Risk Society and Education in Post-Disaster Fukushima (Routledge Critical Studies in Asian Education) [1 ed.] 9780367546700, 9780367546717, 9781003090083

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Risk Society and Education in Post-Disaster Fukushima

In response to the explosion of the Fukushima Daiichi power plant in March 2011, this book examines how the concept of a risk society was handled in the various education programs implemented in post-disaster Fukushima. The explosion and subsequent radiation contamination that affected the biosphere of the Fukushima region and beyond, revealed that we live in a risk society. Despite this revelation, official discourses in Fukushima have been geared strictly toward the future, with the aim of restoring communities and resuming development projects. Ethnographic data collected by the author in Fukushima between 2013 and 2016 show how various contested emotions emerged in those education spaces as students and teachers remembered their romanticized and difficult past and dealt with the challenges presented by the risk society in their present lives. The emotionally charged interactions between past and present also shaped their vision of their future community and of the actions they might take. The dialogs and actions that took places in these education spaces will encourage readers to examine the meaning of development and question the basic assumptions and methods of education as society shifts to a risk society. A valuable resource for scholars and students in the fields of globalization and education, curriculum studies, sociology of education, and Japanese Studies. Kaoru Miyazawa is an Associate Professor and Chair in the Education Department at Gettysburg College, USA. She received an EdD from the Department of Curriculum and Teaching at Teachers College, Columbia University in 2010, and was a visiting scholar at Fukushima University, Japan and the University of Wisconsin-Madison in 2015–2016.

Routledge Critical Studies in Asian Education Series Editors: S. Gopinathan, Wing On Lee and Jason Eng Thye Tan

Internationalization of Teacher Education and the Nation State Rethinking Nationalization in Singapore and Beyond Rita Z. Nazeer-Ikeda Education and Social Justice in Japan Kaori H. Okano The Privatisation of Higher Education in Postcolonial Bangladesh The Politics of Intervention and Control Ariful H Kabir and Raqib Chowdhury Tamils, Social Capital and Educational Marginalization in Singapore Labouring to Learn Lavanya Balachandran Families, the State and Educational Inequality in the Singapore City-State Charleen Chiong School Leadership in Malaysia Policy, Research and Practice Edited by Tony Bush STEM Education from Asia Trends and Perspectives Edited by Tang Wee Teo, Aik-Ling Tan and Paul Teng Risk Society and Education in Post-Disaster Fukushima Kaoru Miyazawa For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge. com/Routledge-Critical-Studies-in-Asian-Education/book-series/RCSAE

Risk Society and Education in Post-Disaster Fukushima

Kaoru Miyazawa

First published 2022 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2022 Kaoru Miyazawa The right of Kaoru Miyazawa to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-0-367-54670-0 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-367-54671-7 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-09008-3 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003090083 Typeset in Galliard by SPi Technologies India Pvt Ltd (Straive)

Contents

List of illustrations Acknowledgments 1 Introduction Background  1 Problems and questions  7 Conceptual frameworks  8 Methodology  12 Chapter summaries  15 Notes  18 References 19

viii ix 1

2 History of modern Japan and nuclear energy Before WWII: self-driven Westernization  22 History of nuclear energy  25 After the explosion: anti-nuclear discourse  27 History of Tohoku and Fukushima  28 Modern history of education in Japan  34 Conclusion  39 Notes  40 References 40

22

3 Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima Native researchers and the decolonization of ethnography  45 Researchers’ positionality and Fukushima’s past and present  47 Contested memories of home  48 Trauma: unspeakable memories of catastrophe  51 Synthesis and discussion  55

45

vi  Contents Conclusion  59 Notes  60 References 60 4 Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima 63 Introduction  63 Nuclear energy as safe energy: a scientific explanation and silence  64 Atomic bombs and nuclear power: two discourses of nuclear energy  65 Waku Waku: exciting feelings about nuclear power  66 Problems of risk communication  68 Caught in the middle  74 Becoming scientists  75 Conclusion  77 Notes  78 References 79 5 Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing Introduction  83 Schools under pressure for normalization  85 Between love and fear  89 Trauma and developing empathy at school  95 Conclusion  99 Notes  100 References 100 6 Discrimination against hibakusha and developing global networks Introduction: radiation contamination and disgust  104 Two high-school programs in Fukushima  109 High School Peace Seminar (HPS)  110 Education for Sustainable Development (ESD)  115 Responsibility: a forgotten issue  121 Conclusion  124 Notes  125 References 126 7 The OECD Tohoku School Introduction  129 Education reform in Japan from the 1990s to 2011  130 Cultural gap between public schools and TS  132 Students’ agencies in TS  136 Conclusion  143 Notes  145 References 145

83

104

129

Contents  vii 8 Love for genpatsu, and forming new relationships The community’s memories of genpatsu and TEPCO  148 Agents for change: AFW and RefLab  151 Reflective nostalgia  151 Reconfiguring relationships surrounding genpatsu  158 Citizen scientists  163 Conclusion  167 Notes  169 References 169

148

9 Conclusion Emotions as productive entity  172 Manifestation of risk society in Fukushima  175 Reflection on modernization in Japan and its consequences  177 Curriculum and teaching in post-disaster Fukushima  178 Implications for society  181 Education implications  184 Conclusion  194 Notes  197 References 197

172

Index

201

Illustrations

Figures 1.1 2.1 2.2 4.1 4.2 5.1 8.1 8.2

Tohoku Earthquake, Japan Oushuu Alliance Map of Futaba County, Fukushima Airborne Radiation 4.29.2011 ALARA Model Gambarou Posters in School Population decrease in Fukushima Reflab Field Trip Poster

2 30 33 69 71 84 149 152

Table 7.1 Local OECD teams from Fukushima prefecture and number of students 130

Acknowledgments

On the morning of March 11, 2011, I learned about the earthquake and tsunami in Japan from a friend’s phone call. When I turned on a You Tube video I saw dark-grey heavy masses of water moving slowly from the ocean, swallowing up cars, boats, buildings, trees, animals, and perhaps people. The dark cold waves were sweeping away everything and turned coastal towns into piles of debris. I heard the names of towns in Japanese that were familiar to me. Yet strangely, those names sounded distant at the same time. The scene was so surreal that it took me for a while to realize that it was not a scene from a film, but a real footage captured in Fukushima. Since that day, beliefs my parents and teachers had taught me and I had clung onto for decades began to fall apart. At the same time, I struggled to find new values and ways of living that could replace the old ones. I had begun to let go. I felt empty and lost for several years. Despite this feeling of emptiness, I somehow had a firm conviction that I should write about Fukushima. It was an ambitious and risky desire. At first, I had no idea where to start, what literature to read, or even what questions to ask. The only thing I could do for the first few years was to grope about for basic information about the disaster. Gradually, I identified several questions. A path to those answers emerged from somewhere and became visible to me along the way. It was never an easy journey with a clear-cut path. I stumbled and got lost many times. Yet, I somehow pulled myself up and found a way to continue with my quest. This book is a product of these ten years of struggle and bewilderment. Through those years, I constantly tried to make sense of how and why we had enabled such a man-made catastrophe, how I had been involved in this modern project of “development” as a citizen and an educator, how we should take responsibility for this catastrophe, and where we should go from here. My inquiry, as far as I can remember, started as a professional one. However, it soon began to acquire personal meaning. In particular, my visit to Fukushima, where I grew up and to which I had not returned for almost 30 years, guided me to revisit, re-examine, and reconnect with my roots and people from my community. It was both a nostalgic and a humbling process. Encountering and sharing stories with teachers, students, scholars, journalists, activists, artists, and therapists from the community I grew up in as well as those from all over the world through this project added personal

x  Acknowledgments meaning to this journey. I will cherish the memories of all those moments I spent with each one of them for the rest of my life. Looking back on my journey, I acknowledge that I have changed fundamentally both as a person and as a scholar. Just as I changed, those I met and who contributed to the creation of this book have changed also. Ambitious college students, whom I met at Fukushima University during my sabbatical year in 2015, are now living their dreams. Some teachers I interviewed are still active in classrooms and professional organizations. They continue to share their first-hand experience of the nuclear disaster and its educational implications nationally and internationally. Others are enjoying their post-retirement lives. Some contributors to this book are no longer here. Ulrich Beck was a scholar who had a tremendous impact on this work. His theory of risk society and cosmopolitanization allowed me to see the disaster and reconstruction effort in Fukushima through a new critical lens. I communicated with him in 2014 and accepted his invitation to participate in his seminar at the University of Munich in 2015. I found out that he unexpectedly passed away from a heart attack on January 1, 2015. Yet his death gave a new direction to my research journey. Instead of going to Germany, I extended my stay in Fukushima. While I struggled tremendously in conducting my research in Fukushima, where people were suffering from collective trauma, I also met wonderful teachers. Taeko Onuki was one of them. She met with me one day in August 2016 in Minami Soma, a coastal town in Fukushima directly hit by the tsunami and the nuclear power plant’s explosion, where she had lived and taught for many years. Then, she drove me to the disaster-stricken zones. During the almost two-hour drive, she explained the interdependent relations between the community and the nuclear industry and the endless anguish the communities have to endure as a consequence of the disaster. I did not then know she was suffering from terminal cancer. Onuki passed away several months after that tour. Benedikta Scheiby is another significant person I met through this study. The nature and quality of this book would not have been the same without her. As a therapist and a researcher, she guided me for two years as I went through intensive recovery from my personal and collective trauma that had not been treated for decades. Developing understanding on the nature and effects of trauma led me to use affect as one of the major analytical lenses for this study and to value the role of emotion both in research and in teaching. She was invariably dynamic, compassionate, and genuine. I had no idea she too was suffering from terminal cancer. She passed away in February, 2018, a few weeks after I had my last session with her. It was as if waves of death arise from the ocean suddenly and carry away the lives of individuals without notice, just like the tsunami. The most recent wave of death took Yoichi Asakawa, my uncle. Although he did not directly contribute to the creation of this book, his spirit lies at its very foundation. He emigrated from Japan to the US in the 1950s and made his way working in a grocery store in a small town in Oklahoma to

Acknowledgments  xi an international accountant in a top consulting firm in New York. He, who lived the so-called “American dream,” had been my role model since my childhood. I would not have come to the US and pursued a career in academia without his influence. In his will, he asked people to be kind to other persons and to be tolerant of other cultures for there to be peace in the world. I am committed to leading my life following his wish and hope that this book will play a role. I learned that ordinary lives change and can come to an end suddenly without prior notice, just as happened to 15,900 people on March 11, 2011. While I was saddened by the unexpected death of these individuals, I also feel hopeful as I hear their voices interwoven through this book. Through the words recorded in this book they will continue to reach out and touch the audiences of this book. Even as I appreciate the legacy of those who are now deceased, I would like to also express my gratitude to all the scholars, teachers, students, and activists who supported this research by sharing their experiences of the disaster and guided me in finding the right direction for my research. My greatest appreciation goes to Yukinori Matsushita of Fukushima University. As a faculty sponsor during my visiting scholar semester at Fukushima University, he directed me to various resources on campus and invited me to sit in on his new course “Fukushima Reconstruction and Curriculum.” In the seminar, I met many young people who had experienced the disaster as young teenagers, who were not full capable of making sense of their disaster experience at that time. Seeing their commitment to uncover the causes of the disaster and to continue telling their stories of the disaster to reconstruct Fukushima motivated me to share their perspectives with wider audiences. Special thanks also go to Toshio Hatsuzawa of Fukushima University. Both as a member of the Department of Human Development and Culture and head of the Fukushima Future Center for Regional Revitalization from 2016 to 2020, he connected me to various stakeholders in the field of education across Fukushima and introduced me to important recent studies of the disaster. As a human geographer, he openly shared his own experience of disaster and critical analysis of Fukushima reconstruction by historicizing them. Heartfelt gratitude also goes to members of Nihon Sakubun No Kai (Japan Composition Association), Fukushima branch. Its members, who are conscientious teachers, found hope in seikatsu tsuzurikata (life experience writing) pedagogy in the disaster-stricken communities and arduously implemented this pedagogy. Among those teachers, I would like to say a special thank you to Tusgio Shiraki and Michiko Fujita. They invited me to various events and meetings for local teachers, where I heard their first-hand experience of the disaster and its impact on education. They also shared their reports on teaching practices, including collections of their students’ essays. Authentic voices and emotions interwoven with those essays provided me with first-hand insights into how residents experienced the disaster and its aftermath both socially and emotionally. I very much appreciate contributions from Seikichi Sugiuchi, Miyuki Kobayashi, Takeshi Saito, and Masamichi Saito who

xii  Acknowledgments shared examples of curriculum from their classrooms and from extra-curricular activities. These teachers’ practices, which were deeply rooted in their education philosophies, sense of care, and their understanding of history of their communities, were cutting-edge approaches to education that meet emerging needs in the risk society. They also spared many hours from their busy schedules to communicate with me about their education practices. I would not have been able to envision the new form, purpose, and methods of education in the risk society without their inspirations. I also would like to thank Thomas Popkewitz at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. His Wednesday seminar was one of the most intellectually rigorous and an open space where scholars and students from all over the world discussed both contemporary and classical curriculum research. I was introduced to the idea of action network theory, material agency, and education’s role in modern society through his seminar. The feedback he and his students gave on the initial draft of this manuscript strengthened this book. Lastly, I would like to thank students in my “Risk Society and Education in Fukushima” course in the Spring of 2021. Due to the pandemic, most students took this course in the online format. Despite the distance, students engaged actively in all activities and provided constructive comments on the final draft of this book. Their personal stories of the COVID-19 pandemic in juxtaposition with Fukushima people’s experience of the nuclear disaster reconfirmed my awareness of our society’s shift to a risk society and of the urgency of forming international alliances of educators to respond to emerging global risks. As I reach the end of this project, I am overwhelmed by mixed emotions: a sense of accomplishment, appreciation, relief, nostalgia, and also a little sadness about letting go of this project, which has been central to my life for the past ten years. I want to end this page by saying thank you to everyone, whether deceased or still on this earth, from the bottom of my heart.

