For Japan disaster survivors, trust is as badly destroyed as the landscape

They withstood Japan's earthquake, tsunami and radiation terrors. But after nine days without heat, electricity, running water, regular meals or word from their loved ones, there are signs that the extraordinary fortitude of the survivors is being worn down by a widening humanitarian crisis.

Officials in Ishinomaki in Miyagi prefecture, one of the coastal cities wrecked by the tsunami, say the shortages and a painfully slow return of services has led to rising anger at the government and sporadic reports of theft and violent crime.

"It's only natural that people get frustrated," said Yoshinori Sato, a spokesman for the city council. "It's because of the stress. People are hungry and frustrated. I've heard about people screaming and fighting over food."

There have been instances of looting at supermarkets and liquor stores. Sato had also heard reports about a stabbing and a rape in the town. "In some cases there were houses that were half-destroyed, and people would go in and look for anything they could find to use or to eat," he said.

"I feel sorry for them but a crime is a crime."

The humanitarian crisis is eroding confidence that Japan – for all its wealth and technological brilliance – is capable of managing a relief effort of such enormous proportions.

The numbers are daunting. The official death toll nationally rose to 8,277 on Sunday night, with 12,272 still missing. Nearly 500,000 people are homeless. More than 1.5 million households have no running water.

In the first terrifying hours after the tsunami, a quarter of Ishinomaki's population of 160,000 were displaced. About 1,000 are confirmed dead, and many more are missing. But because roads and communications were cut, it took the authorities two or three days longer to realise the extent of the destruction.

In the large pink local government building in central Ishinomaki, officials are doing what they can to keep people's spirits up. Sato has started to put out a daily news update to give people at least some sense of control over their life.

He's even invented a slogan for the morale-boosting effort, which translates as "Onward Ishinomaki".

Sato punches his fist in the air for the delivery. But he is in tears, and he acknowledges it is going to take much too long before the people of Ishinomaki see any real improvement.

Neighbouring towns are already getting electricity, kerosene or gas. But Sato just heard the authorities will be unable to restore gas connections for at least three weeks.

In Minato neighbourhood, which was cut off from the centre when a fishing trawler was upended on a bridge, the 500 evacuees sheltering in an elementary school did not get hot food until Saturday night.

A simple meal of rice, vegetables and miso soup, it was provided by volunteers from a camping enthusiasts' organisation – not the Japanese government. But as barber Katsuhiro Suzuki said: "Compared to the first days we were here, this is heaven."

The evacuees had no food or water for the first three days in the shelter, a state elementary school. Then they graduated to meals made up of a single rice ball or a banana – which they were occasionally directed to share. More food is beginning to arrive, but the shelter now has to stretch to feed the entire neighbourhood of 2,300.

"I've seen people fighting over a biscuit," said Eda Matsumi, who fled here with her three-year-old daughter.

There was still no heat, electricity or running water in the toilets on Sunday. Workers continued to scrape at a thick layer of mud over the ground floor. The cemetery at the back of the school now has the carcasses of cars dotted among the urns.

Nightfall, without electricity or a fully functioning police force, brings its own terrors.

"Of course when night falls it is very dark," said Shoji Yoshiaki, a councillor, who is overseeing the shelter. "I'm worried about the tension. People are stressed out.

"We got hit very badly and the recovery effort is lagging. A kilometre or two away, they have electricity, food, water, gas – everything – but here there is nothing."

Several evacuees, as well as people still living in the rubble of their homes, reported that a burglar had been stabbed during a robbery. There were also reports of a sexual assault. Their accounts could not be confirmed as the local police post has been destroyed. But the sense of fear is real.

Suzuki was burgled while he was in the house. The barber had gone back to pick up some belongings and check on the family shrine. In the short time he was there, a thief climbed up the ladder through which Suzuki entered his home and made off with his bank card and cheque book.

"I totally lost trust in everyone," Suzuki said. "My sense of trust is as badly destroyed as this landscape."

He is convinced, though, that the thieves had to be from outside the neighbourhood. "I was born and raised here and grew up here," he said. "I know everyone here."

Those bonds are what have sustained people since the tsunami: sharing food and water, and whatever warm clothes they can salvage from their homes. But as time goes on, those bonds are becoming more fragile and they only stretch so far.

"In this school everybody helps each other and it is great, but when we go outside that is when I am afraid," Matsumi said.

Matsumi's home – or what remains of it – is just across the street from the shelter, but she is afraid to go there alone to try to salvage her belongings. "When I have to go to my house, I get somebody to watch me from the window. Even then I run to get what I need. I don't want to stay there for too long," she said.

"I survived this earthquake and tsunami and I'm still alive. I can't die now because of some criminal out there."