Originally published on metropolis.co.jp on March 2013

From my desk I see him. Grandpa walks towards our executive section of city hall. Tucked away into a corner of this make shift pre-fab building, we sit cramped, side-by-side. Old city hall was destroyed in the tsunami. This one rattles with the wind and shakes with each dump truck passing by.

Grandpa’s face is red. He stands, his presence commanding. “I want to see the mayor.” Two men, a director and his assistant, jump out of their seats and shuttle grandpa towards a table. “I don’t want to talk to you. I want to speak to the mayor,” grandpa practically yells. We all know not much good will come out of this rare show of emotion—anger at that. Neither for him nor for us.

To be sure, he is not drunk. Angry, yes. Windblown, also yes. But this outburst is not alcohol-induced; he’s not red-face with drink. On one hand, that makes it easier to deal with him. The potential for a rational conversation exists. On the other hand, if he were drunk we could call someone and have him picked up, eliminating the problem—albeit only for now.

The rest of us who are still at our desks are half-listening to our colleagues attempting to calm him. We piece together, “Why is this taking so long” and “How many times are you going to make me come here” and “What are you guys doing” and “This is ridiculous.” We know grandpa cannot be sent away with a half-assed explanation and a, “Come again next week.” Grandpa personifies what millions of disaster victims want in Tohoku: progress and healing. Make something happen. Move things along. Rebuild. Let us move out of temporary housing.

While governments are typically not known for their flexible, out-of-the-box thinking and creative interpretation of rules, Japan’s central government takes rigidity to a whole new level—at the expense of those in Tohoku. Ask anyone living in temporary housing or a farmer who can’t plow his land and they’ll say, “There are limits to how by-the-book these guys are down in Tokyo.”

Enough is enough. For two years Tokyo’s civil servants bound the hands of those living in towns devastated by the tsunami. Few have ever visited these areas. No one I know in Tohoku expects bureaucrats to sympathize, much less empathize. They do, however, expect reason. The lack thereof is what grandpa is objecting to here today. Again.

Grandpa is filing paperwork to rebuild his home destroyed in the tsunami. He’s desperate to move out of temporary housing, which are really only glorified shacks. He is one of many elderly remaining who do not want to die in temporary units they now call “home,” surrounded by everything new but nothing familiar. His fury comes from his inability to understand why it takes months to hear back from the powers at be to approve paperwork.

“It’s just a simple permit. Let me build my house!” Filing for approval from the government is never “simple” and many have tried explaining this to grandpa over his multiple visits to city hall. He doesn’t get it. Why should he? We don’t. Why does it take so long to approve a request to clear land of trees? He can’t build where his home used to be as it’s now part of the “danger zone” in town. He gets that part. But he first filed papers months ago, asking to cut down trees so he can flatten the land to build his home again. What’s the hold up? What’s going on?

No one at city hall can adequately answer his questions. We ask the same ones to the prefectural and central government and receive lame answers such as, “Ah, yes. Those are the rules.” Our retort, “Change the rules then!” are met with “Ah, yes. That’s difficult.” So that means what exactly? What do we tell grandpa? There’s cautious optimism the recent visits by Prime Minister Abe, Mr. Koizumi, and the Minister of Reconstruction will indeed this time make a difference. Two years after the lives of millions were forever turned upside down, time and patience is running out. Hope is elusive. Moments of joy come and go. Genuine happiness? Where? How? And from what?

Wherever you were on March 11th of 2011, this year on March 11th you are reading this magazine. You are living history as this country mourns the loss of those many gone, deceased or still missing. Those left behind look desperately for the courage to go on.

Light a candle. Say a prayer. Remember. Hope with us this will be the year all of the fury felt by all of the grandpas throughout Tohoku will dissipate.