1 Introduction

Background Nuclear disaster in Fukushima On March 11, 2011, the north-eastern region of Japan experienced an earthquake and tsunami on a scale unprecedented in its modern history. The tragedy took the lives of 4,040 people and destroyed 96,027 homes (Fukushima Disaster Countermeasure Headquarters, 2018). The subsequent explosion of the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant (F1) located in the south of Fukushima Prefecture1 added another layer to the tragedy as a result of the diffusion of radioactive substances as far as 60 kilometers. The government’s decision to apply a forced evacuation order only to towns located within 20 kilometers of F1 left residents, who lived outside the evacuation zone with two choices: live under the influence of radiation or voluntarily evacuate without any subsidies from the government. The uncertainty and fear over radiation residents experienced immediately following the explosion drove as many as 57,087 people to evacuate from Fukushima in 20112 (Sakamoto, 2012).3 Visceral fear even drove some evacuees to the southern extremities of Japan, including Kyushu and Okinawa, as well as north as far as Hokkaido, locations they perceived to be completely free from radiation. While this massive migration out of Fukushima to all parts of Japan caught the major media’s attention, we should not forget that almost 70% of residents remained in Fukushima after the explosion (Reconstruction Agency, 2021, Figure 1.1). Radiation risk was a new reality that residents who remained in Fukushima had to deal with for generations. Radiation, has unique characteristics, including invisibility and lack of immediate manifestation of the harm caused by long-term exposure to low doses of radiation. This nature of radiation brought social effects such as divided perceptions about the risk of radiation within communities. In addition, lack of information with regards to long-term effects of radiation exposure inflated residents’ anxieties over radiation. Further, contested views of the impact of radiation communicated by “experts” through the major media exacerbated the confusion. Some residents felt extremely anxious about living in F ­ ukushima, and such worries put

DOI: 10.4324/9781003090083-1

2  Introduction

Figure 1.1  Tohoku Earthquake, Japan.

constraints on their daily activities ranging from drinking tap water and eating food produced in Fukushima to spending time outdoors. Many criticized those who exercised extra caution over radiation, even ridiculed them for having “radio-phobia” and condemned them for making others unnecessarily nervous (Broinowski, 2017; Slater, Morioka, & Danzuka, 2014). Meanwhile, concerns over radiation contamination within Fukushima and its potential to affect residents in metropolitan areas became amplified nationally. Consumers outside Fukushima fretted over being exposed to radiation through produce from Fukushima or through having direct contact with evacuees from Fukushima. Though lacking in scientific grounding, this reaction resulted in increased cases of bullying of evacuee children from Fukushima and boycotts of produce from Fukushima in markets. This secondary effect of the accident, known as fuhyo, or harmful rumors about radiation, brought about psychological and economic damage to Fukushima and its people (Jacobs, 2011; Leopard, 2017; Sand, 2012). The accident caused enormous physical, psychological, environmental, and economic damage to Fukushima, which residents would have to bear for generations. The cutting-edge invention of nuclear power, which the world’s top scientists had arrived at through manipulation of natural materials at the atomic level, was supposed to produce unlimited amounts of power both cost-effectively and safely, and enable citizens to have comfortable

Introduction  3 lives forever. Thus, when the explosion took place, citizens, who had been preached about the safe and miraculous power of nuclear for decades, simply could not make sense of the event. Even experts, who had promoted nuclear power and assured citizens of its safety over the previous 40 years, could only repeat that the accident was “unimaginable” (Broinowski, 2017; Kobayashi, 2013). In effect, the accident revealed modern human beings’ hubris, and their firm belief that humans are the most enlightened of all creatures and have the ability to advance the world while controlling all other living beings through the use of science (Latour, 2012). The accident and its aftermath brought destruction and unbearable pain to residents. It also drove some citizens to reflect on modern lifestyles and our obsession with development. As a result, some even began to their attention back to the philosophy and lifestyles of pre-modern Japanese society, which embraced the harmonious and spiritual connection between the natural environment and all material beings, including humans (Akasaka, 2014). While such a movement to return to the past deserves attention, we also need to acknowledge that such a movement occupies a minority status in Japan. As soon as citizens recovered from the initial shock of the disaster, Japan immediately resumed the perpetual industrial and economic development. This trend was also observed in Fuksuhima. The discourse that dominated Fukushima was reconstruction. Politicians repeatedly stressed economic recovery in disaster-stricken regions through kizuna (emotional bonding). Posters with patriotic slogans appealing directly to citizens’ emotions such as Ganbare Fukushima (Cheer Up Fukushima) were present ubiquitously in public spaces in Fukushima such railway stations, shopping malls, restaurants, and schools (Kimura, 2013). National TV networks and radio stations galvanized the movement by having celebrities passionately express their support for Fukushima. Such an effort appeared to be successful in invigorating residents in the disaster-stricken region at least for a short term. However, the reconstruction campaign also had a downside. It ­downplayed the actual damage of radiation from which the residents continued to suffer. It also contributed to redirecting public attention away from the past, and from the responsibility of the government and the Tokyo Electric Power Company, TEPCO, for disseminating the safety myth of the nuclear energy and nuclear power plant. In the wake of the accident, anti-nuclear activists that had been critical of the post-WWII regime in Japan galvanized the public, calling for closure of all 54 nuclear power plants located within Japan. In 2011, for the first time in the post-WWII political history of Japan, then prime minister Kan denounced the safety of nuclear power and declared a gradual phase out of nuclear power by 2030 (Kingston, 2013, 2014). However, this deflection in modern Japan’s energy policy did not last long. As soon as Shinzo Abe was inaugurated as prime minister in 2013, the nation reverted back to the familiar “pro-nuke” energy discourse. With the strenuous support of Keidanren, the Federation of Economic Organizations, the Abe administration rescinded the nuclear component legislation passed in 2012 (Kawasaki, 2013). This also meant that Japan would revert to the pattern of modern industrial and

4  Introduction economic development, fully utilizing advanced science and technology while downplaying its risk. While the government made a full U-turn from left to right in nuclear energy policy within just a few years of the disaster, Fukushima people continued to live with the effects of nuclear disaster. Radiation contamination have left unbearable pain among residents especially those who had to evacuate from their hometown, which was designated as the forced evacuation zone due to a high level of radiation contamination. Unfortunately, disaster-related deaths did not cease despite the reconstruction effort in Fukushima. Even five years after the disaster, 2, 304 people died from causes directly or indirectly related to the disaster (Broinowski, 2017). Despite these ongoing tragedies, public attention to these victims faded away gradually as the nation returned to its familiar discourse of economic development. Development and education in Japan: before and after the disaster Japan has been haunted by the idea of “development,” or a desire to catch up with the West for centuries. This obsession began as the nation experienced unanticipated encounters with the West in the mid-1800s, which threatened the leaders of the Tokugawa Shogunate, who ruled Japan at that time. When Japan transitioned from feudalism with the birth of the Meiji government in 1868, the leaders of the new Meiji government decided to rapidly modernize (Westernize) Japan and join the globalized world. Since then, the nation has rigorously pursued this endeavor, initially through the expansion of imperialism. However, Japan’s strategy for industrial development took a new turn following defeat in WWII in 1945. Recuperating from the devastation of the war, the nation became one of the world economic powers under the influence of the liberal policies pursued by the US up to the 1990s, followed by neoliberalism (Lincicome, 2009). To understand Japan’s economic development and modernization, we must pay close attention to state-school education. This is because public schools have consistently played a central role in shaping the nation. The modernization of Japan through education began with the implementation of compulsory education in 1872, following the common school model of education adopted from Prussia and the US. Through this model of education, the Japanese government succeeded in constructing a unified national identity and instilling patriotism. We must admit that this model of education turned schools into fertile grounds for the expansion of imperialism from 1872 to 1945. Citizens fueled with the ideology that Japan would save Asia from Western imperialism actively supported and participated in the Japanese military’s invasions of neighboring nations in Asia and the Pacific Islands. However, in the post-war era, the promotion of nationalism through education took another turn. With the renouncement of war in the new post-war constitution, Japan’s struggles under a post-WWII regime became economic and political. Reflecting this change, public schools guided citizens in reinventing a new national identity and recovery from the disaster of WWII (Hisatomi et al., 2014; Koyasu & Shinozaki, 2013). Schools instilled the sincere hope in the minds of

Introduction  5 citizens that investment in education would lead the nation to recover from the devastation of WWII and attain competitiveness in the global economy. This patriotic effort to strengthen the nation through education was aligned with the larger global trend in the post-WWII era. Major international organizations such as the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD) and the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO), which were found after the WW II, promoted education as the major tool for industrial and economic development (Resnik, 2006). Despite the lack of empirical evidence that educational achievement correlates with economic success, Western nations, which are leading members of these international organizations, developed and disseminated a human capital model of education for economic development. Following this international trend, the post-WWII regime in Japan invested massive resources in education with to fulfill the needs of the current and future labor markets. Such a calculative and rigorous investment in education emulated Japan’s continuing urge to catch up with the West despite the repeated failures it had experienced in its modern history. All these efforts that Japan has been making are located within the paradigm of first stage of modernity. The first stage of modernity (see below for further details) assumes that science and technology become the central factor in promoting advancement in our societies (Beck, 1999). Following this practice, since the 1950s, Japan has emphasized investment in science and technology education. Research on nuclear energy and its application was at the center of the national governments’ projects in the 50s and 60s. Initially, there was a great resistance among citizens across Japan about the use of nuclear energy despite its purpose was economic development. Negotiating with the citizens, who outcried to the use of nuclear energy, which had killed 210,000 citizens in Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945, was no easy task. Yet the Japanese government succeeded in this conversion by highlighting the peaceful uses of atomic energy through public school education. This strategy separated the discourse of atomic bombs from that of nuclear power for economic development. For decades, textbooks in public schools also preached the safety and cleanness of nuclear energy (Koyasu & Shinozaki, 2013). These persistent efforts were successful; despite massive protests against the use of nuclear power in the early 50s among citizens, the Japanese government succeeded in gaining their consent for the peaceful use of nuclear power and passing pro-nuclear policies in 1955. In the next few decades, Japanese universities, ministries, and corporations rigorously invested in training scientists and engineers in nuclear physics, and successfully opened the first nuclear power plant in Fukushima in 1979. By 2011 the nation had built as many as 54 such plants (Ogawa, 2013). This is not to say that the use of nuclear power went smoothly without any disruptions. Following the accidents abroad at Three Mile Island in 1979 and Chernobyl in 1986, the Japan Nuclear Fuel Conversion Office (JCO) in Ibaraki Prefecture also experienced a serious accident in 1999.4 These events brought back difficult memories of Hiroshima and Nagasaki for some citizens, and galvanized anti-nuclear movements in Japan alongside international allies.

6  Introduction However, even their actions did not halt the national government and general citizens in Japan from producing and using nuclear energy. Surprisingly, the nuclear power plant explosion in Fukushima did not disrupt this trend in a fundamental way. As early as April 2011, one month after the nuclear accident, schools in Fukushima reopened their doors to students. They picked up the curriculum and schedule where they left off and continued cramming information from the textbooks into students’ minds to prepare them for standardized tests (Fukushima High School Teachers’ Union Female Division, 2013; Takeuchi, 2012). This rapid shift back to normality ignored the ongoing anguish residents were experiencing. Moreover, students’ attention was diverted away from the most essential and urgent issues in their lives, namely the causes of the nuclear accident, the ongoing effects of contamination, and responsibility of the Japanese government, Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO), mass media, and public schools for preaching the safety myth. The public-school curriculum did not touch upon the history that had led to the tragedy. Nor did the curriculum included information that the public schools had contributed to disseminating the nuclear safety myth by providing inaccurate and biased information to their students for decades (Koyasu  & Shinozaki, 2013; 2013). The Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology (MEXT) continued to preach the safety of radiation contamination in post-disaster communities. Nor did their publications address the pain of hibakusha, victims of atomic energy, encompassing both victims of atomic bombs and victims of nuclear disaster. The Japanese people’s obsession with development is grounded in the Eurocentric idea of development, which assumes a natural progression of human civilization from primitive, through middle, to modern. This model also presumes that societies deemed uncivilized should adopt the model of development from the civilized nations of the West (Harding, 1992; Tsurumi, 1989). This colonial mentality has never left Japan despite repeated catastrophes (atomic bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the Fukushima nuclear disaster). This disposition translates into education in post-disaster Fukushima, which presumes education to be the major tool for “civilizing” society. Some educators have expressed concerns over this push for returning to “normal” without close examination of the causes and effects of the nuclear accident. However, the majority of educators conformed to the government’s policy of resuming the development project through education. Interestingly, what stood out as the adversary in this normalization effort guided by the national government were non-human actors such as nuclear power and radiation. Though silent and invisible, they have demonstrated the agency immanent in them in a unique and powerful way. Without words or even forms, these non-human actors have influenced humans viscerally and led them to make practical changes in their lives. For example, radiation generated fear among citizens and propelled some of them to flee from Fukushima. It also pushed some residents to refrained from drinking tap water or eating vegetables produced in Fukushima. The presence of radiation even destroyed existing relationships among humans in their communities and homes. This unique relationship

Introduction  7 between non-human actors (i.e., radiation and nuclear) and humans presages looming larger-scale changes in our society as we shift from the first stage of modernity to the second stage of modernity (i.e., risk society). Through their experiences of the disaster, some residents in Fukushima had begun acknowledging such agencies of materials (nuclear, radiation). They closely listened to the voices of non-human actors and reflected on their voices. This led to a reconfiguration of relationships between humans and materials such as nuclear power plants, radiation, and the natural environment is emerging.

Problems and questions Despite the unspeakable tragedies that residents in Fukushima experienced in March 2011, there was a push for disaster victims to leave behind their painful memories and quickly return to the discourse of economic development that had been prevalent prior to the disaster. This trend was clear from national and local governments’ publication of blueprints for recovery, which they released immediately after the disaster. For example, the national Reconstruction Agency, Fukushima Prefecture, and local municipal governments published blueprints in 2011 and 2012. These blueprints laid out a recovery plan, including decontamination, support for evacuees, reopening of towns, and revitalization of the local economy. Education was a significant theme in these blueprints, reflecting the policy makers’ assumption that education is the fundamental investment for economic and industrial development. To support recovery through investment in education, the Fukushima Prefecture Board of Education as well as local boards in the disaster-stricken areas published “education visions” aligned with these economic and social goals (Fukushima Prefecture School Board & Fukushima Prefecture Governmental Office, 2014; Prefectural Futaba County Council on Educational Reconstruction, 2013; Takeuchi, 2012). However, these education visions lacked insights that reflected the unique needs disaster-stricken communities faced. Rather, these education action plans were replications of the revised Fundamental Law of Education (FLE) enacted in 2006 and the revised Course of Study announced in 2008; in other words, they repeatedly used clichés from FLE, such as “twenty-first-century skills,” ikiru chikara (zest for living), globalization, STEM, and love for nation and communities for recovery from the disaster. At the same these visions essentially lacked examinations of the causes of the nuclear disaster, the possibilities and limitations of science and technology, and most importantly, the Western model of education for economic development, which Japan had relied on since 1872, when the education system law was promulgated. In that sense, the plan lacked novelty; rather, it was a replica of the Eurocentric education model adopted in the twenty-first century. Despite the nuclear catastrophe, education policies in Japan continued to address the utilization of science and technology as a tool for advancing the nation economically so that it could remain competitive in the global economy, especially with the shift to a knowledge-based society (Kariya, 2008). These education goals, which emulated the human capital model of education,

8  Introduction were rooted in a myopic sense of development, which disregarded various forms of social change that had been present in non-Western communities prior to colonization. The nuclear disaster could be an opportunity for educators to re-examine the taken-for-granted hierarchy of cultures, which was perpetuated through the colonial model of education, including in Fukushima. However, schools in disaster-stricken communities did not catalyze this moment. Instead, they immediately reverted to the familiar discourse of economic development through investment in education by strictly following the national curriculum. In fact, the desire to catch up with other prefectures in the national academic achievement test became intensified in disaster-stricken communities as they desperately sought recovery. Some may argue that schools in post-disaster Fukushima chose to conform to the national discourse of education to satisfy their economic needs instigated by the disaster. However, the fact that these communities simply conformed to the centrally crafted education policies of MEXT, without the input of members of the local community, indicates the perpetuation of an asymmetrical relationship between the center (the Japanese government) and the local (Fukushima). Thus, the blueprint of the Fukushima reconstruction plan and its role in education raises fundamental questions. First of all, amidst celebratory representations of local schools regaining normalcy after the disaster, how did teachers and students experience everyday school life in Fukushima? Despite reported conformity to the national policies on education to restore normalcy, was there resistance to the implementation of these policies? If teachers and student complied with them, how and why did they do that while dealing with the trauma of the disaster and ongoing concerns over radiation contamination?

