BREAKING NEWS

spreads. Above right:this fire at an oil refineryburnt for 10 days.

. M8.8 QUAKE HITS JAPAN

The family wears facemasks outside for fearof inhaling radioactivedust. Right: news ofthe quake quickly

Perhaps one day,

Aiko* and Kenji*Nomura willlaugh about the"Birthday CakeIncident" of late2012. Aiko, a careworker from thecity of Koriyamain north-east

Japan's Fukushima prefecture, wascelebrating her 35th birthday. Herhusband, Kenji, decided to surpriseher with the biggest cake he could find.It was filled with whipped cream anddecorated with pink roses.

"I couldn't help myself," recalls Aiko."Kenji had a huge smile on his face, butthe first words out of my mouth whenI saw the cake were, 'Is the cream safe?'"

Since March 2011, when a meltdownoccurred at the Fukushima DaiichiNuclear Power Station 60km from theirhome, the Nomuras have avoided buyingdairy and other food produced in theirregion. Kenji, 42, confessed to Aiko thathe'd forgotten to check the cream's ori¬gins. "I'm sure it's fine. Please eat some

- just this once," he begged her. Aikorefused. She wouldn't let their childrenhave any, either. Kenji ate the cake alone.The couple didn't speak for two days.

It's been more than two years sincethe earthquake and tsunami in north¬eastern Japan that killed almost 20,000people and caused the world's worstnuclear disaster in 25 years. Koriyama,an inland commercial hub with 337,000people and views of nearby mountains,was spared the tsunami's monstrouswaves, but it couldn't escape the cloudsof radioactive particles that spreadwidely following multiple explosions at

the Daiichi plant. The totalamount of radiation releasedinto the air was between 10-40per cent (depending on who funded theestimate) of the quantity released dur¬ing Ukraine's Chernobyl disaster in 1986- and over an area of Japan with a popu¬lation density 10 times greater. In theaftermath, radiation levels in Koriyamaspiked at 30-40 times higher than legallimits, contaminating the city with cae¬sium and other long-life radionuclides(radioactive atoms) for decades to come.

The Nomuras, who have two smalldaughters - Sakura*, almost four, andKoto*, nearly two - have managed tohold together their marriage and family,but only just. In the past two years,they've had to cope with the arrival of anew baby (Aiko was newly pregnant withKoto when the disaster struck), periodsof enforced separation, and life in anenvironment that feels infinitely lesswholesome and secure than it did before.

The stress on family life for alltwo million residents across Fukushimahas been immense. Marital discord hasbecome so widespread that thephenomenon of couples breaking uphas a name: genpatsu rikon, or "atomicdivorce". There are no statistics yet, butNoriko Kubota, a professor of clinicalpsychology at Fukushima's Iwaki MeiseiUniversity, claims there are many cases."People are living with constantlow-level anxiety. They don't have theemotional strength to mend theirrelationships when cracks appear."

Moreover, now that what Kubotacalls the "disaster honeymoon period" ofpeople uniting to help one another in theimmediate aftermath is over, long-termpsychological trauma is setting in. "We

are starting to see more cases of suicide,depression, alcoholism, gambling anddomestic violence," she asserts. Theyoung are not immune, either. InDecember 2012, Fukushima's childrentopped Japan's obesity rankings for thefirst time, apparently due to comforteating and inordinate amounts of timespent indoors avoiding contamination."From the point of view of mental health,this is a very critical time," adds Kubota.

Most unmentionable of all, peoplefrom Fukushima are experiencingdiscrimination within Japanese society.Social stigma attached to victims ofradiation goes back to the aftermathof the World War II atomic bombings ofHiroshima and Nagasaki, when mencouldn't find work and women wereunable to marry due to fears theywere "tainted". While the ignorancethat remains is far from widespread, it ishighly pernicious. Tales exist of peoplefrom Fukushima being barred fromdonating blood, or being asked toprovide a medical certificate listingtheir caesium levels on job applications.

A Tokyo maternity hospital advisedone mother not to let her Fukushima-based parents visit their new grandchild,"just to be safe". Prejudice againstwomen is the most pervasive: manynegative comments in the mediainsinuate that Fukushima women are"damaged goods". Even some peoplewho are supposedly on the side of radia¬tion victims are prepared to throw themon the reproductive scrap heap. In July2012, prominent anti-nuclear activistHobun Ikeya, head of the Ecosystem

108

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From left; the once-thriving town of Natoriis now a wasteland; aGeiger counter and theMr Gamma dosimeterdetect radiation; awaiter at Ginga noHotori restaurant,which serves non¬radioactive meals.

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Conservation Society of Japan, said at apublic meeting, "PeoplefromFukushimashould not marry because the deformityrate of their babies will skyrocket."

