information about Fukushima published in English in Japanese media info publiée en anglais dans la presse japonaise
25 Juin 2012
June 18, 2012
Ruiko Muto poses for a photograph together with her dog near her coffee shop, Kirara, in Tamura, Fukushima Prefecture. (Mainichi)
http://mainichi.jp/graph/2012/06/18/20120618p2a00m0na019000c/002.html
TAMURA, Fukushima -- For some 16 years prior to the outbreak of the nuclear crisis at the Fukushima No. 1 nuclear plant, 58-year-old Ruiko Muto led a simple, peaceful life surrounded by this rural city's beautiful, rich nature. Today, 15 months after the disaster, she has lost much of what used to fulfill her life, leaving a growing sentiment of resentment and despair.
It was the sounds of nature that used to remind Muto of the changing seasons. Summers came along with bird cries and appearances of the migrating paradise flycatchers. New green leaves grew vigorously, with their growth suddenly stopping right before the approaching autumn. In winter, the 58-year-old relaxed at her woodstove-heated home. In spring, she enjoyed the bloom of violets, winter speedwells, plantain lilies, and many other flowers and plants.
Amid such rich nature stood Muto's mountain-forest coffee shop, Kirara.
Kirara, bearing the meaning of "brilliance," was built in 2003 after Muto's retirement from a prefectural school for disabled children, shortly before turning 50. The naming represented her wish to spend the latter part of her life "shining." At Kirara, where many people who sympathized with her way of life gathered, Muto served various specialties made of local plants and forest treats, including a popular acorn curry dish. Muto's cuisine also featured miso soup with local plants such as ashitaba.
"Every season had its own beauty as if it were a painting. Living amid such beautiful nature in my hometown used to make me happy," says Muto.
However, in March 2011 Muto's life changed drastically. The tsunami-stricken Fukushima No. 1 nuclear plant was located only about 45 kilometers from her coffee shop. The hydrogen explosion at the plant dispersed radioactive materials as far as the mountains near Muto's shop. Suddenly she was no longer able to eat nuts, berries, fruit, or wild plants, from the local forests, nor could she use wood to heat up her house or cook. The critical situation forced her to close her coffee shop.
"All living things in the forests were showered with radioactive substances. My life in the mountains will never be restored," says Muto quietly, though anger sparks in her eyes.
As a result of the nuclear disaster, countless numbers of Fukushima residents were forced to lead insecure lives, characterized by various restrictions and constant worry over radiation. The prefecture, which often used to be called "beautiful island" had been greatly hurt. As of May 10 this year, some 62,038 residents have evacuated to other prefectures. A ban on rice planting has been imposed on a total area of some 7,300 hectares of rice paddies.
"It makes me uneasy," uttered Muto with a sigh at the thought of the unclear road ahead of her.
Muto had chosen this isolated life in the mountains and forests in opposition to the existence of nuclear power plants. When the construction of the Fukushima plant began in 1967, Muto recalls she was "indifferent" (toward nuclear power.) However, oddly enough, in the same year when the Chernobyl disaster struck Ukraine in 1986, Muto's elder sister, who had been suffering from a thyroid gland disease since she was a student at Fukushima University, developed leukemia at the age of 36.
"When we were growing up, nuclear experiments were conducted in the U.S., the Soviet Union and China. I remembered I was told not to let myself be exposed to rain," Muto recalls. Contrary to people's anxieties, however, nuclear plants continued to be built in Japan one after another. While Muto took part in an anti-nuclear power campaign, she came to the decision that it is necessary to change one's own lifestyle first, before opposing such developments.
This decision led her to begin a new life in the countryside, surrounded by nature, at the age of 42. It took her three years to level the land and build a cottage. "With only lamps and woodstoves, when you looked up the sky you could see all the stars," Muto recalls.
In her life in the countryside Muto aimed to achieve nearly complete self-sufficiency. She expanded her agricultural field and set-up solar panels, as well as cooking and water-heating devices that used solar heat. She used her retirement allowance to build her house and open Kirara.
On March 11, 2011, the day the Great East Japan Earthquake struck the Tohoku region, Muto was at her coffee shop. She heard the mountains rumbling and the tremors gradually became stronger. The first thought on her mind was whether the nuclear power plant was safe, she recalls.
As she was cleaning her almost undamaged shop after the earthquake, she heard the news that there had been a complete power loss at the plant's reactors. Amid a snowstorm, she got in her car together with her elderly mother and other people, and headed west.
"I made the decision (to live in the countryside) exactly in order to avoid such a thing ..." Muto thought with irritation at the time.
The following day, March 12, Muto quickly left Aizuwakamatsu in Fukushima Prefecture where she had briefly taken shelter, and headed home to call on other people to evacuate as well. As soon as she arrived back home, the news of the hydrogen explosion at the plant awaited her. She then evacuated to Yamagata Prefecture.
In mid-April, pushed by her mother who wanted to go back to Tamura, Muto once again returned to her coffee shop. The forests and the agriculture fields seemed unchanged at a glance. However, radiation doses in the vicinity at the time were 1 to 3 microsieverts per hour. Muto could no longer return to her pre-disaster life.
"Kirara used to be the place I lived," Muto says of her closed coffee shop.
At present, Muto is taking part in various gatherings in Japan and abroad that openly discuss the reality of Fukushima Prefecture, as well as group initiatives demanding plant operator Tokyo Electric Power Co. (TEPCO) and other related authorities take responsibility for the crisis.
However, the nuclear crisis has also led to estrangement between formerly close people. In the case of Muto, a local farmer who previously used to give her vegetables, now no longer does so. The man restarted farming last autumn after radiation doses somewhat decreased in the region, and he is already harvesting crops. However, he began keeping a distance from Muto after noticing that she no longer worked her own fields.
"The crisis has created gaps between people who have different opinions about the effects of radiation," Muto says with regret. "The government hid a lot of information and presented the crisis as a much more minor incident than it actually was. Fukushima people are divided in their opinions regarding evacuation, compensation, decontamination and other matters. We were regarded as 'obedient residents,' but we can no longer allow authorities to treat us as ignorant people," she adds as she hopes that one day she will be able to restart her countryside life.
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