During the second leg of the study abroad, we visited the Tokyo Fire Department Hongo Citizen Disaster Prevention Center, where we engaged in four simulations related to an earthquake, a flood, a fire, and a typhoon. These simulations, focusing on disaster response and survival techniques, ended up being one of my most memorable experiences of the trip.

The first simulation was the earthquake one, where we entered a room with six mats in them, with a backdrop depicting a typical living room and kitchen. The mats were rigged to shake in accordance to various earthquakes that had happened in the past, including the 2011 Tohoku Earthquake. The mats would not necessarily recreate the magnitude of the earthquake, but it would slowly increase in intensity, which is a scale of how rattled the human body feels after an earthquake. During my simulation, we slowly increased the intensity from 1-6. On the mats, we would sit on our calves. When the earthquake tremors started, we were to bend over, covering our heads with our hands, as we were supposed to do in an actual earthquake. I went in the second group, and I was surprised to find myself struggling to not fall over. Behind me in the backdrop, dishes and cabinets fell over, and it became incredibly clear why drills like this were needed—even if I had known the protocol for earthquakes beforehand, it was difficult in practice to stay in position. If it was a real earthquake, the dishes and furniture falling would have panicked me, and might have exacerbated an already dangerous situation.

The second simulation was related to flooding, where we learned that even a few inches of water build up could make it challenging to open doors. We were shown a front door and car door to open as practice with different water levels as difficulty settings. I hadn’t realized prior to the simulation how strong just a little water could be—I struggled opening just the first settings. This also gave me a newfound appreciation for flood prevention systems, especially near houses.

The third simulation was a smoke simulation, related to fire. First, we watched a projection of fire over a created bedroom, where an outlet plugged in for too long sparked and set fire to the curtains. Within minutes, the room was clouded with smoke and the window was blocked by the fire, leaving the resident no option but to leave through the door, through all the smoke. We were told to cover our nose and mouth with whatever cloth was accessible, and to crouch down for mobility rather than crawl. We were to use our right hand to feel the wall in front of us and feel our way through a mini smoke-filled maze set up for us. Since my prior knowledge about navigating a fire consisted of “stop, drop, and roll,” I thought this simulation was also very insightful and useful.

The last simulation was a typhoon one, where we wore raincoats, pants, and boots that were so thick and covering that only our faces were exposed. We went into a room with handlebars, that we were to hold onto and lean against, as heavy winds and rains artificially whirled around us. My bangs were soaked, but overall, I thought that this was the easiest simulation. It might have been because we were from Columbus, but I thought the winds were nothing compared to pre-tornado winds in Ohio. Still, the winds were very strong, and I did appreciate the value of the demonstration.

Disaster preparation is easily overlooked, even in the public health sphere, because of the lack of frequency of such events. However, the simulations at the Disaster Prevention Center helped me appreciate how important practicing for natural disasters is.

Okawa Elementary School, located about 30 minutes away from Sendai, was our last stop during the second leg of the trip. We traveled almost clear across the country from Hakata to Sendai in a day using a Shinkansen, and then used a bus to head to the school. We all had background on Okawa Elementary, of course, and I had managed to find a multiple-page survivor account during my background research. The account described drowning in alarming detail; as if the immense water pressure and terror wasn’t enough, the students also described the whirling debris clashing against their body, the smell of stale fish choking their lungs. I carried these vague sensory details with me as I peered out the window, expecting something similar—old debris, perhaps, or a lingering smell. The houses grew sparser and older as we drew closer, writing a grim memoir of the aftermath.

Okawa Elementary School stood broken, smaller than I had expected. A tall hill loomed right behind the school, and fields stretched out in every other direction. A river flowed further away, and I knew that one of the tsunami waves that had hit the school had come from there. When we got down the bus, a man led us to a plaque in front of the school. He held a small booklet of words and pictures—a makeshift presentation. “Forgive my English,” he told us. “I didn’t know it before the tsunami, but I am learning. I want to make sure everyone can understand my message.”

Four of his family died in the tsunami, he said. His daughter was one of them. As the tsunami hit the school, he was stranded on the other side of a bridge between the school and his house, unable to get to his daughter. He led us closer to the broken remanent of the school, where we could peer inside. Chairs and chalkboards stood still, frozen at 3:37 PM. This is the first grade classroom, he said. This is the second grade classroom. Third grade, fourth grade. I watched him and the makeshift presentation in vague horror, abruptly realizing how young the children were. He didn’t cry, and his voice hardly wavered, but when he looked at the school, he might as well have been looking through it. I wondered briefly what he was looking for, and then our professor’s words from Hiroshima rang in my head. This is a graveyard, he had told us. Walk respectfully. Okawa was no different. There were souls interwoven in the atoms in the air, tangible if you closed your eyes.

