“Fukushima… why have I heard of that place?”
(A major nuclear disaster caused by a giant tsunami does tend to make itself memorable.)
Explaining to family and friends abroad that I was
relocating to this stricken part of Japan for work was exceptionally hard to
do. Almost as hard as making the decision in the first place. I struggled just
to get enough information on which to base the decision.
Try an internet search for “Fukushima radiation levels” and you get a jumble of confusing
pieces of information, a mix of the most recent news reports on the subject: “The WHO declares the levels aren’t enough
to cause cancer.” “Fish offshore from the plant have 100 times the normal
limit!” and so on. Conflicting accounts make it difficult to interpret.
For a high-paying, short-term contract, I ended up deciding
it was worth the risk.
When I first arrived, things seemed normal enough. I mean, I
didn’t expect to see devastation all around or anything; it was cleaned up
relatively quickly right after the fact, with all the efficiency to be expected of the Japanese.
I just supposed it would be a little more like the
twilight-zone. You know, eerie or something.
But this small town seemed not unlike the one I grew up in:
slow-paced, quiet.
Then again… maybe a little too quiet.
My neighbor pointed it out to me. “Listen,” she said, and
fell into silence.
I waited expectantly.
“You can’t hear anything. That’s because: there are no children here.”
It’s always harder to observe the lack of something, rather than what actually is there, but I slowly
realized that she was right. Parents do not tow their children along on trips
to the grocery store or the pharmacy. The small school I run past on my
afternoon jog is perpetually empty. I hardly even see the fashion-conscious
teens that drive the vast Japanese marketing machine; ad space on the trains is
generally left empty.
Radiation can affect DNA. Children (even fetuses) are the
most susceptible to these effects. So most have been sent away.
I remember my old students in Nagoya at times being quite
vocal about the situation in Japan. Some would engage in the very un-Japanese
pastime of debate about whether the nuclear plants should be put back into
production (exchanges were always respectful of course).
Another student was involved in research through his
graduate program to see if the soil in Fukushima could be decontaminated. Not
when or how it could be decontaminated. If.
Vegetables linger on in one section of the supermarket until
they start to rot- it is required to clearly label where they come from and
Fukushima is not at the top of people’s preferences these days.
Persimmons, one of the famous crops from the area, manage to
cling to the trees long after they’ve ripened. No one will harvest them this
autumn, so they remain, bright orange against the progressively darkening
skies, ominous ornaments heralding another winter that won’t be punctuated by
the glorious laughter of children sledding, building igloos, having snow fights.
The people I’ve talked to here are keen to share their
experiences of the earthquake and life since then. In fact, events are
frequently referenced as having taken place either before or after “The
Tragedy.” But they are also quick to point out that “so many others suffered
more.”
My company-issued Geiger counter shows that I get a little
over 3 micro-sieverts a day living here. In my 10 weeks here, I should receive
about 120 micro-sieverts, the equivalent of 2 chest X-rays. However, that does
not account for having already lived 6 months in another part of Japan.
Tokyo and other nearby places in Japan are getting about two-thirds
the daily amount of radiation I’m getting in Fukushima. Nagoya, my old city, is
getting a third.
The airwaves aren’t the problem now though. Radiation that
can be taken into the body through inhaled dust particles, groundwater, and
soil remnants on vegetables are the things to be concerned about, and that all
comes from the initial contamination. There are rumors that it will be an issue
for dozens, if not hundreds, of years.
On a recent trip to Tokyo, my first contact with the
“outside” world since entering the exclusion zone, almost everyone I met,
including Japanese people, did a double-take upon hearing where I live:
“Really?? I thought all the foreigners left there.”
I explain the situation to the best of my ability: “There is
no visible damage where I live.”
Still incredulous, they press for further info. “But how do
the people seem?”
I can’t think of how to respond… Ambivalent? Resilient? Unhappy?
“I don’t know,” is all I can offer honestly.
In Tokyo, there are still weekly protests every Friday
against the re-commissioning of the nuclear plants. However, the media has
stopped covering it. The people are made to hold them in a very inconvenient
location, where few passersby can see and the numbers cannot be fully
comprehended because of the small space. Regardless of whether it is given airtime,
the subject is still being discussed with urgency in many homes across Japan.
For now, those that remain behind in Fukushima are carrying
on as best they can. They are invested in their lives here and either can’t or
won’t pack up and move away. Existence continues in no more mundane a fashion
than it did before the disaster, with people still going about their business
as usual.
And still… there are no children here.
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