Aiko and Kenji are eating lunchwhen I meet them at a restaurantoutside Koriyama's city centre.

It's a freezing winter's day, but insidethere's a coal-burning stove and thecomforting smell of roasted sesame. Thecouple is sitting at alowtable on atatamimat floor calmly eating while their girls,Sakura and Koto, clamber over them.

The restaurant, says Aiko, is theirnew sanctuary. Called Ginga no Hotori("Edge of the Galaxy"), the formerhealth-food restaurant now servessomething even better for the body;guaranteed non-radioactive meals."It's relaxing to eat here. I don't haveto cook or worry," says Aiko. "And thefood is very tasty."

Enormous effort goes into prepar¬ing the tofu burgers, black sesamebuns, organic miso soup and othermenu items. Hidden behind a rus¬tic partition is a high-tech metalpanel with dials and switches thatoperate a gamma spectroscopymachine. It looks similar to anindustrial-sized food processor, exceptit measures levels of the deadly radio¬isotope caesium-137. The restaurant'sowner, Katsuko Arima, an energetic50-something in a blue bandana,explains that each food item must bepeeled and chopped before being placedin the machine for 30 minutes. "Samplesfrom everything we use in our cookingare checked and rechecked," sheinsists. "It's a lot of work, but I wantedto do this to give people some certainty,some peace, when they eat here."

While the restaurant is one of a kind,numerous citizens groups with similarmachines have set up makeshift offices

in shopping centres so people can testeverything from their groceries to gar¬den soil. "Nobody trusts the governmentanymore," states Arima. She cites casesof official incompetence when suppliesof beef, rice and vegetables declared safeby the authorities were found to be con¬taminated. "You can only trustyourself."

Aiko and Kenji agree. After lunch,they tell me that conflicting informationabout safety issues has caused countlessarguments. "We've ended up screamingat each other," reveals Aiko. Now they'vemade a pact to take their Jiealth, and thatof their daughters, into their own handsas much as possible. "We would rathermove away from here, but we can't affordit," muses Kenji, a softly spoken manwith a fringe that sits neatly on the rimof his spectacles. "I would have to give upmyjob. It is hard to find new work in thecurrent economy." Koriyama, like manyaffected towns, is outside the manda¬tory evacuation zone. The government

Marital discord hasbecome so widespread, the phenomenon

is called "atomic divorce"

decreed that the radiation risk to healthwas "minimal" beyond a 30km radiusaround the plant and has provided nosupport to help people leave indepen¬dently. Kenji reasons it is afraid oftriggering an exodus that would impov¬erish the disaster-hit region further.

In assessing the dangers, theNomuras believe there are too manyunknowns to feel secure. "If there's one

thing we've learnt, it's that the govern¬ment and scientists don't have all theanswers," notes Kenji. "Even if the risksare low, we must do everything wecan to minimise our daughters' radia¬tion exposure." Aiko nods. "As parents

who have to live here, it'sthe only option," she adds.

In practice, this meanstrying to seal all the leakyedges of their world with¬

out turning it into an over-sanitisedbubble. It's a difficult balance, and Aikoadmits she often struggles. "Sakuraalways wants to pick up flowers andleaves when we're outside, and I hearmyself saying things like, 'Don't touch,get away from that.' It's sad." The familywears face masks outside, and drivesinstead of walking. They dry their laun¬dry and air their futons inside. Theyavoid tap water, fish, seaweed, dairyand locally grown rice and vegetables.Like most people, they own a portabledosimeter for measuring external radi¬ation (a popular brand is Mr Gamma).

Although most of Koriyama hasbeen decontaminated through washingand removing topsoil, high radiation lev¬els can return with wind and rain. Theperiodic discovery of radioactive "hot-spots" everywhere from playgroundsto parking lots is a constant concern.

Arima brings a tray of radiation-freecoffee. It's also coffee-free coffee. It's her

own recipe of steeped bamboocharcoal grains, charred soy¬beans, azuki beans and crushedbrown rice. "It has excellentdecontaminating properties,"she declares. Everyone drinksit down and, like everything

else in Arima's restaurant, it's delicious.The next morning I visit Aiko and

her two girls at their apartment. Kenji isat work. Their home is in the classicutilitarian Japanese style; low-rise con¬crete exterior, with tatami mat floorsand cream walls inside. We sit at theliving-room table, with laundry dan¬gling over our heads. Although Sakuraand Koto have plenty of toys lyingaround, the girls never stray from theirmother during the three hours we talk.

Aiko was driving when the magni¬tude 9 earthquake struck at 2.46pmon Friday March 11, 2011. As a careworker for the elderly, she was on her ÿ

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way to visit a disabled widower. "Theroad started shaking and I stopped thecar. The quake was so violent, the trafficlights were waving like flags." Kenji wasat home that day taking care of Sakura,then 15 months old, who had measles."I managed to call him on my mobile.They were not hurt," recounts Aiko.

At first, the Nomuras were preoccu¬pied with the news emerging aboutthe annihilation of towns along theTohoku coastline. The tsunami reachedup to 40 metres above normal sea level,and it was obvious that hundreds, pos¬sibly thousands, of lives were lost.

"I couldn't stop crying. I'd neverseen anything like it," remembers Aiko.She heard a newsreader mentioning theFukushima Daiichi power plant, but shewasn't alarmed. "All I caught was thatthere wasn't a serious problem." Indeed,

although it's now emerged that thegovernment knew a cataclysmic failureof the cooling systems was likely tooccur, it failed to raise the alarm.

On the evening of the disaster,a spokesperson told reporters: "Thereis no radiation leak, nor will there bea leak." When the hydrogen explosionsbegan soon after, authorities con¬tinued to downplay the severityand misinform the public.

The Nomuras had much atstake when the reactors blew up.Aiko had just realised she wasfive weeks pregnant with Koto."We knew radiation was especiallydangerous for unborn babies, so wewere terrified," admits Aiko.

Unconvinced by continued govern¬ment reassurances, Aiko decided to fleesouth with Sakura. It was too late toprevent their exposure to iodine-131,a radioisotope that attaches to thethyroid gland. It is believed to havecaused hundreds of cases of thyroidcancer among people who were childrenat the time of the Chernobyl disaster.As of June, Japan had tested 174,000children in Fukushima and foundabnormal thyroid cysts and nodules in

more than 40 per cent. Twelve cases ofcancer were confirmed, another 16 weresuspected. Sakura is waiting to be tested.

Aiko went to stay with friends inOsaka. Kenji remained at home. Asstories of contamination dominated thenews, Aiko pleaded with her husband toleave Koriyama. Here, her story divergesfrom the version Kenji gave at the res¬taurant the previous day. "I told him itdidn't matter about his job. I didn't careabout money." Kenji was furious. Hesaid he'd had his post office job sincehe was 20 years old; leaving his col¬leagues would be like desertion. "Somepeople in Koriyama even put pressureon me to come back. They said if we'reall going to die, we should die together- that's the mentality," points out Aiko.

In November 2011, near the end ofher pregnancy, Aiko left Osaka forTokyo. There were more specialists inthe effects of radiation on unborn babiesand it was closer for Kenji to visit. Buttheir marriage was on the point ofcollapse. "We wanted to make it work,but it seemed impossible," says Aiko.

Being alone in the capital, a heavilypregnant nuclear refugee with a toddler

in tow, was almost "breaking point" forher, explains Aiko. Koto was born witha "strange mark" on her bottom, butotherwise healthy. The mark was sounusual, 10 specialists examined it;none of them could determine whatit was. "All the doctors were in the roomat once. I felt like we were guinea pigs."They still don't have any answers.

When Koto was a few monthsold, Aiko moved back toKoriyama. "It was too damag¬

ing for the children to be separatedfrom their father, and to be living like

gypsies," she justifies. Aiko insists theatmosphere in Koriyama is differentnow than when she left in March 2011.Fukushima, once one of Japan's richestagricultural areas, is trying to recovereconomically. In the finely calibratedworld of Japanese social interaction, it'staboo to admit to not buying local pro¬duce or even mention radiation fears.The nearby city of Iwaki even has asuperhero called Jangara, who appearsat events for children. His archenemiesare "fools and sloppy people" who com¬plain about radioactivity and spreadrumours that the area isn't safe to visit.

Aiko understands the desire toregenerate the area and dispel negativ¬ity, but not at the expense of downplay¬ing the disaster or the dangers it stillposes. She's angry with the governmentand power company Tepco. She's alsoangry with herself and everyone else inFukushima who colluded with nuclearpower. "We are all responsible. We voted

for the plant to be built, wewanted the material benefits itwould bring to the area." And sheworries, terribly, about whetherher daughters will face their ownproblems with fuhyo higai(harmful rumours) in the future.

Still, the Nomuras' greatest concernis the health of their daughters. Serioushealth consequences of low-dose radia¬tion, which enters the body's tissues anddamages DNA, often don't show up foryears. With the second anniversarybehind them, the couple is happy they'rerebuilding their family life and that theirhome region is slowly regenerating.

But the passage of time also bringsan unwelcome twist. "It's impossible torecover fully from a nuclear accident,"says Aiko. "Each anniversary, Kenjiand I will be thinking, Ts this the yearone of our daughters will get sick?'" ¦

We knew radiation wasdangerous for unborn babies, so

we were terrified Aiko Nomura*

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