“Are you okay?” she asked, her warm, weathered face full of emotion. I was pretty drained from the remnants of a bad cold, so I thanked her kindly for her concern.
She seemed lovely. Despite her age, her outfit belied her energy and obviously eccentric sense of humour: a festive green, tartan skirt, dark knee-high socks, with a green silk flower tucked into a bun in her hair.
But I was tired and distracted, and hesitant to be drawn into conversation. As she went on, I nodded politely, not really hearing her, until the words “quake” and “tsunami” shattered my reverie.
“Is the rest of your family alright?”
It was then that I realised she had presumed my daughter was Japanese, and read my grumpiness as quiet despair for my “fellow countrymen”.
A younger, snarkier me would have coolly pointed out that not all Asian-looking people come from the same country. For some reason, I didn't.
She looked confused when I told her I was from Singapore, which wasn't really in or near Japan. I felt her cringe as she realised her faux pas (It was obvious she meant no offense) and she tried to salvage the situation by asking if anyone I knew was affected by the quake or the subsequent nuclear crisis.
Not wanting to exacerbate her awkwardness, I mentioned I did have a friend with family in Japan, but they were safe. I explained where Singapore was, how far we were from the danger zone, and thanked her for her solidarity with victims of the quake.
She visibly lightened with relief. It was a short, if bizarre, conversation, but I sensed her heart was in the right place, and her sense of empathy was profound, even if it was directed at the wrong person.
I was packing for this road trip to Colorado the day the triumvirate of disaster hit Japan. It was surreal watching that unending flood of water smash through cities and towns, upending homes and annihilating everything in its wake. And the ominous ashy plumes over the Fukushima nuclear plant hung like the most godawful leaden feeling in my gut.
I felt that same way as a young reporter watching the horror unfolding on the news in 2001 and 2004, when New York's Twin Towers collapsed and massive waves consumed towns and villages in Indonesia.
It was a distant, hollow, helpless, sickening sensation. Followed by the need to offer solace to those who were hurt, but not knowing how.
I couldn't help but hear echoes of this sensation in the condolences offered by random Americans we met during our road trip. (Yes, green-skirted St Paddy's lady wasn't the only one who mistook my husband and children for Japanese tourists.)
There were the hotel desk clerks and a waitress at a small sushi restaurant in Utah, and even a stranger in a Colorado national park, who came up to my husband and politely introduced himself before offering (what my husband assumed to be) comforting words in Japanese to my very perplexed two-year-old daughter.
It would have been easy to be cynical about these little episodes. To dismiss them as small-town ignorance trying too hard. But something told me not to give in to the negativity.
Because the outpouring of sadness and solace from these complete strangers was truly astounding. Something in this tragedy had obviously struck a chord with these ordinary Americans. The people of this country are, after all, no strangers to natural disasters.
Seeing and hearing of the devastation heaped upon another nation, a developed nation, one so prepared and ready to meet disaster head-on... Perhaps they too felt that sickening sensation in their guts. And so they tried to offer solace, but didn't know how, or to whom.
At some point, I began to wonder if we weren't providing these well-wishers with a little catharsis for their well of emotions. One desk clerk we met in Holbrook, Arizona, was on the verge of tears as she recounted a group of stranded Japanese tourists she met in California during the week.
“They basically had nowhere to go. Can you imagine going on holiday and then finding out you have no home to go back to?” she asked, her downcast eyes shining with sadness.
These small encounters reminded me that even the smallest gesture counts for something in the grand scheme of healing. .
Because for every ounce of this positive energy, there will surely be those who mock other people's tragedies - dolts in the media who dole out hurt and negativity to bolster their own misguided agendas, anonymous Internet commentators who rejoice at some perceived cosmic vengeance enacted on their behalf.
What good are the good intentions of the ordinary in the face of such extraordinary cynicism?
How can simply feeling empathy compare to volunteers who get into the thick of things, like those I interviewed in the past who helped Indonesians affected by the 2004 tsunami rebuild homes and schools?
In the last couple of days since returning home, I've realised empathy is just the beginning. You need that spark of emotion to spur you into action. And if action is the enemy of helplessness, then there those in our midst already in the thick of battle.
And I'm not talking about the big charity or relief groups. While I ineffectually wrung my hands, wondering how or what to do, there were those who took what talents they have and translated them into ways to help and heal.
As a regular crafter, I often scroll through Etsy, an online market for handmade goods, for inspiration. Now, you'll find a growing number of sellers there donating 100% of their profits on certain products – from jewellery to art – to aid for Japan.
Then there's this craft-loving mama of three little girls. She grew up in Singapore and now lives in the US, and writes a brilliant, funny sewing tutorial blog called Ikatbag. Despite how busy she always seems from her blog entries, she created what she calls an “Owie Doll” for Japan, with proceeds going to a charity to aid relief efforts.
Even though the sale on the doll has closed for now, she mentioned on her blog that she might start it up again soon.
Similarly, a team of two ladies who run a children's fashion-and-toys start-up in South Africa are selling a specially designed doll, nicknamed Georgie, to lend a hand.
“My friend Aki is in Japan and over the last week I was frantically trying to get hold of her,” explained Devika Rosalind Muttiah, who along with Barbara Geldmacher, helps to design clothes and dolls for their company, called baba-dash.
Frustrated when she couldn't get help to her friend through expeditions that were heading to the disaster-ravaged country, Devika said a “lightbulb went off over her head” and she realised what she could do.
Coupled with Barbara's creative design of the doll, the duo are hoping to team up with a reputable South African charity through which they hope to send money from the sale of Georgies, which they are currently only selling in South Africa, to fund aid to Devika's friend and her friend's community in Japan.
Hearing and reading of work like this, I'm slowly beginning to realise that even if I can't join a rescue expedition to Japan, I can still try to contribute. It's just a matter of harnessing what I do, what I have or what I know in order to move forward.
Like writing about those who are taking action, and giving their causes an extra voice.
Or gathering warm clothes my family no longer needs (thanks to the short Arizona winter) and finding a way to donate them to some of the hundreds of thousands now left homeless in Japan, many of whom are trying to salvage what's left of their lives while battling the frigid and seemingly unending Japanese winter.
“Are you okay?” It's amazing what three little words can do. That simple, innocent act of reaching out to a stranger, to make a heart-felt connection, might mean a world of the difference between individuals floundering in pain, and a global community trying to find its footing together.
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