Scream Inside Your Heart
Scream Inside Your Heart
Living in Tokyo During the 2020 Olympics
The Olympics have concluded—and good riddance!
Don't get me wrong, I love watching incredible athletes compete in sports I often forget about in the intervening years. (Trampolining? Javelin? RACEWALKING?!) But this event has been doomed from the beginning, and despite all the officials declaring it a success, that it gave us "hope"—I often found myself watching and feeling awe for a moment, and a lingering despair after.
It was an exercise in cognitive dissonance to experience the games while living in Tokyo. To see thousands of people entering the country from all over the world (after over a year of closed borders)—all while being told, as a resident, that it was imperative to stay home. Imagine: a once-in-a-lifetime event happening in your city, and you are discouraged from even lingering near the fence to catch a glimpse of the action. All event venues were closed to the public. Barricades around the stadium prevented people from getting too near. The Olympic cauldron, usually prominently on display, was scurried away from the stadium and to a faraway pedestrian bridge on an island.
On the Friday before the Games closed, I packed my daughter on our ebike and we headed out to search for it—because, I’ll admit, I have FOMO. Google Maps said it would take 42 minutes, which I have learned means at least an hour trip, minimum. Temperatures hovered at their typical, punishing July levels: 90s and humid, with a real-feel temperature in the 100s. I ensured we were well hydrated, and that my daughter's seat was shielded from the sun. She had a portable fan to keep her cool in addition to the breeze from the bike.
Our route took us over several bridges, and we had to take a detour at the heavily* guarded athlete village. (Note that “heavily” is a subjective term. I didn’t see tanks or guns, but the average person could not get close at all due to fencing and security personnel.) Google had neglected to inform me that the bridge that ran through it was closed to all traffic, including bikes and pedestrians.
Some snapshots of the athletes’ housing
But eventually we made it, our approach taking us under the pedestrian bridge, which meant our first glimpse of the flame was of it peeking out above the railing—rather unimpressively, if I'm honest. Underneath the bridge was a lone unhoused man, his gear bundled neatly near the river's edge. (Possibly the man described in this LA Times article).
Left: Words no man or Olympic cauldron want to hear: “Is that it?”; Right: One of the less-glamorous volunteer gigs—telling non-athletes like me to keep our distance, so as to protect our merely average bodies
On the bridge, volunteers—impossibly kind and cheerful despite the oppressive heat—numbered in the dozens, reminding people to maintain two meters of distance, and beware of heat stroke. My daughter and I got our requisite selfies, though she was more interested in the ferris wheel in the distance than the cauldron itself. I consoled myself with the fact that this was a memory, or a photo at least, that she'd have and appreciate when she's older.
As this is Japan, we were able to rehydrate at a conveniently placed vending machine before the long ride home. A lovely volunteer asked us where we were from, and I did my usual schtick of saying “Seattle” and then mentioning Ichiro, because everyone in Japan loves baseball, and Ichiro. (At least, the friendly strangers I've met, including this gentleman, have.)
Left: A better view of the cauldron; Right: Me, “LoOk At ThAt! AmAzInG rIgHt?!”, My daughter, “Why didn’t we go to the ferris wheel?”
Aside from the cauldron and the Olympic village, we glimpsed a few other sites along the way: impressive stadiums that held awe-inspiring events like skateboarding and BMX, hulking and empty, empty, empty. I've given up hoping when places like this might be filled again.
I watched the live stream of the closing ceremonies without any color commentary to tell me how or what to think of the proceedings. I listened to the speeches in Japanese, my ear straining to pick out the few words I knew. And I listened to the speech by Bach, a trite, cliched monologue so predictable it was insulting. About how these games showed us how the world can all come together in peace, how they showed us how to hope again.
But here is what the games—and the pandemic—have shown me: we actually aren’t very good at coming together, and I don’t know that we ever have been. It’s just the feel-good story we like to tell. Yes, there were a number of people, businesses, and countries that did come together to help one another and do amazing things: looking out for their neighbors, changing production to make PPE, developing vaccines quickly. Yet how much time and energy have we wasted debating basic facts? Show me footage of a school board meeting where one parent says to another: “I understand your child struggles with wearing a mask, and you don’t want to force her. But please also understand I am worried for my child’s long-term health if he were to contract COVID. How can we move forward and figure out what’s in everyone’s best interests this school term?” If anyone has seen a measured discussion like this, one that led to a calm resolution, anywhere in the US, please share it with me on my Instagram! (Witnessing this would be far more impressive than athletes from over 200 countries coming together to do sports!)
Left: The skateboard venue; Right: Desmond wins the gold in barking.
And the vaccines’ rapid development was less evidence of “coming together,” and more a display of what science can achieve if there is significant funding and support behind it. Just ask anyone affected by the AIDS epidemic what lack of public support meant for them or their loved ones.
In a similar vein, the Olympics didn’t happen because the countries of the world came together; the games happened because a lot of sponsors and networks had a lot of money invested in the event. What I saw on TV were a select few people enjoying themselves while I sat home, feeling a range of emotions from boredom to despair, from uncertainty to anger. One incredibly frustrating headline out of Japan noted the high numbers of citizens watching the games, and cited that as justification for holding them. As if the state-of-emergency declaration and raging pandemic had nothing to do with people staying indoors and watching television.
The other infuriating sentiment was hearing how the Olympics didn’t contribute to Tokyo’s case count, as the 500+ Olympics-related cases were kept isolated from the general public. While it’s unclear how much person-to-person spread was due to outside visitors, the “do as we say, not as we do,” hypocrisy was infectious in an immeasurable way.
COVID case numbers in Tokyo and Japan are the worst they have ever been now that the Olympics have closed, and hospitals warn they are running out of resources to treat patients of any type. I’ve seen Twitter conspiracy theorists posit that because the pressure of hosting the games is over, case numbers are no longer being suppressed. While it’s probably true that the media and government may be more vocal about case numbers now, it’s also true that when a region is in its fourth state of emergency (as is the case in Tokyo), it begins to feel more routine and less like an emergency, and people will go out and do routine things. And more people out means more cases, especially with more contagious variants lurking.
And the spectacle isn’t entirely over. The Paralympics will open next week, just as my daughter is scheduled to resume school. I do wish all good things for the Paralympians who have trained hard and are trying to find—like many of us—some joy right now. But as for the decision-makers: please excuse me as I scream inside my heart.
Note: If you’re interested, and want to read an article by actual journalists about Tokyo, Covid, and the Olympics, Japan’s COVID-19 Strategy Relied on Trust. Holding the Olympics Shattered It at the Worst Possible Time
