“BECAUSE MY THOUGHTS COULDN’T BE RELAYED OVER A REGULAR
PHONE LINE, I WANTED THEM TO BE CARRIED ON THE WIND. ”
Photo by Abul Kalam Azad
and emotions aloud. “Because my thoughts couldn’t be relayed over a regular phone line,” Sasaki explained, “I wanted them to be carried on the wind.” Without religious or ceremonial ties, the Wind Telephone became a quiet testament to the power of expression in processing grief. Just one year later, tragedy struck the region. The 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami devastated the northeastern coast of Japan, claiming more than 15,000 lives. Sasaki’s hometown of Ōtsuchi suffered immeasurable loss, with over 1,200 lives taken—a tenth of its population. Recognizing the collective grief around him, Sasaki opened the Wind Telephone to the public, offering a refuge where survivors could
release their sorrow and speak to the loved ones they had lost.
Since then, the Wind Telephone has become a pilgrimage site for those seeking solace. Its visitors arrive with heavy hearts, stepping into the booth to share their words, their silence, or their tears. Many leave messages in a notebook placed beside the phone, creating a quiet archive of human love and loss. Some visit once, while others return again and again, finding comfort in the ritual of speaking into the void.
The booth itself has endured the passage of time and the elements, its resilience mirroring the human
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