Conceptual frameworks Nature of emotions In finding answers to this conundrum, this book will use emotions as its guide. Emotions should provide insights into how and why students and teachers who experienced the disaster participated in discourses that drove them back to pro-nuclear power, and economic development, which did not necessarily benefit the members of the disaster-stricken communities. Since there are multiple definitions and assumptions regarding emotions, I first need to clarify the meaning of “emotions” as used in this book. I view emotions as something corporeal and social; in other words, emotions do not emerge within oneself and contain within one’s body as a result of thinking or understanding abstract ideas. Rather, emotions run through our bodies and affect them independent of thinking, rather like reflexes (Massumi, 2015). This nature of emotions was familiar to ancient people. The term “emotion” comes from the Latin emovere, or “to move out.” The emotionality of texts is one way of describing how texts “moves” readers and generate effects.

Introduction  9 Emotions, which are trans-individual circulate not only through individual bodies but also between materials (Ahmed, 2014). This view of emotions is a shift away from the anthropocentric approach to studying society. This perspective does not assume that individual human beings, who are rational, take certain actions with the specific intention of achieving certain goals by using objects around them. Rather, this new paradigm posits that all bodies, including human bodies, serve as conduits for emotions (or energies). They resonate with each other as they run through and between bodies. In this sense, there is no clear difference between human and non-human bodies; they are all conduits for emotions (Massumi, 2015). Changes within bodies, body movements, and relations between bodies take place as emotions arise. This perspective on emotions also points to their productive nature. It is commonly assumed that we feel certain emotions such as fear or pain as a result of particular types of experiences. Contrary to this popular view of emotion, this book views emotions as having a productive nature. Emotions that run through bodies bring up certain sensations within bodies. Those sensations then cause bodies to move in certain ways. In that sense, an emotion is an active energy, not the effect of actions. Instead, emotions shape individuals’ actions (toward other persons or objects) (Ahmed, 2014). For example, based on the common view of emotions, we assume that the experience of an earthquake would bring up fear in people’s minds. In other words, fear emerges as a result of the earthquake. However, when we recognize the productive nature of emotions, we understand that emotions run through the trembling earth itself, with human bodies and spaces jointly serving as conduits of affective energy. When we feel fear, we often move away from the particular situation or objects. When we cannot physically move, our bodies often curl up to mitigate the damage. This phenomenon shows that actions such as relocating one’s body to a safer place, which we had thought as the result of our rational thinking, was in fact more reflexive and corporal. It is not individual actors who make autonomous decisions to take certain actions. Instead, actors are led to act in particular ways by many other actors, human or non-human, who are in direct (or indirect) relationships with them at particular moments in their lives (Latour, 2005). It is the energy, the trembling of the earth carried through human bodies that causes the movement of human bodies. As this example shows, emotions have directions, pulling bodies away from what is dangerous or moving bodies toward other bodies and sticking close to them (Parkinson, 1995). Another example of emotions having direction is love. Love moves one’s body toward the object of love, whether it is a human or non-human. For example, we are often moved toward the idea of the nation and experience positive sensations repeatedly as we engage in patriotic rituals that utilize symbols such as flags, anthems, and military uniform. What I am articulating here is that we do not love or hate something or someone because they are good or bad in essence; we love or hate something or someone because they seem beneficial or harmful (Descartes, cited in Greenberg, 2007). So why do something look more beneficial while others look harmful? In order to

10  Introduction answer this question, we must acknowledge the role of symbols (e.g. languages). Symbols shape meaning of emotions that one feels about something. One example is patriotism, love for nations. Verbal language embedded in national anthem as well as symbols such as national flags, intensifies the positive sensation individuals feel, and direct it to a nation. The central materials as I use them in this study, such as community, the nuclear power plant, radiation, and nuclear power, are based on this notion of emotions that are corporal, social, and productive. This perspective removes the essential nature and quality of radiation and nuclear power plants. For example, nuclear energy was seen as beneficial and safe for some at certain times, while it may be deemed dangerous and negative at other times, depending on the emotions circulating among people in their communities. I also acknowledge the productive nature of emotion and capture the physical movements of people and discourses mediated by emotions. For example, when fear was circulating in post-disaster Fukushima, residents pulled their bodies away from the objects they perceived as radioactive (e.g., food, water, and air). This feeling even led some residents to leave their homes and relocate to other prefectures. At the same time, the sense of love they had for their communities in Fukushima pulled them and kept them close to their homes despite the fear of radiation. By using this new notion of emotions, this study will reveal how and why people participated in certain discourses that circulated in Fukushima. In other words, this study will delineate what emotions were circulating between bodies in Fukushima and how those emotions moved individuals and led them to do or say certain things at certain times while repressing them at other times. Human and non-human actors Viewing emotions as something corporal, productive, and social also shifts our focus from human rationality and intentions to the unconscious and corporeal in analyzing social phenomena in post-disaster communities. Understanding that actions take place as a result of vibrations between bodies, whether human or non-human (e.g., radiation) also shifts our perspective to the agency of non-human beings in understanding what happens in our society. The anthropocentric view of society assumes that nature and materials are objects of human control and modification. In that sense, humans always place themselves over materials. Recognizing the natures of emotions subverts the hierarchy between humans and non-humans because they are both conduits of emotions. This also changes our view of society. In the traditional view, society is viewed as a container in which human actors engage in actions, and the series of actions causes social change. In this view, materials are often placed in the background as a part of the container, or the setting where those actions take place (Latour, 2005). However, when we shift away from the anthropocentric paradigm, we begin to notice that materials are also actors and they are equally important as human beings. Actions and events in our world take place as emotions run through materials and move them. As a

Introduction  11 result, relations between actors (both human and non-human) can change, a process viewed as social change. This view of society, actors, and their agencies enables to make sense of the phenomenon in post-disaster Fukushima in a unique way. Drastic societal change took place in Fukushima instigated by non-human actors: the earth (which trembled), the tsunami (ocean waves), and the nuclear reactor, which exploded due to the tsunami. Moreover, radiation generated by the broken nuclear power plant traveled with the wind and contaminated biospheres as far away as 60 kilometers from the plant (Matsuda et al., 2013). Radiation affected the air, water, soil, and food, and through them affected human beings, too. Fear circulated between affected materials and human bodies in towns, homes, and schools. This led people to act in new ways. For example, some left their hometown to avoid radiation exposure while others remained in Fukushima. Among those who remained in Fukushima, there were some who continued their ordinary lives while there were others who took extreme cautions every day to reduce the harm of radiation on their bodies. What citizens did or did not do, what they talked about or did not talk about in schools were also influenced by the presence of radiation. Despite the differences among residents in terms of how they reacted to radiation, the residents equally experienced tremendous social and emotional challenges to communities that had hosted the nuclear power plant for four decades; they had to live between positive memories and feelings surrounding the plant and anger toward it for causing radiation contamination and evacuation. By paying close attention to the various emotions that circulated between the power plant, radiation, and people in Fukushima, this book will unpack why residents, including teachers and students, acted in particular ways in communities and schools after the disaster. Risk society Another conceptual lens that guided the inquiry in this book is risk society— the idea that society is shifting to the second stage of modernity. What happened in Fukushima, how human and non-human actors moved and affected each other following the earthquake presents the characteristics of a risk society (Beck, 1992). First, the explosion of the power plant revealed the limitations of science and technology. In the first stage of modernity, citizens believed that science and technology was the major tool for the advancement of our society (Beck, 1992, 2007). Based on this belief, Japan invested in constructing 54 nuclear power plants, ten of which were located in Fukushima (Kainuma, 2012). However, the explosion of three nuclear reactors at the Fukushima Daiichi Power Plant (F1) triggered by an earthquake and subsequent tsunami revealed the limitations of science and technology. Simultaneously, it illuminated the agency of nature, which we neglected during the first stage of modernity as nations invested in economic competition in the global market. The nuclear accident also revealed another characteristic of risk society, namely contested definitions of risk. Beck (1992), who studied societal shifts since the Chernobyl accident in 1986, argued that there are contested

12  Introduction definitions of risk (or anticipation of catastrophes) in our society. For example, even today, scientific experts have not yet come to a consensus on the health risk posed by long-term exposure to low radiation doses in their professional communities. Science is supposed to provide accurate information about the dangers of radiation. However, contested definitions of radiation risk have circulated in the public space through various forms of media. This confusion over contested definitions of risk experts provided also points to the uncertain nature of science (Beck, 1992, 2007). In fact, there has been constant conflict between two groups with regard to the risk of radiation contamination in Fukushima: one group consists of anti-nuclear activists, which stress the danger posed by nuclear power plants and radiation contamination in Fukushima; the other groups, consisting of the Japanese government and international organizations such as the International Commission on Radiological Protection (ICRP), is pro-nuclear, assert the safety of nuclear energy. They also claim that Fukushima is now under control (Miura, 2012; Slater, Morioka, & Danzuka, 2014). This book will take a closer look at how the uncertain nature of scientific knowledge about nuclear power and radiation is manifested in everyday lives in Fukushima. By tracing emotions that circulated between human and non-human bodies (i.e., the nuclear power plant and radiation), this book also examines how the uncertain nature of scientific knowledge influenced the intensity of such emotions, especially fear that circulated between actors such as victims of the accident (including teachers and students), workers at the plant, local farmers, consumers, radiation, radioactive materials (produce from Fukushima), and the broken nuclear power plant. Finally, the book examines how the uncertainty of scientific knowledge impacts citizens’ perceptions of the national government. As citizens witnessed how the government, which depended on scientific experts, lost control during and after the nuclear power plant accident, their skepticism toward science and the nation state became amplified. This skepticism led more citizens to become alert to the risks they were living with. Citizens began forming alliances across national borders to deal with risks in a democratic way as they felt it was imperative for their own survival to take such actions on a global scale (Beck, 2000; Beck & Levy, 2013). Taking this reality into consideration, this book also pays attention to what teachers and students both in school and in out-of-school programs did to protect themselves from the risk of radiation after the accident. Finally, it looks at what kinds of alliances they made with particular actors through education programs driven by particular kinds of emotions.

Methodology Data collection To explore how teachers and students experienced the disaster and its aftermath in Fukushima, I visited Fukushima seven times between 2013 and 2016. I spent the majority of my time in Fukushima City, which is located

Introduction  13 about 60 km from the nuclear power plant. I stayed in Fukushima City for a few weeks in 2013 and 2014, and for five months from September 2015 to February 2016. While in Fukushima City, I made short trips to towns in the coastal regions including Hirono, Minami Soma, and Naraha. In summer 2016, I also participated in a field trip to the Fukushima Daini power plant (F2) organized by a group of students at Fukushima University. While I was in Fukushima University, I actively reached out to public-school teachers and administrators using my personal network as well as contacts within Fukushima University. As soon as I began recruiting participants, I encountered unanticipated challenges. The majority of phone calls and emails were not returned. Some teachers even expressed skepticism about my research and anger toward me personally. As I became more aware of the divisions and fear that existed in the community, I acknowledged that my research topic, education in post-disaster Fukushima, was a far more sensitive topic than I originally anticipated. After realizing the sensitivity around the topic of nuclear and radiation in Fukushima, I decided to allocate my time and energy to getting to know communities and their members, and to developing a rapport with them. I did so by attending public social events, classes, and seminars held in communities, public schools, and universities. I also spent time studying the historical and political context of Fukushima. The review of literature I conducted in Fukushima city, illuminated issues I had not anticipated prior to my stay in Fukushima. For example, I learned about the historically asymmetrical relationship between Fukushima and Tokyo for the first time. Reading Beck’s work on risk society also led me to turn my attention to contested definitions of risk and to divisions among citizens within small communities. Further, I learned about the re-emergence of the collective trauma of the atomic bombs and medical research on hibakusha that the Atomic Bomb Causality Commission (ABCC) conducted in Hiroshima and Nagasaki without treatment in the 1940s and 1950s (Lindee, 2016). Understanding these historical and political facts helped me approach potential participants more sensitively, and interpret literature and interview data carefully by situating them in political and historical contexts of Fukushima. After overcoming my initial struggle in identifying participants for interviews, I was finally able to conduct a total of 17 interviews—six with p ­ ublic-school teachers, six with administrators, and five with college students. Four of them were from the coastal region (Minami Soma and Iwaki), where the impacts of the tsunami and radiation were enormous. The remaining participants were from the central region (Fukushima City and Adachi), which, although the impacts of the earthquake it experienced were less enormous, were nevertheless affected by radiation contamination from the plant in the long term. Some interviews were conducted in a relatively formal manner. I sent a list of tentative interview questions in advance, and participants and I had conversations around those questions while I kept the audio recorder on. Despite initial hesitancy and skepticism, the majority of the interviewees became personally involved in the conversation once the interview started. Each interview lasted

14  Introduction two hours on average. Some interviewees vehemently insisted on sharing their stories. One interviewee spoke for five hours, while two others asked me to come back for another interview. In addition, I was able to obtain 130 primary sources from my participants. For example, five teachers shared with me their students’ essays as well as their own writings, course materials, and school reports, even though I had not asked for them. One teacher, the head of a drama club in a high school, shared with me a playscript and a reflective essay about how he had come up with the play. Essays written by students between April 2011 and the summer of 2015 were most valuable resources as they communicated detailed experiences of the disaster and perspectives that were not present in the major media or in scholarly works. In addition to these personal essays, I obtained evaluation reports on largescale education programs, including the OECD’s Tohoku School (OECD TS), the High School Peace Seminar (HSPS), and Education for Sustainable Development (ESD). These reports consisted of descriptions of activities as well as participants’ essays. I also gathered public documents about disaster-related facts such as number of evacuees, level of radiation contamination, economic reconstruction plans for Fukushima, and education goals in post-disaster communities. I located these documents on the websites of Fukushima Prefecture, the Fukushima Education Board, municipal offices, MEXT, and the Reconstruction Agency. In addition to these primary and secondary documents, field notes I kept during my time in Fukushima became valuable data. Those notes contained my personal observations of places and people. They provided information about the specific context of post-disaster Fukushima, and insights into my identity as a researcher as well. Data analysis My approach to analyzing the data was informed by actor network theory (ANT) (Latour, 2005). This framework assumes that societies consist of human and non-human actors, which influence each other reciprocally. According to ANT, agency does not reside within actors. Thus, it is not individual actors who make subjective decisions to take certain actions to change something. Instead, actors are led to act by many other forces that are in direct (or indirect) relationships with them at particular moments in their lives (Latour, 2005). Emotion, another major framework of this study worked in tandem with ANT. The lens of emotions, provided explanations on how and why certain actors acted (including made statements) in a certain way. I viewed these actors as conduits of certain emotions (e.g., fear) that circulated within and between these bodies in Fukushima. Thus, in my first round of analysis, I analyzed various actions and statements in relation to specific emotions such as fear, disgust, and hope. As a method, I first reviewed all the primary and secondary documents and created a list of codes related to emotions and actors. I did this simultaneously because emotions that circulate among and within bodies connect or disconnect certain bodies (actors). By analyzing data using the lens of

Introduction  15 emotions and bodies, I was also able to capture how and why movements of certain bodies are tied to specific emotions. During the analysis, I noted information on documents that was associated with specific emotions participants expressed. After the initial review, I came up with six major categories of emotions: fear, pain, love, hope, anger, and disgust. Some of these emotions were named explicitly in participants’ essays and interviews, while others did not use those emotional labels explicitly. For example, many participants did not use expressions such as “I love Fukushima,” probably because the Japanese translation of “love” (ai) was not commonly used in their daily lives. Instead, they expressed their affective connection to Fukushima by stating their desire to stay in Fukushima for the rest of their lives. Many participants also recounted good memories they had of their families and friends in the communities from which they had to evacuate. Overall, I categorized statements that showed positive affective connection to place, objects, or people as “love.” As I coded data focusing on emotions, I also identified which actors exhibited at least one of those six emotions. Some actors were human actors, such as plant workers, farmers, teachers, students, and scientists. Others were non-human actors, including radiation, vegetables, water, the nuclear power plant, and Geiger counters. I marked the names of actors on the data together with the type of emotions they exerted. The third set of codes had to do with risk society. I used four major characteristics of a risk society, which are contested definitions of risk (here, radiation), the uncertainty of scientific knowledge, skepticism toward the national government, cosmopolitanization (or alliances among citizens for dealing with risk) as codes. In the second stage of the analysis, I sketched out a visual map that showed relations among actors and what emotions were operating between them. Looking at each map, I wrote memos describing the nature of particular actors, the emotions they were susceptible to, and their impacts on other actors. I paid particular attention to the movements of actors caused by certain emotions. For example, fear moved certain human actors’ bodies away from non-human actors, such as nuclear power plant, and materials and places they perceived as being radiation contaminated. I continued to expand and refine both memos and the map as I reviewed the data for the second time. Based on the map and memos, I developed an outline of the “Findings” section. Each chapter in this book covers specific emotions, actors, and their relationships with each other.

