With the recent headlines grabbed by the hundreds of tons of radioactive water flowing into the Pacific Ocean, the human crisis in Japan has been overlooked. It has been more than two and a half years since the Japan’s nuclear crisis, but refugees’ lives have still not returned to normal.
Despite the almost 83,000 refugees forced to flee from the worst hit areas of north-east Japan, the government has made little to no progress on their official goal of decontaminating the area. People from the town of Namie, and ten other evacuated villages, still reside in cramped temporary housing, and meager monthly stipends, in the hopes that they can one day return to their ancestral homes.
However, the years have passed, and the afflicted areas look as though no repair efforts have been made whatsoever; the government is hopelessly behind on the cleanup schedule. Refugees have been patient, but as they wait in an emotional and legal limbo, some have begun to grown bitter and speak of government obfuscation—experts warn that the cleanup could actually take decades, and that the government just refuses to admit it for fear of sabotaging plans to reopen other nuclear plants.
The town of Namie, only five miles away from the plant, used to be a small farming and fishing establishment lying peacefully between the mountains and the Pacific. However, these days it has become a ghost town, cluttered with garbage and weeds, and divided into color-coded hazard zones. Signs warn of feral cattle, released by fleeing farmers. Traditional wooden farmhouses rot unattended, tiled roofs spilling into the streets. Visitors must be issued dosimeters upon arrival, and screened on their way out.
In a recent survey of the town, it has been found that 30% have given up on reclaiming their lives, 30% remain hopeful, and 40% are unsure.
The 74-year-old Hiroko Watabe is part of this second group. Every month, she returns to weed her abandoned home (square in the code-orange area) armed with a surgical mask and radiation measuring device. Watabe refuses to give up her home to the ravages of time—unlike her neighbors, who have chest-high weeds blocking the doorways of their homes.
It has not been an easy task though; in the time Watabe has been doing this, a wild boar has invaded her yard—which she chased off—her husband’s car dealership has been robbed, and the dosimeter shows radiation levels more than two times above evacuation levels.
She has driven here from the city of Koriyama, one hour away, with her husband Masazumi. She states that in her heart, she knows they can never live there again, but continues doing this to give herself purpose and prove to herself that this is still their home. Her youngest son though now lives in Tokyo suburb, worried about the social stigma that could result from being associated with the nuclear disaster, as the survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki face. He has vowed never to return.
“The young people have already given up on Namie. It is only the old people who want to come back,” Watabe stated.