We walked to where the children had been trying to evacuate—directly into the path of the tsunami, away from the hill, and far too late. This was where many of the bodies had been found. I stared at the ground by my feet and imagined what the storyteller told us, rescuers arriving days too late and finding children in the mud. There must have been broken, sharp, debris, I thought. It must have smelled like rotten seaweed and fish.

The storyteller then announced that we would hike to the point that the students would have needed to be safe. I anticipated a long climb, but we had hardly walked for half a minute when he stopped us to show us a sign, nestled barely a fourth of the way up the hill. TSUNAMI ARRIVAL POINT, it read. I blinked. We were led onto a large platform, above the safety point. If the students could have gotten here, we were told, they would have been safe. The platform was large enough to hold all the students and teachers.

Disaster preparation and prevention is important, the storyteller, the museum, the brochures, the makeshift presentation told us. We hope this never happens again to anyone’s children. 74 out of the 78 children at the elementary school, and 10 of the 11 teachers died unnecessarily. Authorities had knowledge of the tsunami; they knew the importance of safety drills. There were hours to evacuate. We hope you heed our message, learn from our mistakes, they told us.

As I walked back to the bus, I listened to the crunch of gravel beneath me, the wind swirling the empty classrooms, silence where the laughter of children should be. Listen carefully, the storyteller had told us as we walked down the hill. You can still hear them.

The public transportation system in Japan is the best one I have seen in any country I have traveled in, and it remains one of my favorite parts of the trip. It largely consisted of a metro subway system, buses, and bullet trains (Shinkansen). Each part of the system seemed to be created with public use and convenience in mind, and it was clear that the system was invested in.

For example, a typical day for us using public transportation might look something like this: First, we would walk to the subway station, which would never be more than a 15 minute walk. Taking out our Suica cards, we would tap into the station. Suica cards were given to us the first day of the program and were pseudo-credit cards used to pay for the subway and bus. They were also accepted as a form of payment in convenience stores and many other major stores, incentivizing their use. If the payment declined, there were Suica reloading stations in every subway station near the payment gate. Many of us also used the online Suica card, which could be reloaded with Apple Pay. Suica cards would once again be used while exiting, ensuring an appropriate amount was charged.

While entering and exiting a station, we would often use the escalator, where we would stand on the left single file as the right side was left open for people in a rush. Much of our time was spent following our professors around like ducklings, but the system was self-explanatory enough for us when we were on our own. Inputting a destination into a navigational app would bring up transit options, and we simply had to match the line symbol, platform number, and time on our phone to the large signs around the station. The line symbols and numbers associated with the platforms, train cars, trains, and stations made traveling incredibly simple, and many trains had English station names regardless. Trains also ran regularly and on time, rarely being more than a couple of minutes late. There were different types of trains: local, express, semi-express, rapid, and limited express, which would stop at more or less stations, increasing the speed of travel, and thinning out the crowds on trains. Larger stations had gates that would open and close near the edge as a safety measure, and numbered queue lines to avoid congestion. During busier hours, people would pack in close, everyone mindful to stay quiet and avoid taking up space—many people would shift their backpacks to the front to not accidently hit someone. Women-only trains ran during rush hour to promote safety.

Buses were similar, running regularly and paid with a Suica card. A screen at the front would display the station name and charge owed, and buttons on each beam could be pressed to alert the driver to make a stop.

During the second leg of the trip, we used Shinkansen’s to cover lengthy distances, sometimes traveling cross-country in a day. We were provided JR Passes for the Shinkansens rather than paying with a Suica card, and we had randomly assigned seats for each train with space for our luggage. The JR station was different than the metro area, and we would insert our JR pass into a slot, picking it up on the other side of the gate. We had more room than in an airplane, a better view, and we were infinitely more comfortable. Sometimes, we could spin our seats around, and create groups of four to spend more time talking to each other.

The sheer efficiency of the system facilitated a culture of using public transportation regularly out of choice, where it was a more viable option than cars. Indirectly, this facilitated a culture of exercise and better health, as well as reducing pollution and congestion in an already small country. Japan is an excellent example of how good public transportation improves the well-being of a country and its people, and it remains one of my favorite aspects of our trip.