Chapter summaries This book consists of nine chapters. Following this introductory chapter, Chapter 2 provides the historical, political, economic, and educational context of Japan and Fukushima in detail. The chapter begins with an overview of Japan’s obsession with Westernization both before and after WWII, the role Fukushima Daiichi power plant played in promoting this development project, and the public’s ambivalent and divided sentiments toward atomic

16  Introduction energy since the end of WWII. In addition, it delineates the role of education in facilitating the nation’s economic development since the 1800s, including how such trends were translated into education policies and practices in Fukushima prior to and after the disaster. The chapter also discusses Fukushima’s relationship with actors from the center, the Japanese national government, nuclear scientists from national universities, and major corporations involved in the nuclear business. The description of these relationships provides the background for understanding how and why educators and students in Fukushima responded to the nuclear accident. Chapter 3 presents the methodology of the study and the researcher’s positionality during data collection in Fukushima. I grew up in Fukushima and had been away for almost 30 years before I began this study in 2013. The experience of returning to Fukushima as a researcher provided me with an opportunity to re-examine my personal identity and history. Becoming aware of the asymmetrical relationship between Fukushima and the center led me to acknowledge the influence of colonization on my identity and education. My awareness of this political context motivated me to decolonize myself and how I conducted research in Fukushima. The chapter explains the process of developing this positionality by focusing on emotions. It describes emotional challenges I encountered in Fukushima at the data collection stage, including the effects of trauma on participants and on myself as a researcher. Based on my reflections on this experience, the chapter provides insights and implications for how to conduct research ethically in post-disaster communities, where the residents might be suffering from trauma. Chapter 4 discusses how residents of Fukushima experienced the characteristics of a risk society, including contested definitions of risk, the uncertainty of scientific knowledge, and skepticism toward the government. The emotion that is central in this chapter is fear of radiation and the exploded nuclear power plant. It discusses, how Japanese government used scientific knowledge to forge a safety myth about nuclear power since the 1950s and how they continued to do so by downplaying the effects of radiation contamination after the nuclear power plant’s explosion in 2011. The chapter also talks about how anti-nuclear activists also used science to stress the risk of radiation contamination and to project skepticism toward the government. The chapter ends with a section in which how residents, who were pulled into two contradictory discourses about radiation risk, found a method and system to assess the radiation risk on their own, without relying on experts or authorities. Chapter 5 shifts readers eyes to schools in post-disaster Fukushima. It discusses how schools participated in the dominant discourse to restore normality to restore economics. While propaganda for economic reconstruction dominated physical spaces of schools, fear and pain were silenced in classrooms. Under this condition, some teachers turned their classrooms into spaces for mourning and support through writing, dialog, and drama. This chapter provides examples of how these teachers created such spaces and the struggles they encountered and overcame.

Introduction  17 The emotion that Chapter 6 highlights is disgust. This type of emotion was directed toward hibakusha, those who received radiation and became affected by it. While hibakusha had long been associated with victims of the atomic bombs, the nuclear accident turned residents of Fukushima into hibakusha, or objects that could potentially bring harm to others and therefore became objects of disgust. This irrational fear projected on Fukushima and its people by outsiders caused boycotts of produce from Fukushima5 as well as discrimination against evacuees from the area (Nohara & Narukawa, 2015). This chapter presents two major ways in which students and teachers responded to the disgust outsiders projected onto Fukushima people. One is Education for Sustainable Development (ESD), in which students stressed the safety of produce from Fukushima so as to quell fuhyo, or rumors about radiation contamination in Fukushima. They publicly aired their views using scientific knowledge. Another education program is the High School Peace Seminar (HSPS), which is a subdivision of the international network of h­ ibakusha aiming for the abolition of nuclear energy. Students who participated in the seminar interacted with other hibakusha, survivors of atomic bombs, from Hiroshima, Busan (South Korea), Semipalatinsk (Kazakhstan), and Bikini Atoll. This interaction allowed participants to see the common suffering among hibakusha and to develop empathy with each other. Chapter 7 discusses the OECD’s Tohoku School (TS), an out-of-school education project implemented in collaboration with MEXT, the Reconstruction Agency, and Fukushima University. This project consisted of an experiment in implementing a new model of education to promote ikiru chikara (zest for living), which MEXT had been attempting but had failed to do so since the 1990s. The program aimed to generate an example of successful attainment of ikiru chikara by using the Tohoku Change Model, a non-hierarchical model of learning and collaboration in which teachers, students, and collaborators from the private and public sectors work together democratically. Through this program, participants worked together for two years to plan an event in Paris in 2014 to showcase the Tohoku region. This chapter describes how major actors in the program interacted with each other to support and transform the TS mission, driven by hope, and love. Chapter 8 discusses two community-based education programs conducted in the coastal region of Fukushima. Since the explosion of the power plant, residents, especially those who were from towns that hosted the nuclear power plant, had experienced mixed feelings—love (nostalgia), fear, and anger. Despite the explosion, some residents lived with romanticized memories of the plant and of TEPCO, and their memories were accompanied by a refrain of positive feelings. At the same time, the fear of radiation and the pain of displacement had not ceased. Some residents quietly lived with pain. Others have expressed anger at TEPCO and the government, which had preached the safety of the plant for years. Tracing the activities of two community-based education organizations, the chapter elaborates on how members of the community embraced good memories with TEPCO and the

18  Introduction nuclear power plant while attempting to reconfigure relationships with them since the disaster. Finally, Chapter 9 brings together the major findings of the study, which center around emotions, actors (both human and non-human), and the characteristics of a risk society. It describes how major emotions circulated in Fukushima, including fear, love, disgust, anger, and pain, swirled between and through bodies of people and materials, and physically moved them. The chapter points to: (1) the role of emotions in reconfiguring relationships among actors; (2) the agency of material objects (both natural and manmade); and (3) the characteristics of a risk society and how they all manifested both separately and together in Fukushima. Based on these findings, this chapter articulates the limitations of the Western model of development, which aims at perpetual economic development through the use of science and technology. By pointing out the uncertainty of scientific knowledge and science’s inability to control nature, the chapter also discusses the possibility of endogenous development, an alternative model of development that embraces harmony between human and non-human actors in each local community. As part of that discussion, the chapter presents the role of science in endogenous development and how the boundary between ordinary citizens and scientists can be blurred. Further, the chapter talks about the potential of cosmopolitanization, where local communities that strive to promote their own sustainability can collaborate with other communities across the globe without being framed by national governments or international organizations. Given that education played a central role in promoting a particular type of development (focused on the economy and anthropocentric development using technology), the chapter provides a vision of education suitable to an innovative type of development in the second stage of modernity. The year 2011 marks the tenth anniversary of the Fukushima disaster. Over the past ten years, reconstruction of the disaster-stricken communities has taken place, and normality in education appears to have been restored. Yet the disaster has left unspeakable wounds in the psyche of citizens and biospheres in the region as they have to live with broken power plants for another 40 years and with radioactive substances they continue to release to the biosphere for unimaginably long years.6 In that sense, despite the national trend to celebrate the recovery, the disaster has never ceased in the minds of Fukushima people. I hope this book will provide readers with new perspectives on the nuclear disaster by sharing the silent voices of human and non-human actors. It is my hope that this book will inspire citizens, teachers, students, and scholars to pursue an endogenous model of development in their communities and schools, so that harmony between human and non-human actors will be gradually restored .

Notes 1 Fukushima Prefecture is located in the south of the Tohoku (north-east) region of Japan. There were ten nuclear power plants in Fukushima. 2 This number is equivalent to one out of 30 residents (Sakamoto, 2012).

Introduction  19 3 Evacuation of school-age children was significantly greater than other age groups. Almost 8% of school children were evacuated outside of Fukushima. 70% of the parents responded that the reason for evacuation was to protect their children from radiation. 4 Japan’s Nuclear Fuel Conversion Company was founded in 1979 to convert uranium hexafluoride to uranium dioxide and provide uranium dioxide to nuclear power plants. The accident, which occured in 1999, resulted in the death of two people and one serious injury. It also exposed 667 workers to high doses of radiation. 5 Fukushima faced an estimated 2.85 trillion yen (US$26 billion) loss over three years in tourism and agricultural sales due to negative rumors about radiation contamination of its land and agricultural produce. 6 For example, the half-life of plutonium 239 is 24,000.

References Ahmed, S. (2014). The cultural politics of emotion. Edinburgh, UK: Edinburgh University Press. Akasaka, N. (2014). Shinsai Ko 2011.3–2014.2 [Reconsidering disaster March 2011– February 2014]. Fujiwara Shoten. Beck, U. (1992). Risk society: Towards a new modernity. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publishing. Beck, U. (1999). World risk society (740388). New York, NY: Polity Press. http:// www.loc.gov/catdir/toc/fy036/99016938.html Beck, U. (2000). The cosmopolitan perspective: Sociology of the second age of modernity. British Journal of Sociology of Education, 51(1), 79–105. Beck, U. (2007). World at Risk (740388). New York, NY: Polity Press. Beck, U., & Levy, D. (2013). Cosmopolitanized nations: Re-imagining collectivity in world risk society. Theory, Culture & Society, 30(2), 1–31. Broinowski, A. (2017). Informal labor, local citizens and the Tokyo electric Fukushima Daiichi nuclear crisis: Responses to neoliberal disaster management. In T. Morris-Suz & E. J. Soh (Eds), New Worlds from Below-Informal life politics and grassroots action in twenty-first-century Northeast Asia (pp. 131–166). ANU Press. https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt1pwtd47.11 Fukushima Disaster Countermeasure Headquarter (2018). Heisei 23 Tohouku chiho taihei you oki jishin ni yoru higai jokyo sokuho [Report on damages caused by the Great East Japan Earthquake in 2011] (No. 1735; Issue 1735, p. 9). Fukushima High School Teachers’ Union Women’s Division (2013). Fukushima Kara Tsutaetai Koto [What we want to tell you from Fukushima]. Fukushima Prefecture Futaba County Council on Educational Reconstruction (2013). Fukushima-ken Futaba-gun kyoiku fukkou bijon [The vision of education reconstruction in Futaba-gun Fukushima prefecture]. http://futaba-educ.net/ wp/wp-content/uploads/vision20130731.pdf Fukushima Prefecture School Board & Fukushima Prefecture Governmental Office. (2014). Dai rokuji Fukushima sogo kyoiku keikaku heisei 26 nendo akushon pulan [Sixth Fukushima prefecture general tuition education plan Heisei 20-year action plan]. http://www.pref.fks.ed.jp/keikaku/26action/26action.pdf Greenberg, S. (2007). Descartes on the passions function, representation, and motivation. Noûs, 41(4), 714–734. Harding, S. (1992). Rethinking standpoint epistemology: “What is strong objectivity”? In L. Alcoff & E. Potter (Eds), Feminist epistemologies (thinking gender) (pp. 49–82). Routledge.

20  Introduction Hisatomi, Y., Fujita, H., Oshimizu, H., Kataoka, H., Koyasu, J., & Sakaino, K. (2014). Genpatsu jiko hoshano wo gakko kyoiku wa dou uketomeruka [How do schools respond to the nuclear accident and radiation contamination?] Open Symposium I, Report from the 72nd Annual Conference of Japanese Educational Research Association, 81(1), 68–77. Jacobs, R. (2011). Social fallout: Marginalization after the Fukushima nuclear meltdown. The Asia-Pacific Journal, 9(28), 1–9. Kainuma, H. (2012). Fukushima Studies: Fukushima Ron: Genshiryoku mura wa naze umaretano ka [Why nuclear villages were created]. Seidosha. Kariya, T. (2008). Wandering of education reconstruction [Kyoiku saisei no meso]. Tokyo, Japan: Chikuma.Tokyo Kawasaki, A. (2013). Hopes and traps on the path to a nuclear-free Japan: The Fukushima disaster and civil society. Asian Perspective, 37(4), 593–614. Kimura, S. (2013). Shinsai Bungaku Ron: Atarashii Nihon Bungaku No Tameni [Post-Disaster Literary Critiques: For New Japanese Literature]. Tokyo: Seidosha. Kingston, J. (2013). Nuclear Power Politics in Japan, 2011–2013. Asian Perspective, 37(4), 501–521. Kingston, J. (2014). Abe’s nuclear renaissance: Energy politics in Post–3.11 Japan. Critical Asian Studies, 46(3), 461–484. doi:10.1080/14672715.2014.935136 Koyasu, J., & Shinozaki, Yo. (2013). Genpatsu wo jugyo suru: Risuku shakai ni okeru kyoiku jissen [Teaching Nuclear Power: Teaching practice in the age of risk society]. Tokyo, Japan:Shunpo Sha. Kobayashi, M. (2013). Bunshu Fukushima kara tsutaetai koto ni kibo wo miidashite [Finding a hope in the essay collection ‘What we want to tell from Fukushima’]. Human and Education, 80, 110–117. Latour, B. (2005). Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Latour, B. (2012). Love your monsters: Why we must care for our technologies as we do our children. The Breakthrough, Winter, Article Winter. http://thebreakthrough.org/index.php/journal/past-issues/issue-2/love-your-monsters Leopard, C. (2017, March 10). Fukushima no fuhyo wo tometai [I want to stop the negative rumors about Fukushima]. WebVoice. https://shuchi.php.co.jp/voice/ detail/3675?p=1 Lindee, S. (2016). Survivors and scientists: Hiroshima, Fukushima, and the radiation effects research foundation, 1975–2014. Social Studies of Science, 46(2), 184–209. Lincicome, M. (2009). Imperial subjects as global citizens: Nationalism, internationalism, and education in Japan. Lexington, MA: Lexington Books. Massumi, B. (2015). Politics of affect. New York, NY: Polity Press. Matsuda, N., Kumagai, A., Ohtsuru, A., Morita, N., Miura, M., Yoshida, M., Kudo, T., Takamura, N., & Yamashita, S. (2013). Assessment of internal exposure doses in Fukushima by a whole-body counter within one month after the nuclear power plant accident. Radiation Research, 179(6), 663–668. Miura, H. (2012). Higashinihon daishinsai to wakamono tachi no manabi chosen [East Japan great earthquake and learning of young people – Challenge]. (pp. 10–19). Association of Tohoku Hokkaido Secondary and Post Secondary Common Education. http://www.lib.fukushima-u.ac.jp/repo/repository/fukuro/ R000004514/40-1-1.pdf

Introduction  21 Nohara, K., & Narukawa, M. (2015, October). Measuring lost recreational benefits in Fukushima due to harmful rumors using a Poisson-inverse Gaussian regression? ERSA conference papers from European Regional Science Association. http://econpapers.repec.org/paper/wiwwiwrsa/ersa15p344.htm Ogawa, A. (2013). Demanding a safer tomorrow: Japan’s anti-nuclear rallies in the summer of 2012. Anthropology Today, 29(1), 21–24. Parkinson, B. (1995). Ideas and realities of emotion. New York, NY: Routledge. Reconstruction Agency. (2021). Hinannsha suu no suit [Shift of evacuee numbers]. https://www.reconstruction.go.jp/topics/main-cat2/sub-cat2-1/20210629_ kouhou2.pdf Resnik, J. (2006). International organizations, the “education–economic growth” black box, and the development of world education culture. Comparative Education Review, 50(2), 173–195. Sakamoto, T. (2012). Higashi Nihon Daishin sai To Kodomo Kyoiku: Shinsai Wa Watashitachi Ni Nani Wo Oshieru Ka [The Great East Japan Earthquake, Children, and Education: What Can The Disaster Teach Us?] Tokyo, Japan: Kiri Shobo. Sand, J. (2012). Living with Uncertainty after March 11, 2011. The Journal of Asian Studies, 71(2), 313–318. Slater, D. H., Morioka, R., & Danzuka, H. (2014). Micro-politics of radiation. Critical Asian Studies, 46(3), 485–508. Takeuchi, T. (2012). Okuma: The starting point of education and its future [Okuma machi gakkochou no genten to korekara]. In Okuma macho gakko sansei he no ­chosen—Genpatsu jiko zencho hinan manabiau kyouiku ga tunagu hito to chiiki [The challenges for reconstruction of a school in Okuma—Nuclear disaster, evacuation, and connection of people and the local community through learning]. (Vol. 1–1, pp. 169–213). Tokyo, Japan: Kamogawa Shuppan. Tsurumi, K. (1989). Naihatsu teki hatten no keifu [Genealogy of endogenous development]. In Tsurumi, K. & Kawada T. (Eds.), Naihatsuteki hatten ron [Theory of endogenous development] (pp. 43–64). Tokyo: Tokyo University Press.

2 History of modern Japan and nuclear energy

Before WWII: self-driven Westernization It has been ten years since the nuclear disaster, which is recognized as the worst level of nuclear accident since Chernobyl (Hasegawa, 2014; Imanaka, 2017). Despite the surreal images of tsunami and broken power plant that shocked millions of people around the world, the memories of the catastrophe have been fading away gradually from the minds of world citizens. The victims of the disaster, however, continue to suffer from the psychological, social, and economic damage. This tragedy and its ongoing effects on people in Fukushima leave us with questions such as: why were we not able to predict or prevent this accident, and more fundamentally, why did such a tragedy happen in Fukushima not elsewhere? Investigation of technical issues and safety protocols within the power plant on March 11, the day the earthquake and tsunami hit the power plant, is of course necessary. However, the exploration should go beyond technical discourse; we must direct our gaze to the historical, political, and economic context of modern Japan and Fukushima. With this basic interest in mind, this chapter examines the trajectory of development (i.e., Westernization) pursued by the modern Japanese government since the late nineteenth century, how it led to the nuclear disaster, and how post-disaster Fukushima has resumed the same modern endeavor. As education has always played a significant role in modernizing Japan and its citizens, the chapter will also explore the state education in Japan and its implementation in Fukushima since the end of the nineteenth century. Desire to become the West Japan’s 300 years of insulation during the Tokugawa shogunate shielded Japan from cultural, religious, economic, and military invasion by the West (Jansen, 1965). However, the long years of insulation was finally disrupted when Western nations, who were expanding their territories in South-east Asia, China, and the Far East, turned their gaze to Japan as their next target of occupation. These nations, including Russia, the UK, and the US, sent battleships to the major ports in Japan. With the threat of warning shots, they demanded the Tokugawa shogunate open its door to international DOI: 10.4324/9781003090083-2

History of modern Japan and nuclear energy  23 trade. Finally, the shogunate agreed to participate in negotiations with representatives from the US, the UK, France, Russia, and the Netherlands. Lack of experience in international negotiation, however, resulted in the shogunate signing an unequal trade treaty with these nations in 1858. This treaty legally placed Japan in an inferior position in relation to these countries. Contingently, this diplomatic defeat led the new generation of Japanese leaders to travel to European nations and the U.S. to learn from them (Kan, 2001; Komori, 2014). Some leaders gained a new worldview as they encountered the West for the first time in their lives. These new insights encouraged them to terminate the shogunate and transform Japan into a modern nation. The goal of the Meiji government was to elevate Japan’s political and economic status to a level equivalent to that of European nations. Such a goal reflected these leaders’ acceptance of Japan’s lagged status in comparison to the West. Japan’s leaders humbly and subjectively promoted “civilization” of Japan and Japanese citizens (Lincicome, 1993). Ironically Japan’s initiative to Westernize its citizens was driven by their patriotism. The development path chosen by the Japanese government was the application of Parson’s model of “effective development” in Japanese society. In this model “underdeveloped countries” were to learn the trajectory of development from “developed countries” by simply following the same steps (Harding, 1992; Tsurumi, 1998). The belief that one’s culture and society are “behind” others automatically gives power and privileges to cultural and spiritual practices of the “developed” countries. Such an asymmetrical view of one’s society even justifies the “developed” nation’s control of natural resources, animals, and “uncivilized” people (Tsurumi, 1998; Yoneyama, 2017). Justification for such an inhumane and top-down method of change is also based on a cosmopolitan belief, which assumes that human rationality and science are powerful tools for advancing ­societies even to the extent that we can turn this society into a Utopia (Popkewitz, 2008). End of animism: disconnection to nature Since ancient times, residents of coastal regions of Fukushima had developed a sense of awe and ways to live in harmony with divine power. Such a worldview and ways of living are based in locally developed Shinto. This was common in Japan until the birth of the modern government and a new version of Shinto for the construction of national identity (Tsurumi, 1977). Locally grounded Shinto acknowledges and stresses the immanent connectedness of all beings, including humans, non-humans, and god (kami, universal energy).1 This connection became visible through imagination (Jensen & Block, 2013). This basic view of the world also recognizes the autonomy of nature, something humans cannot control. It also denies the hierarchy of actors (Tsurumi, 1998). As Westernization became the normalized goal in modern Japan, animism entrenched in the life and culture of local communities across Japan became an obstacle. Manifestations of animism, which

24  History of modern Japan and nuclear energy is also termed “primitive,” became objects of embarrassment for Japanese people, and the government strategically extinguished it by implementing a series of policies in education as well as land readjustment. Recognizing the agency of nature and our spiritual and ontological connection to it in the wake of the nuclear power plant explosion returns us to an animistic view of the world and our responsibility for maintaining it. Japan’s decision to Westernize the nation resulted in Japanese citizens being forced to change their lifestyles, attitudes, and values. Doing so also meant discarding their basic values and spiritual practices (Jansen, 1965). In particular, the emphasis on rational thinking and science that was juxtaposed with devaluation of nature and animals shamed Japanese peoples’ spiritual practices. This was because the Western model of development was contemptuous of people who lived in harmony with nature instead of controlling it with science and rationality (Harding, 1992). Prior to the Meiji restoration, the Japanese people practiced locally grounded Shinto, which is a type of animism. Local Shinto was founded on the basic belief that spirit resides in both animate and inanimate materials in our lives such as animals, trees, water, and rocks. Animism values the natural connection between human and non-human actors and kami (spirit). Such a belief and the practices based on it contributed to maintaining local biodiversity and spiritual life in local communities for thousands of years in Japan (Akasaka, 2012; Tsurumi, 1998; Ueda & Torigoe, 2012; Yoneyama, 2017). However, the “civilization” movement the Meiji government initiated resulted in devaluating Japan’s own culture by condemning it “uncivilized” and “backward.”2 Unfortunately, it also instilled a sense of shame about spirituality in the minds of some citizens. This Westernization movement further led the government to aggressively pursue deconstruction of communities, each of which had its own long unique history, culture, and spiritual connection to the local natural environment. The most devastating destruction of local cultures initiated by the Meiji governments was the Enshrinement Order of 1906. This order merged community-based shrines, which had been historically at the center of each village. The government created administrative districts and designated the merged shrine as the official shrine of the district. Those local shrines were placed under the emperor, who was presented as the god of the nation. In other words, this new system of Shinto was a new centralized tool for governing individuals and communities. As a result of the 1906 Enshrinement Order, 80% of the shrines in Japan that had existed prior to the order were destroyed. At the same time, because these local shrines were built in forests, d ­ emolition of these shrines resulted in the destruction of forests, which had a direct negative impact on the local ecology (Tsurumi, 1977). The Meiji government’s eagerness to turn Japan into one of the “developed” (Westernized) nations in the global world also led the nation towards military expansion (Jansen, 1965). With the rapid development of military power, Japan initiated war with China in 1894 and with Russia in 1905.

History of modern Japan and nuclear energy  25 Japan also annexed Taiwan in 1895 and then Korea in 1910. Long years of economic exploitation of citizens in Taiwan and Korea, deculturalization through education, and years of inhumane and violent conduct the Japanese inflicted on citizens of these nations caused unspeakable pain, whose effects continue even today. Japan’s desire for imperial expansion also led to a long and terrifying battle with US and Allied forces, which finally terminated in the unspeakable tragedy in Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945 with the US military’s use of atomic bombs.

History of nuclear energy Japan’s trajectory of Westernization in the modern era was synonymous with Westernization. The idea of development was also anthropocentric, being led by the fundamental belief that human beings have superior power over other beings. The assumption that human omnipotence controls the material world with scientific knowledge and technology inflated Japanese leaders’ desire to manipulate the material world. Our anthropocentric desires in the modern era even led scientists to create new materials such as plutonium 239, which does not exist in the natural world. Ironically, plutonium, which was named after Pluto, the king of the underworld in Greek mythology, was used for the atomic bombs that turned Hiroshima and Nagasaki into a living hell in 1946 (Takagi, 1997). This tragedy, which was beyond what anyone could have imagined, inflicted physical and psychological pain on ordinary citizens and their descendants. Witnessing this plight through the victims’ eyes teaches us that human beings do not have total control over the material world, nor can science and technology promise the happiness and perpetual progress of our society. Those who understood the uncontrollable nature of science and its catastrophic consequences through first-hand experience, including hibakusha, victims of atomic bombs and radiation, developed an international network of anti-nuclear activists as early as the 1950s. The majority of Japanese citizens who still had vivid memories of Hiroshima and Nagasaki were sympathetic to anti-nuclear activists, and joined the protest in the 1950s to denounce the use of nuclear energy for any purposes. It was at the highest peak of the anti-nuclear movement that Gensui Kyo, The Japan Congress Against Atomic and Hydrogen Bombs, protested America’s nuclear bomb testing and potential to use the bomb in the Vietnam War (Tanaka, & Kuznick, 2011; Yoshimi, 2013). The group’s influence on the Japanese public was enormous; they succeeded in gaining endorsement signatures from 31,583,123 citizens, meaning that almost half of Japanese citizens were anti-nuclear (The Japan Congress Against Atomic and Hydrogen Bombs, 2016). However, this movement rapidly took a new turn when Eisenhower, president of the US, gave an iconic speech entitled “Atom for Peace” at the UN in 1954. Through his speech, Eisenhower proposed a shift in the purpose of using nuclear power from war to peace: he urged the cessation of the use of nuclear power to take away lives of citizens, yet encouraged

26  History of modern Japan and nuclear energy instead its use to improve the lives of ordinary citizens across the world. Eisenhower succeeded in gaining support from the general public not only in the US but also in Japan. Japanese citizens even viewed the alternative use of nuclear power, nuclear power for peace, as a form of redemption (Tanaka & Kuznick, 2011). This turn was accompanied by Japanese political leaders’ use of major mass media in an attempt to eradicate fear of nuclear power. The Chugoku Shimbun, a local newspaper in the Hiroshima region, played an important role in changing the discourse of nuclear power. For example, they published an article in 1957 about the necessity of shifting our attitude toward nuclear power: We need to discard personal feelings about nuclear energy and look at it objectively with scientific eyes. We need to understand its potential. We need to have such an attitude and adopt nuclear energy for peaceful use. (Chugoku Shimbun, May 26, 1957 as cited in Yoshimi, 2013) Pro-nuclear groups argued that we should trust the power of science to promote economic development for Japanese citizens. Such a belief assumed that scientific knowledge is neutral and objective; therefore, it can prevent us from making irrational or immoral decisions that could harm human beings or impede societal progress. This belief resonates with cosmopolitanism, the fundamental American belief, which assumes that science, the epitome of human rationality, can create Utopia in this world. Cosmopolitanism was also the basis of the civilization movement that the Japanese government had been implementing since 1868. Even after the tragedy of the atomic bomb, Japanese leaders picked up on cosmopolitanism to restore their nation and to further its development along the same lines (Suzuki et al., 2010). Pursuit of economic development by using advanced science and technology required Japanese citizens to accept the use of nuclear energy. In changing the public’s perception of nuclear energy, the leaders of the postWWII regime in Japan relied on education. Education both in the public schools and in communities attempted to eradicate people’s fear of nuclear power. In fact, they succeeded in moving the general public to accept the “atom for peace” initiative during the 1950s. This drastic discursive shift from anti-nuclear to pro-nuclear was also a necessary step for Japan to move away from the trauma of WWII and rejoin the international coalition of developed nations. Thus, in the 1950s, political and business leaders in Japan invested in presenting nuclear power as an amicable pal in their lives. One of the strategies the Japanese government employed was to host a series of exhibitions entitled “Peaceful Use of Nuclear Power” with the support of the United States Information Agency, the Yomiuri newspaper and seven local newspapers. They hosted events in eleven major cities, including Hiroshima, and succeeded in having 260,000 people attend between 1955 and 1957 (Yoshimi, 2013). Popular culture also facilitated in reducing citizens’ fear and anger toward nuclear energy in post-WWII Japan. For example, an animation series called

History of modern Japan and nuclear energy  27 Mighty Atom, which started in 1952, invited viewers to form positive affective connections with nuclear power through its main character Atom, a robot who had super powers fueled by nuclear power (Kimura, 2013). Despite his non-human anatomy, in the stories, Atom and his sister Uran had human relationships with his neighbors, families, and peers in ordinary neighborhoods in Japan; Atom even attended school with his peers (Szasz & Takechi, 2007). These friendly animation characters, who were the products of scientific inventions, succeeded in reducing negative emotions toward nuclear energy, and galvanized Japanese citizens to support the use of nuclear power for their peaceful and bright future. As these examples show, with the concerted effort of the government, media, education, and business, Japan succeeded in shifting the anti-­ nuclear sentiment that had dominated Japan since the trauma of the atomic bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945 into pro-nuclear. It reached the point that the majority of Japanese citizens called nuclear power a necessity (Penney, 2012). It was not until the accident in the Fukushima nuclear power plant in 2011 that citizens woke up from the historical amnesia of the atomic bomb. Suddenly, with the explosion of the nuclear power plant, anger and pain combined with a sense of distrust of the government resurged throughout the nation.

After the explosion: anti-nuclear discourse Catastrophes wake citizens up from amnesia, mobilizing them to a public outcry and demand to eliminate the source of catastrophe to avoid the recurrence of such an experience in the future. The nationwide anti-nuclear protests of the 1940s and 1950s is an example of such a movement. The nuclear accident in Fukushima also catalyzed anti-nuclear protests nationwide. The accident shifted public opinion drastically from pro-nuclear to anti-nuclear. In 2011, 70% of the people participating in a public opinion poll supported nuclear phase-out by 2030 (Kawasaki, 2013; Kingston, 2012). The horrifying images of broken nuclear power reactors and refugees from Fukushima, disseminated through the mass media, astouned viewers. The more the public learned about nuclear energy and radiation, the less they came to support nuclear energy. Echoing this public sentiment, the Noda administration agreed on the planned phase-out of 50 nuclear power plants in Japan by the late 2030s (Kingston, 2012). The Noda cabinet was initiating the nation’s transition to renewable energy based on the national consensus on nuclear phase-out in 2011. However, this moment of anti-nuclear sentiment survived only for a short time. As the shock of the catastrophe gradually evaporated, and the evacuees returned to Fukushima and resumed “normal life,” the critical gaze toward the government’s nuclear policy lessened (Kingston, 2012). Instead, the call for economic reconstruction took over public discourse. Such a turn was marked by a joint statement by Keidanren, the Japan Business Federation, Keizai Doyukai, the Japan Association of Corporate Executives, and Nihon

28  History of modern Japan and nuclear energy Shoko Kaigisho, the Japan Chamber of Commerce and Industry, calling for the Noda cabinet’s decision about nuclear phase-out to be rescinded. This quick return to the familiar pro-nuclear discourse accelerated as the nation gradually recovered from the disaster shock. The Liberal Democratic Party’s (LDP) victory in the 2012 election and Shinzo Abe’s return to the position of prime minister in 2013 harshly represent this reality. As soon as the Abe administration resumed power, the cabinet reversed the nuclear policy decision (Kingston, 2012). The public also began to support the nation’s need for nuclear energy, stressing its economic efficiency. Behind the promotion of this pro-nuclear stance was a political and business network consisting of Keidanren, Keizai Doyukai, major utility companies including the Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO), and the Ministry of Economy, Trade, and Industry (METI), whose future depended on the network surrounding nuclear energy. The LDP also relied on this network, with 72.5% of total individual donations to LDP coming from former and current executives of TEPCO and eight other utility companies (Kingston, 2012). Experts had always been aware that the nation is able to provide sufficient electricity without nuclear power plants (Koide & Sataka, 2011; Oguma & Slater, 2012). In fact, Japan survived through the post-disaster era even though the nation shut down all 54 nuclear power plants in March 2011. Despite this fact, the first nuclear power plant restarted its operations on August 11, 2015 in Kagoshima. By 2021, nine nuclear power plants had begun their operations. Seven additional plants passed inspection and are waiting to restart operations, and two new plants were under construction (Castelvecchi, 2015; Japan’s nuclear power plant, 2020, March 10). In this climate, the critical reflection of a past that had paved the way for the nuclear disaster, and examination of the ongoing hardship endured by victims of the nuclear disaster, had been suppressed (Sanuki et al., 2013).

History of Tohoku and Fukushima Before the construction of Genpatsu (Nuclear Power Plant)3 Witnessing the impact of the nuclear disaster from which residents in Fukushima have suffered leads to an essential question: why was Fukushima chosen to endure this tragedy? The concept of risk society provides an insight into this question. Beck (1992, 2007) asserted that our society’s shift to a risk society exposes all citizens, regardless of their geographical, social, and economic locations, to risks, and no one is able to escape from it. At the same time, previous catastrophes such as financial crises, nuclear disasters, floods, and wildfires indicate that those who are in economically and politically marginalized positions are affected more negatively than those who are privileged. This reality also suggests that the major societal problem from the first stage of modernity, unequal distribution of goods (i.e., financial and material resources, and services), becomes exacerbated in the second modernity (risk society). In addition to under-resourced communities being impacted more

History of modern Japan and nuclear energy  29 severely by risks, these communities are often recipients of risks unequally distributed to citizens. This trend was evident in the nuclear disaster. The public noticed that there were 54 nuclear power plants in Japan in 2011. Out of those 54, ten were located in Fukushima prefecture, all in the small towns on the coast of the Pacific Ocean. The concentration of the plants in one region is not contingent; it reflects the history of Fukushima and the Tohoku4 (north-east) region, especially the long years of its asymmetrical relationship with the central government (Kainuma, 2012). The Tohoku region has long occupied a marginal position in the history of Japan. The leaders who ruled Japan from BCE 660 historically positioned themselves and the three administration offices in the Kansai region (e.g., Nara and Kyoto), or in the Kanto region (e.g., Kamakura and Tokyo). Thus, those regions became the “center” of Japan. From the ruler’s point of view, those who lived in the north-east, the Emishi, were “others,” who inherited a cultural and biological lineage separate from the dominant Japanese population (Akasaka, 2014; Hopson, 2017). When the Yamato (a dynasty from Kyoto) finally conquered the Emishi after a long year of battles in the seventh century, the Emishi lost their autonomy and were submerged into the rule of the Yamato dynasty. The successive dynasties and the shogunate, whose leaders were also from the Kansai and Kanto regions, maintained the unequal relationship between the center and the Tohoku (Emishi). The Boshin War from 1868–1869 revived and reinforced the tension that had historically been present between the Tohoku region and the rest. The loss of Oushuu alliances, a coalition of 31 clans from Tohoku and Chuetsu areas, who fought against the new regime, resulted in an extension of the unequal balance of power between the region and the modern Japanese government. The re-emergence of the asymmetrical relationship between the Tohoku and center in the nineteenth century took a new turn, a form of internal colonization of the Tohoku (Hopson, 2017; Figure 2.1). In the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, when Japan was investing in developing its nation through manufacturing and military power, the Tohoku region survived as an internal colony; it provided the center with natural resources (including energy), agricultural products, and cheap labor to meet the central government’s needs (Akasaka, 2014; Kainuma, 2012; Okada, 2013). This pattern of providing natural resources to the center and being a part of large government-funded projects is a common model of development observed among economically under-developed or (former) colonized countries (Akasaka, 2014). As histories of colonization worldwide reveal, such projects benefits the center (colonizer) more than the colonized. The construction and operation of nuclear power plants in Fukushima fits within this type of colonial development in the modern history of Japan. This quasi-colonial relationship paved the way for the construction of a nuclear power plant in Fukushima after WWII. The coastal region of Fukushima had supported the nation’s economy by providing coal from the 1870s, after the Oushuu alliances’ defeated in the Boshin War. However, the shift of national energy policies in the 1950s reduced the need for coal, but increased

30  History of modern Japan and nuclear energy

Figure 2.1  Oushuu Alliance.

dependence on imported fuels from abroad. Consequently, coal mines in the coastal region of Fukushima got shut down despite strong resistance from the workers, whose lives depended on the mining industry. These mining towns and the surrounding regions were left with scarce sources of income other than small-scale agriculture and fishing without coal mines (Kainuma, 2012). The closure of the mines incentivized both residents and politicians in the region to seek new sources of revenue. Towns with little capital, declining population, and a lack of civic engagement were the perfect destination for nuclear power plants. Although there was resistance to the idea of bringing nuclear power plants to the region, the coastal town of Okuma agreed to host the Fukushima Daiichi Power Plant (F1), which began its operation in 1971. The Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO) succeeded in convincing three other towns (Naraha, Tomioka, Futaba and Okuma) in the coastal region to host a total of ten nuclear power plants (Hirokawa, 2011). It is important to note that the construction of plants was not imposed on residents in the region. Driven by residents’ desire for development, the

History of modern Japan and nuclear energy  31 idea of constructing power plant was instigated by local politicians, who had personal affiliations with the region. For example, Kimura, a member of parliament originally from the coastal region of Fukushima, invested in building power plants in Fukushima for the region’s economic and cultural advancement. Kimura genuinely believed that bringing this world-class advanced technology (nuclear) was a way of enriching his hometown. For him, it was a strategic way to subvert the asymmetrical relationship between the center and periphery, using the center’s money. In his mind, nuclear technology was a savior which allowed people in Fukushima to live like cosmopolitans and be permanently free from the economic instability they had suffered for centuries (Kainuma, 2012). In a sense, it was the romanticized hope of rapid economic development shared by the national government and community members in Fukushima that led to the construction of nuclear power plants. The future-oriented and invigorating “atom for peace” speech Eisenhower gave in 1954 corroborated residents’ sentiments of finding hope in technology (Kainuma, 2012; Loh, 2012; Tanaka & Kuznick, 2011). Construction of Genpatsu Hosting nuclear power plants appeared attractive to residents in those coastal communities with a chronic lack of industrial revenues and suffering from depopulation. Power plants provided money and employment opportunities for these towns. Superficially, these regions appeared to have gained economic advancement. Dengen Sampo, the Three Laws of Power Development, enacted in 1974 under the Tanaka administration, further enabled the flow of generous grants to communities that hosted nuclear and hydropower plants (Hasegawa, 2014; Hikosaka-Behling et al., 2019). While this law appeared generous at first sight, the funding implied that the grant was a compensation for the risk being taken; thus, there should be no accusations in the event of an accident. As the power plant was constructed as a part of a national development project in the post-WWII era, a great deal of funding was earmarked for this project. Liberal citizens criticized the exclusivity of such government-led projects. Yet, residents in small towns in Fukushima appreciated the distribution of subsidies regardless of the politics (Kainuma, 2012). This top-down method of development using government funding emulates the Western model of development, where actors from the center invest funding and advanced technologies into communities that are considered “behind.” Despite possible critique of this type of development taking place in Fukushima, in practice, members of the community that hosted the power plant enjoyed an enhanced quality of life enabled by government subsidies and donations from TEPCO to their towns (Akasaka & Goto, 2013). The communities used the subsidies from Dengen Sampo to build public facilities like community centers, gyms, and school buildings. Thus, the funding immediately elevated the standard of living in these communities. For example, a town that hosted a power plant build a new public school building with

32  History of modern Japan and nuclear energy elevators, which was rare in that region in the 1970s and 1980s. The communities also enjoyed first-class athletics facilities with air-conditioning systems where top-class high-school athletes from all over Japan practiced and competed. The reauthorization of the Dengen Sampo in 2003 further increased the benefit of hosting power plants; the new version of the law allowed towns to use the funding for community revitalization. Thus, communities used the funding to host public events and to support new businesses, products, welfare services, and education (Association of Nuclear Power Education, 2021, January 9). In addition to the financial incentives, the nuclear power plant generated job opportunities for local community. For example, TEPCO hired subcontractors for maintenance work at the plant from local companies. Local residents graduating from vocational high schools worked as engineers at the plant. The plant also led to flourishing plant-related businesses such as restaurants and housing for plant workers. The residents welcomed these businesses and employment opportunities as they also allowed families to stay together for a whole year. Prior to the construction of the plant, the workers in these regions often had to migrate to Tokyo as seasonal workers during the winter, outside the farming season, to supplement their income. With the flow of stable year-long jobs in town TEPCO brought, they no longer had to migrate (Kainuma, 2012). This improved lifestyle offered by construction of the nuclear plant even served to quell some initial opposition to its construction in these communities (Oguma, 2011). Neo-colonial relationship with TEPCO The new industrial and economic structure in which community, government, and residents relied on government subsidies and jobs from TEPCO created a mutual dependency between the community, TEPCO, and the government. Without TEPCO and government subsidies, these communities were not able to sustain themselves economically. The allocation of subsidies began as soon as the towns signed the contract for building the plant. Once operation began, they received 21.1 billion yen, which comprised almost 30% of the town’s revenue (Kinugasa, 2014). Counting from 1971, the year of its commission, Fukushima prefecture received a total of 270 billion yen, which is equivalent to US$ 2.6 billion, from the Japanese government (Akasaka, 2014). A local economic system based on plant business is not sustainable in the long run, even though this was not explained thoroughly at the point of development. In reality, subsidies from the government became gradually smaller every year as the value of the plant decreased. Thus, in order to continue receiving the same amount of subsidies, the local government had to resort to a myopic idea, which is to keep building new plants (Akasaka, 2014). That is why the town of Okuma and Futaba built six reactors between 1971 and 1981. In addition, the towns of Naraha and Tomioka hosted four reactors in Fukushima Daini Plant, F2, in the 1980s. There had been active discussions on building two more nuclear reactors in Futaba since the 1990s (Figure 2.2).5

History of modern Japan and nuclear energy  33

Figure 2.2  Map of Futaba County, Fukushima.

These dependent relationships between the towns that hosted the plants, national government, TEPCO, and manufacturing and construction companies also lay at the heart of employment relationships within the plant. General construction companies with headquarters in the metropolitan area seized the opportunity to carry out the national project of constructing nuclear power plants. TEPCO had the exclusive right to run the plant, so they hired employees directly. This resulted in many of the senior management and executive positions being filled by college graduates from the metropolitan area. This, in turn, limited employment opportunities for local people to second-tier engineering and administrative positions and subcontracting jobs (Akasaka, 2014). Although its impact was invisible at first, the fundamentally unequal structure of relationships between local communities and the center damaged the communities in the long run. Communities that hosted power plants were continually dependent on TEPCO. They became addicted to nuclear, knowing the risk (Kainuma, 2012). It was an unhealthy and exploitative relationship, which placed the communities that agreed to host the plants at risk. As had happened in colonized countries, regions that provided natural resources to the host nation (colonizer) became subsumed into the system of exploitation. Ironically, Fukushima positioned itself in this system subjectively without knowing that it systematically benefited those at the center (i.e., members of the “nuclear village” such as TEPCO, the national government, and manufacturing and construction companies), not themselves. Despite this reality, we should avoid seeing the people of Fukushima as mere victims. The residents of the cities that hosted the power plants had access to information about the risk of nuclear power plants. Especially in the mid-1950s, when the initial discussions on constructing nuclear power plants in Fukushima took place, Japan was at the height of its anti-nuclear movement due to the Lucky Dragon incident in Bikini Atoll (Tanaka &

34  History of modern Japan and nuclear energy Kuznick, 2011). It is naïve to believe that people in Fukushima was ‘t aware of risk of radiation. The “atom for peace” discourse that was competing with the anti-nuclear movement in the mid-1950s entered Fukushima and eroded people’s fear of nuclear energy and gradually replaced it with hope for a bright future. The idea of “energy of the future” seduced citizens living in poor depopulating communities. This model of development with nuclear energy was not something new and specific to Fukushima people. It was an extension of Japanese citizens’ collective desire to catch up with the West, which had haunted their psyche since the late 1800s. For people in the local communities, this urge to “catch up” was translated into a desire to get closer to the center (Tokyo) (Kainuma, 2012). The hope of economic and cultural development present within the residents in coastal towns and villages in Fukushima that were deemed “behind” was the source for constructing the power plant. The explosion of the power plant revealed the fragility of their dream to “catch up.” Japanese people witnessed at first hand that technology can not only fail to ensure perpetual economic development but can also be the source of catastrophes (Beck, 2007 Gerteis & George, 2014). Despite this awareness, communities quickly returned to the old familiar discourse of development, now seeking rapid economic recovery in the region by inviting in robotic industries and renewable energy utilizing the most advanced science.

Modern history of education in Japan Education as a tool for development Japan has consistently had a desire to join the league of Western nations since the nineteenth century. In pursuing the goal of catching up through Westernization of its citizens, public-school education played a central role. What was at the core of the education plan was implementation of the common school model that was prevalent in the mid-nineteenth century in Europe and the US (Yamoto, 2014). The members of the Iwakura Missions who traveled to European nations and the US in 1862 saw the national public-school system as an essential tool for constructing a national identity (Breen et al., 1998; Jansen, 1965). In 1872, the Meiji regime initiated the system of universal compulsory education to catch up with the West economically, culturally, and militarily (Lincicome, 1993). The equation of modernization with Westernization these leaders prmoted to shaped the goals and curriculum of public schools. Schools became sites for “civilizing” students by teaching them to abandon the animistic (primitive) way of living and thinking that had dominated local community members’ lives until the birth of the Meiji Government in 1868 (Kawahara, 1994; Komori, 2011). In sum, the idea of constructing modern citizens in Japan coincided with the central government’s tightening control on local governance and deculturalization through the implementation of a universal education system.

History of modern Japan and nuclear energy  35 In adopting the common school model of education from Prussia and the US, the Japanese government aimed to craft a unified Japanese national identity by teaching a common national history, one god associated with the nation (not the local gods tied to local communities). In addition to the construction of national identity, promotion of individualism was another major goal of education. Fukuzawa, one of the public intellectuals who drove the modernization movement in Japan in the 1800s, preached the importance of inculcating individualism in the mind of Japanese citizens, as it is a necessary tool to move Japanese society away from the primitive stage towards civilization (Kawahara, 1994). This view represents his active conformity to the Western model of development that nineteenth-century ethnographers like Tylor (1871) asserted. While Fukuzawa did not deny the idea of preserving our unique cultural identities, the obsession with “becoming civilized” (Westernized) pushed Japanese leaders to undermine traditional, more animistic, ways of living. Destruction of locally based Shinto, animism, which was the center of Japanese people’s spirituality in their communities, took place simultaneously with the crafting and spreading of a national religion, the National Shinto. This version of Shinto claimed the emperor was the god of the nation and a descendant of its founder. The Meiji government used the public-school education system effectively to promote the spread of the new version of Shinto, following the common school model of education practiced in Europe and US (Yamoto, 2014). Just as common schools in the US taught common Christian moral values, Japanese public schools taught the National Shinto religion. Echoing this structure and practice of a newly invented Shinto for modern Japan, schools placed under the supervision of new administrative districts had their own shrine on their property. With the promulgation of the Imperial Rescript on Education in 1890, school children participated in rituals weekly to receive words from the emperor, who was presented to them as the god (Jansen, 1965; Yamoto, 2014). The invention of a foundation myth and rituals with the use of national symbols is not a unique practice exclusive to Japan. Modern nations in the West commonly used this strategy in crafting nations, imagined communities and people who share a collective identity within the nation (Anderson, 2006). The invention of a ritual in public school that looked authentically Japanese was, in fact, their method of becoming Western. Through the repetitive participation in rituals throughout their school career, children developed their identity as Japanese national citizens who all lived under the auspices of the god, the emperor. The strong national identity became the dominant aspect of their lives, replacing their locally grounded identities. Together with the loss of local identity, the symbiotic relationship with the natural environment reflected in pre-modern village lifestyles gradually declined (Yoneyama, 2018). Japan’s defeat in WWII resulted in demystification of the divine nature of the emperor and the loss of his political power in the government. Following this drastic shift, the Ministry of Education, under the guidance of the US, removed Shinto teaching, which had been at the center of public-school

36  History of modern Japan and nuclear energy education, from all textbooks (Hamamoto, 2013). The occupying forces also sought to disseminate American democratic values and promoted meritocracy while distancing themselves from communism. However, the US occupying forces faced challenges in promoting meritocracy. The education system in pre-WWII Japan, which had emulated the French model, had embraced a hierarchical structure tied to the nation’s occupation structure. In this system, only a certain percentage of students could attend local public secondary schools, and even fewer were selected to proceed to imperial universities. The university graduates were elites, who took leadership positions in the military, business and finance, politics, and culture and education. On the other hand, those who were not eligible for higher education obtained vocational jobs in the primary (e.g., fishing, agriculture, and forestry) and secondary sectors (manufacturing) (Kawahara, 1994). This basic nineteenth-century education structure survived in post-WWII Japan, but with a new twist. Post-WWII education was founded on the values of meritocracy and the fair distribution of educational opportunities in emulation of the US education model: the common school and social efficiency model. In this model, standardized testing was to be used to sort students into various educational and occupational paths at the secondary and post-secondary level (Kliebard, 1987). What determined their academic trajectory and subsequent occupation was students’ test scores in the entrance examination. High schools and universities, both public and private, administer entrance examinations for their prospective students once a year. Students are ranked solely based on their test score and a predetermined number of students from the top of the list are admitted. This admission system appeared to be objective and democratic, providing opportunities for students, regardless of their economic backgrounds, to receive quality education. This system was to replace Japanese feudalism, according to which one’s social and economic position was determined by birth. However, it is important to note that these seemingly meritocratic values created two issues in modern Japan. The desire for economic upward mobility through education among a growing number of students intensified the competition for high-school and college entrance (Watanabe, 2000; Yamoto, 2014). Henceforth, schools came to direct their resources and energy to preparing students for entrance examinations, especially at the middle-school and high-school level. Heightened stress levels among students resulted in increasing cases of mental health problems and even suicides among young people (Chuo Kyoiku Shingikai, 1996). Another issue that remained was a hidden system of inequality. While the entrance examination stressed its neutrality and meritocracy, studies consistently showed that there is a close correlation between the household income and educational attainment level. The capital, including social and cultural capital, that the parents have results in better education outcomes (Araya, 2006). This means that the education system in Japan, in which entrance examinations play a central role, disguises its basic function of maintaining inequality in and through education.

History of modern Japan and nuclear energy  37 Education reform for the twenty-first century Together with the psychological issues surrounding education, entering the twenty-first century posed new challenges for Japan. The industrialization strategy that Japan had been employing since the late 1800s became obsolete as the world began to shift gradually from manufacturing to the knowledge-based economy. This shift in industry also changed the governance system in society. The 1980s saw a gradual shift from centralized government (welfare state) to neoliberal government in many economically advanced countries, including the UK and the US (Harvey, 2005). This shift meant that the national government began reducing its responsibility for looking after citizens’ well-being. Large public spending cuts in the areas of welfare, public health, education, and the criminal justice system were followed by private and public partnership. Echoing the US and British shift to the neoliberal economy in the 1980s, the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD) announced society’s shift to a knowledge-based economy. Japan responded to this global discourse of a shift to neoliberalism sensitively. Japan’s post-colonial desire to catch up with the West urged the country’s leaders to engage in drastic economic and education reforms aligned with OECD’s specific suggestions. The Japanese diet and the Ministry of Education brought forward proposals for shifting the nation and its education towards the neoliberal and knowledge-based society during the Nakasone administration of the late 1980s. MEXT, together with the leading political parties and business leaders, denounced the outdated content and methods of education used in Japanese public schools and called for drastic education reforms in order to survive in the global market (Sato et al., 2014). Their refrain was that citizens in the twenty-first century need to develop different skills from the previous era. For example, the ability to follow instructions precisely, which was valued in centralized society or workplaces like factories, was no longer important. Workers in knowledge-based and neoliberal societies had to develop new personal qualities such as flexibility, autonomy, and the willingness to “continue to develop their skills” over their lifetime (Ogawa, 2013). Thus, innovative business and political leaders sought to make changes to public-school education in line with the shift in society. The development of these psychological qualities, rather than a set of knowledge in subject areas, required new innovative methods of teaching. In making these changes, Japan first relied on OECD recommendations (Takayama, 2013). Since the 1980s OECD had been playing a leading role in educational reform at the global scale; it developed a new education blueprint aligned with the knowledge-based economy. Its member countries, the majority of which are North-western countries, actively promoted the implementation of OECD Key Competencies (KCs). Japan, which had been a member of the OECD since 1964, supported this trend too. As a part of this education reform, in 1988, MEXT announced a new reform initiative guided by the concept of ikiru chikara (zest for living) and began its

38  History of modern Japan and nuclear energy implementation in 2002 (Lincicome, 1993; MEXT, 1996; Motani, 2005). Despite its purely Japanese appearance, ikiru chikara was essentially a re-labeling of OECD’s Key Competencies (KCs), consisting of three components: (1) using symbols interactively; (2) working in heterogeneous groups; and (3) acting autonomously (OECD, 2005; Ogawa, 2013; Takayama, 2013). This reform also sought to end an education system suitable for preparation of entrance examination, which was memorization based. Instead of memorizing a vast amount of knowledge, the focus of the new education was designed to develop a set of skills and attitudes equivalent to the OECD’s Key Competencies. MEXT attempted to make fundamental changes to Japanese education as the country began transitioning into a neoliberal, knowledge-based economy (Motani, 2005). However, this effort faced a raft of challenges, including persistent resistance from teacher training institutions, public-school teachers, and parents. This resistance was partly due to Japan’s long history of equating entrance exams with meritocracy in the post-WWII era. General public’s discomfort with the fundamental societal shift to a neoliberal post-industrial society also hindered the implementation of education reform. However, for Japan’s business and political leaders, well-versed in the world discourse of a knowledge-based economy and neoliberalism, accepting failure was not an option. Thus, over the past two decades, MEXT has persistently pushed this reform despite strong resistance among teachers. Repeated failure to shift the education discourse to a neoliberal one finally led MEXT to change the format and content of entrance examinations for national post-secondary institutions to match with the twenty-first-century model (Nishikawa, 2015). This new type of exam was to assess students’ mastery of KCs instead of measuring how much knowledge they had memorized as was done in traditional entrance examinations. This change finally pushed Japanese educators and students to conform to the global educational trend. The urgency of the education reforms promoted by MEXT in the past 20 years in Japan is a re-emergence of the familiar (post)-colonial desire to catch up with the West. After all, pursuing Westernization equated with development had been instilled into the very core of the Japanese national psyche since 1868. Fukushima schools before and after the explosion Over the past 150 years, public-school education in Japan has been a tool for creating patriotic national citizens, equipped with occupational skills to advance the nation’s economy and political power. The recent ­global-scale education reform initiative in support of the neoliberal and knowledge-based economy gradually spread into classrooms in Fukushima, too. When the disaster took place, Fukushima prefecture had already incorporated the Plan, Do, Check, and Act (PDCA) model of teaching practice that aimed to align teaching with the pre-set academic goals. This was a way to increase students’ test scores in the annual national academic achievement test, which started in 2007. The test was implemented as a form of

History of modern Japan and nuclear energy  39 accountability, and it measured students’ mastery of competencies at the end of each academic year (MEXT, 2012). The publication of schools’ test scores and prefectural averages also encouraged competition among educators. Concerns over the mediocre average score of Fukushima students compared to other prefectures, the Fukushima education board pressured teachers to improve test scores (Fukushima Prefectural Government Education Department (2012, August 8). At the same time, teachers and students in secondary schools had been continuously dealing with the pressure for success in the entrance examinations to enter high-ranking high schools and colleges, which are likely to determine their future career trajectory (Kobayashi, 2013). The unimaginable scale of the accident which took place on March 11, 2011 paused the pressure to increase students’ test scores. Teachers had to assume other responsibilities to restore normality in their communities and in their students’ lives. For example, teachers had to volunteer to support evacuees, who crammed into school gyms and classrooms day and night (Kobayashi, 2013; Taguma et al., 2014; Takeuchi et al., 2013). Other teachers who worked in schools affected by a high dose of radiation even engaged in decontamination work, risking their health. In addition, they handled an enormous amount of paperwork as students were constantly transferring in and out of their schools (Fukushima Prefectural Government Office, 2011). Administrators and teachers from designated evacuation zones had additional responsibilities. They had to prepare for re-opening their school in an alternative location without a high level of radiation. For example, the town of Okuma established a school which the prefecture called “Satellite School” in Aizu Wakamatsu City located in the west region of Fukushima, and had minimal damage of the disaster.6 Schools in Namie relocated to Nihonmatsu, which was located in the central region of Fukushima. Finding a space, often in another school’s gym or playground, and setting up a classroom required enormous amounts of time and effort. We also need to remember that teachers took on all this uncompensated responsibilities out of their sense of professional pride.

Conclusion The nuclear power plant accident in 2011 revealed the fragile and illusory nature of the progress that the community had enjoyed for decades. Their dream life, enabled by embracing nuclear power plants that utilized risky yet the most advanced technology, epitomizes the modern Japanese obsession with catching up with the West. Since the end of the nineteenth century, when Japan had to open its door to the global world, the nation had struggled constantly to gain a leadership position on the global stage. To achieve this ambitious goal, the Meiji government implemented a Westernization initiative in a top-down manner through the creation of new administrative units and education systems; the new government forced citizens to discard traditional ways of living and social structures and replaced them with a model borrowed from European countries. The most drastic change to

40  History of modern Japan and nuclear energy come from modernization was a loss of locally grounded animism, spiritual practices that recognized human beings’ interdependent and spiritual relationships with all beings (plants, animals, water, air) in their local communities. Instead of living harmoniously with nature, citizens adopted a modern identity and ambition, claiming the omnipotence of human rationality and their ability to control and transform the world through the use of scientific knowledge. Education also led citizens to view the nation as the primary source of their identity, leading their desire for personal progress to become symbiotic with that of the nation. Fukushima also followed this modern trajectory of development. Being part of the Tohoku region, which is the periphery of the nation, culturally, politically, and economically, had added more incentives for them to adopt modern methods of progress, and economic and industrial advancement that utilized science while leaving behind the “primitive” (connection to nature). This is how Fukushima ended up hosting ten power plants, knowing its risk, at least at the subconscious level. The accident revealed the hubris of human beings and the limitations of the anthropocentric notion of development that modern Japan had pursued. However, the reconstruction movement promoted by the national and prefectural governments immediately following the disaster directed citizens’ gaze back to the future. The illusory presentations of economic and material success in the future of the Tohoku region after the disaster is once again bringing them back to the modern dream of progress and catching up with the center. Education has always played a central role in instilling this desire for Westernization and patriotism into the minds of young citizens. In the following chapters, I will explain how this desire for development (Westernization) was practiced in Fukushima before and after the disaster, and how teachers and students responded to it.

Notes 1 The development of harmonious communities among those actors, including tsunamis, is apparent from a survey compiled in 927 CE, which listed 100 shrines. Of these, only three were damaged. 2 Animism in this context is different from Shinto, which Meiji imperial Japan. 3 Genpatsu is an acronym of Genshiryoku Hatsudensho, nuclear power plant. 4 The Tohoku region, of which Fukushima is a part, is located in north-east Japan. 5 This plan was never executed due to the 2011 accident. 6 Aizu Wakamatsu city is located 60 kilometers away from the plant and was little affected by the disaster.

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42  History of modern Japan and nuclear energy Hopson, N. (2017). Ennobling Japan’s savage northeast: Tohoku as postwar thought, 1945–2011. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Imanaka, T. (2017). 20 miri siberuto to maboroshino anden anshin ron [20 mil sievert and illusory theory of safety and relief] Radiation effect and thyroid cancer. Kagaku, 87(7), 0681–0689. Jansen, M. B. (1965). Changing Japanese attitudes toward modernization. In Changing Japanese attitudes toward modernization (pp. 43–90). Princeton University Press. https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt183pzb6.6 Japan’s nuclear power plant (2020, March 10). Nippon.com. https://www.nippon. com/en/features/h00238/japan’s-nuclear-power-plants.html?cx_recs_click=true Jensen, C. B., & Block, A. (2013). Techno-animism in Japan: Shinto cosmograms, actor-network theory, and the enabling powers of non-human agencies. Theory, Culture & Society, 30(2), 84–115. Kainuma, H. (2012). Fukushima Ron: Genshiryoku mura wa naze umaretano ka [Fukushima Studies: Why were nuclear villages were created]. Tokyo, Japan: Seidosha. Kan, S. (2001). Posuto coroniarism [Post colonialism]. Tokyo, Japan: Sakuhinsha. Kawahara, M. (1994). NIhon kindai shiso to kyoiku [Japan modern thoughts and education]. Seibundo. Kawasaki, A. (2013). Hopes and traps on the path to a nuclear-free Japan: The Fukushima disaster and civil society. Asian Perspective, 37(4), 593–614. Kimura, S. (2013). Shinsai Bungaku Ron: Atarashii Nihon Bungaku No Tameni [Post-Disaster Literary Critiques: For New Japanese Literature]. Tokyo, Japan: Seidosha. Kingston, J. (2012). The politics of disaster, nuclear and recovery Kingston. In J. Kingston (Ed.), Natural disaster and nuclear crisis in Japan: Response and recovery after Japan’s 3/1 (pp. 188–206). New York, NY: Routledge. Kinugasa, T. (2014). Koeikigyo no keiko Enryaku no keizaigaku [Studying economic strategies of public business]. Venture Business, Special edition, 1. Kliebard, H. (1987). Scientific curriculum and the rise of social efficiency. In The Struggle for the American Curriculum, 1893–1958 (pp. 89–122). New York: NRoutledge. Kobayashi, M. (2013). Kokosei tachi no sakuhin to omoi: Shin sai taiken wo toituddukeru [High school students’ arts and thoughts: Continuous exploration of disaster experience]. Kyoiku, March, 53–63. Koide, H., & Sataka, M. (2011). Genpatsu to nihonnjin—Jibun wo uranai shiso [Nuclear power and the Japanese: Philosophy of not selling oneself]. Tokyo, Japan: Kadokawa Group Publishing. Komori, Y. (2011). Structural criticism to Japanese colonialism and imperialism. In Postcolonialism (pp. 56–61). Tokyo, Japan: Sakuhin Sha. Komori, Y. (2014). Shisha no koe, seijano kotoba bungaku de tou genpatus no nihon [Voices of the dead and words of the living: Questioning nuclear Japan with Literature]. Tokyo, Japan: Shin Nihon Shuppan. Lincicome, M. (1993). Nationalism, internationalization, and the dilemma of educational reform in Japan. Comparative Education Review, 37(2), 123–151. Loh, S.-L. (2012). Beyond peace: Pluralizing Japan’s nuclear history. The Asia-­ Pacific Journal, 10(11), 1–12. Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology Japan Japan, MEXT. (2012). Monbu kagaku hakusho [White paper of education and science]. http:// www.mext.go.jp/b_menu/hakusho/html/hpab201301/detail/1339289.htm

History of modern Japan and nuclear energy  43 Motani, Y. (2005). Hopes and challenges for progressive educators in Japan: Assessment of the progressive turn in the 2002 Educational Reform. Comparative Education, 41(3), 309–327. Nishikawa, J. (2015). 2020 gekihen suru daigaku juken [2020 drastic change in the entrance examination]. Tokyo, Japan: Gakuyo Shobo. OECD. (2005). The Definition and Selection of Key Competencies Executive Summary. http://www.oecd.org/pisa/35070367.pdf Ogawa, A. (2013). Young precariat at the forefront: Anti-nuclear rallies in post-Fukushima Japan. Inter-Asia Cultural Studies, 14(2), 317–326. Oguma, E. (2011). Tohoku to sengo nihon: Kindai nihon wo koeru souzou ryoku no hituyo sei [The Hidden Face of Disaster: 3.11, the Historical Structure and Future of Japan’s Northeast] (S. Kyoko, Trans.). The Asia-Pacific Journal, 9(31), 1–12. Oguma, E., & Slater, D. (2012). Naritatanaku naru nihonshiki kogyo shakai kara futsu no kuni e [From a “dysfunctional Japanese-style Industrial society” to an “ordinary nation”?]. The Asia-Pacific Journal, 10(31), 1–10. Okada, T. (2013). History of Tohoku from the perspective of disaster [Saigaito kaihatsu kara mita tohokushi]. In A. Kawauchi, H. Kawanishi, H. Takaoka, M. Ookado, & T. Okada (Eds.), History of survival in Tohoku [Seizon no Tohoku shi] (pp. 2–52). Tokyo, Japan: Otsuki. Penney, M. (2012). Nuclear nationalism and Fukushima. The Asia-Pacific Journal, 10(11), 1–13. Popkewitz, T. S. (2008). Cosmopolitanism and the age of school reform: Science, education, and making society by making the child (14795002). Routledge. http://www. loc.gov/catdir/toc/ecip0715/2007014025.html Sanuki, H., Sato, H., Miyashita, S., & Nakata, Y. (Eds.). (2013). 3・11 To kyoiku kaikaku [3.11 and education reform]. Tokyo, Japan: Kamogawa Shuppan. Sato, M., Ouchi, H., & Saito, Y. (2014). Kyoiku saise no tameni [For the reconstruction of education]. Gendai Shiso, April, 28–50. Suzuki, M., Ito, M., Ishida, M., Nihei, N., & Masao Maruyama. (2010). Individualizing Japan: Searching for its origins in first modernity. British Journal of Sociology, 61(3), 513–538. Szasz, F., & Takechi, I. (2007). Atomic heroes and atomic monsters: American and Japanese cartoonists confront the onset of the nuclear age, 1945–80. The Historian, 69(4), 728–752. Taguma, M., Miura, H., Hayo, M., Jimerson, S., Momcilovic, O., Ishikuma, T., Nishiyama, H., & Watanabe, Y. (2014). Creating a common model for prevention and recovery from school crisis. The Annual Report of Educational Psychology in Japan, 53, 192–196. Takagi, J. (1997, December 8). Raito raiburihudo shou jushou spichi [Right Livelihood award reception speech]. https://cnic.jp/takagi/words/rla-speech-j.html Takayama, K. (2013). OECD, “Key competencies” and the new challenges of educational inequality. Journal of Curriculum Studies, 45(1), 67–80. Takeuchi, T., Shono, F., & Takahashi, N. (2013). Fukushima ken Futaba gun no kyoikucho ni kiku: Genpatsu saigaito kyoiku gyosei no chosen [Interviewing superintendents in Futaba county: Nuclear disaster and the challenges of educational administrations]. Kyoiku, March, 4–36. Tanaka, T., & Kuznick, P. (2011). Genpatsu to Hiroshima: Genshiryoku heiwa riyo no shinso [Nuclear power plant and Hiroshima—The truth of nuclear power peaceful use]. Tokyo, Japan: Iwanami Shoten.

44  History of modern Japan and nuclear energy The Japan Congress Against Atomic and Hydrogen Bombs. (2016). Cherunobuiri genpatsu jiko 30 nen wo saguru tabi [The trip to Chernobyl 30 years after the accident] (p. 61). https://www.antiatom.org/international_activity/pdf/2016/201605_ Chernobyl_30th.pdf Tsurumi, K. (1977). Hyohaku to teiju to [Moving and settlement]. Tokyo, Japan: Chikuma. Tsurumi, K. (1998). Tsuchi no maki [The volume on earth] (Vol. 4). Tokyo, Japan: Fujiwara Shoten. http://iss.ndl.go.jp/books/R100000001-I010601344-00 Tylor, E. B. (1871). Primitive culture. London: Murray. Ueda, K., & Torigoe, H. (2012). Why do victims of the tsunami return to the coast? International Journal of Japanese Sociology, 21(1), 21–29. doi:10.1111/j.1475-6781.2012.01159.x Watanabe, O. (2000). Shinjiyushugi no ikkan to shite no kyoiku kaikaku [Education reform as a part of neoliberal reform] (pp. 266–269). Yamoto, M. (2014). Shushin kyoiku no jitsuzo to sono mondai: Yamamoto zemi kyodo kenkyu hokoku [An illustration and problems of civic education, a collaborative research report. Yamamoto Seminar]. Keio University Education Department Yamamoto Seminar. Yoneyama, S. (2017). Animism: A grassroots response to the socioenvironmental crisis in Japan. In T. Morris-Suzuki & E. J. Soh (Eds.), New worlds from below: Informal life politics and grassroots action in twenty-first-century North Asia (pp. 99–130). Adelaide, Australia: ANU. Yoneyama, Y. (2018). Animism for the sociological imagination. New York, NY: Routledge. Yoshimi, S. (2013). America no kumo [The American cloud]. Todai OCW The Global Focus on Knowledge Lecture Series, Tokyo.

3 Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima1

Native researchers and the decolonization of ethnography The history of ethnography and colonialism is long and intimate. Ethnography has served the interest of the colonizers by uncovering facts about the “uncivilized” and by providing suggestions on how to use this knowledge in order to govern them (Vidich & Lyman, 2000). This legacy is reflected in the power relationship between the researcher and the researched even today. Researchers who may not be conscious of this power relationship could inadvertently turn their participants into objects of gaze and place them in asymmetrical relationships through their research (Fine, 1994). In the past, sustaining such a power relationship was justified by the colonizers’ intention to enlighten the colonized and bring benefits to these communities by utilizing knowledge gained from their research (Vidich & Lyman, 2000). While such an intention is culturally biased, a prevailing belief that the scientific method of inquiry can place researchers in a neutral position and allow them to produce unbiased knowledge has also served to defend the colonizers’ way of knowing (Kanuha, 2000; Rosaldo, 1989; Thompson, 1995). In contrast, feminist researchers argue that unexamined biases involved in research can turn participants into “deficit subjects” and problematize such claims for the neutrality of research. These researchers also warn researchers to be vigilant about their own values related to their research topics, participants, and relationships with them (Guillemin & ­Gillam, 2004; Pillow, 2003). Past discussions of the relationship between researchers/colonizers and researched/colonized evolved on the basis of the assumption that researchers were from locations that were culturally and geographically remote from their research sites (Appadurai, 1988; Ghaffar-Kucher, 2015). However, in recent years, as the number of native ethnographers trained in Western institutions has increased, discourses of native researchers’ identities as well as the advantages and challenges inherent in native researchers’ inquiry have emerged (Narayan, 1993; Punch, 1994). Some researchers stress the advantages of native researchers, arguing that physical resemblance and cultural knowledge facilitate development of an instant rapport with local populations and access to “honest data” (Al-Makhamreh & Lewando-Hundt, DOI: 10.4324/9781003090083-3

46  Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima 2008; Cui, 2015; Punch, 1994), while others warn that such advantages could lead native researchers to the verge of unethical conduct. Behind the façade of friendly faces, native researchers could falsely lead native informants to unguardedly provide information to the researchers, unaware of how the information will be used and for what purpose (Smith, 2012). To remedy such colonial practices underlying research, researchers—whether native or non-native—must be reflective enough to interrogate the colonial power that runs through established research methods during their research (Villenas, 1996). Interrogating their own positions and methods of inquiry can place native researchers in an ambivalent position; shifting back and forth between the positions of researcher/colonizer and the researched/colonized may cause tension within the researchers themselves. However, this tension can also be used strategically to decolonize research. For example, native researchers can take advantage of opportunities to record and explain the power dynamics between them and their participants in their research. Being placed in the position of both the colonizer and colonized can bring up strong emotions in native researchers. However, they can use such emotional moments as opportunities to enhance their understanding of the phenomena they are studying (Emerald & Carpenter, 2015). Finally, they can utilize the knowledge gained from these struggles to transform the research into a process that can empower their participants. I was influenced by the work of native researchers when I began my research in Fukushima, my hometown, which experienced a trilogy of disasters in the form of an earthquake, tsunami, and a nuclear power plant explosion in 2011. This scholarly influence and my personal history with Fukushima strengthened my commitment to conduct research ethically. I viewed myself as an insider and planned to conduct the study from that position. However, as soon as I stepped into Fukushima and had emotional encounters with new and familiar persons, objects, and events, I began to veer between insider and outsider positions. Through this experience, I learned that emotions, which are intense energies that run between various bodies and objects, are central to the formation of insider and outsider identities. Emotions create boundaries between objects and bodies, and separate us from them or move us closer to them (Ahmed, 2004). At different moments during my data collection in Fukushima, I experienced a range of feelings about various subjects and objects in reality. Experiencing the shift between these two positions also provided me with a new insight into a new type of agency researchers and participants exercise during research, and how such agency can decolonize research. In this chapter, I will describe feelings that community members in Fukushima and I had about particular people, events, or objects, and how those feelings swung me between insider and outsider positions during the total of seven months I spent in post-disaster Fukushima between 2013 and 2016. I will start by briefly describing the background of my research, the historical and current social context of Fukushima, and my personal history in Fukushima. I will then discuss what particular feelings I experienced at different moments in

Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima  47 my research and how those feelings attached me to or detached me from certain people, objects, or events, and how I became both insider and outsider as a result. Based on my reflections, I will conclude by explaining the unique nature of ethnography in a post-disaster society, where community members are affected by trauma, and by providing insights into how researchers in such contexts can work with their participants to decolonize research.

Researchers’ positionality and Fukushima’s past and present I began my research in post-disaster Fukushima two years after the catastrophe. I wanted to explore how teachers, community organizers, and students had experienced the disaster and how their experiences impacted their beliefs about curriculum and its implementation. What led me to conduct this research was my personal memories of Fukushima, which were triggered by this catastrophe. I was born and raised in the Tohoku (north–east) region of Japan and spent my teens in Fukushima. