The traces left behind

It has been about three months since the ground beneath Tohoku broke out into a big rumble. The Tohoku earthquake released an immense tsunami, which swallowed up the coastline in northeast Japan. Thousands of lives were taken; people are still missing; and entire buildings, homes for that matter, were reduced to rubble. Now, we feel slight aftershocks on a daily basis; these slights shakes are constant reminders of March 11.

If you take a quick glimpse at the world reports abroad, you'll see that Fukushima is no longer at the forefront. Even a mere two weeks after the quake, Coop and the Gup (as L. and I dubbed the CNN duo) decreased their Fukushima coverage. Instead, reporters shed light on the growing tensions in Libya. And soon, Fukushima faded away. Recently, I've clicked on my usual Canadian news websites like the CBC or the Globe and Mail, only to find that the Fukushima story is barely covered. It's part of the ebb and flow of the news cycle. My JTE knows that my background is in journalism. He asked me to tell Fukushima's story, even though I am finishing my time here in August. I'll do my best, Sato-sensei.

So, I have been trying to chronicle the things I've experienced since returning in early May. I'll admit that I've been pretty caught up with re-gaining my own footing. I haven't been to the coast yet for volunteering. My friends tell me parts of towns affected by the tsunami are covered in debris. Debris that'll take months, probably years, to clear away. Mad props to those who have made the trek to the coastline.

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It's strange to see how life continues on. Take a look at my town. When you go to the local burger joint, a whiteboard highlights that the green produce used is from another prefecture. (It's highly suggested to stay away from greens grown in Fukushima). I still drink bottled water, even though everyone says the minute amounts in our tap water is harmless. Teachers carry light blue dosimeters in their pockets, measuring external radiation exposure. And filling up your gas tank is a little more expensive than usual. Talk of radiation permeates daily conversation.

It breaks my heart when my co-workers, most of whom don't speak English, do their best to tell me how they feel about the current situation. I won't forget when M-sensei reminded me in broken Japanese and English that the kanji behind "Fukushima" (福島) loosely translates into "Happy Island." M-sensei then continued on, saying we are now "Unhappy Island." He was trying to express that the Tohoku disaster has changed all of our lives, making things difficult.

On Friday, I was posting up photos on my makeshift English corner in our temporary school. Another teacher stood beside me, admiring the photos of my friends who held up a small poster: "We love you, Fukushima." He was really happy to see that the world keeps Fukushima in its thoughts. But he was sad that life would no longer be the same. He told me that rice was being planted, but the harvest wouldn't sell. He told me about traces of radiation popping up in Tokyo and surrounding areas. He talked about the invisible radiation threat.

It really hits me when Japanese people are honest about their concerns with me, despite our communication difficulties.