Access was denied by threat of fine and imprisonment, but this was a story that just had to be told. The emptiness was chilling. The spring sky and flowers flew in the face of the invisible danger. Apparently, the radiation had no visible affect on the plant life which seems to be growing normally. By summertime, it became clear how tenuous a hold "civilization" on the landscape. Nine months after the disaster, many places look as if they had not been inhabited for a decade, not such a short amount of time.
I would move around in the forest plantations farmers had planted to avoid detection but to be honest, I never encountered a soul in the zone.
Many of these photographs have a haunted emptiness to them. What did you intend to invoke with these landscapes?
JWD. I wanted to document the loss of people's life work in an event that was not of their own making.
I felt I could identify with them. I imagined if every photograph I have made over the past 25 years were destroyed, even that would not be like losing the family farm, perhaps in the same family for hundreds of years. Each family's roots run deep in this country with such a rich, long history. Most of these farmers were above what would normally be considered retirement age. How are they going to start over. I tried to communicate that with eyes that have lived with Japanese, studied and come to love their culture over the course of 18 years. I approached the story as someone with skin in the game, someone with family here. I approached the story as no idle observer who goes home.Japan has become my home.
Did you meet anyone in particular or have one unforgettable experience that stand out while working on this project?
JWD. I met a man in Otsuchi in the early days. He described what happened to his mother.
The first tsunami came and was not too big. So, because her life savings was in the house, she decided to take a chance and return to the house and save that cash from the flood. He asked her not to go but relented when she insisted so strongly. So, he watched her go into the house from his perch on high ground. He watched the second bigger tsunami destroy the house and never caught a glimpse of his mother again. Her body had not been recovered and likely never would, if it had been swept out to sea.
The man told this story, fighting back tears, as he told us that his adult siblings called him a murderer because he had allow his mother go back to the house where she was killed.
There are times when I think about what I have seen and those who I have met and they remind me of my family and neighbors here. It can momentarily overtake me emotionally but perhaps it would not be human not to experience moments like that coming out of the blue.
You refer to the past year as "year zero" for Japan. What do you mean by that?
JWD. I feel this was a reset for Japan unlike any since the end of Second World War. It was not a Cambodian Khmer Rouge Year Zero but I felt that the power of that phrase was appropriate to how I felt. Certainly, Japan will never be the same to me.
What do you want your viewers to take from your photographs?
JWD. I want viewer to feel like they were there. I want to transmit the energy and I do not want this moment in history to simply be swept away. The feeling of invulnerability that people feel in the industrialize world was felt here too before the tsunami. I want viewers to see themselves and their family members in the photographs, in the sense that they are not looking at the "other". They are looking at "us". We all can find ourselves in such situations and we can all gain from watching how the Japanese people have gotten through this time without looting, without riots, but with stoic strength and dignity. Under extreme duress, the people here never cracked.
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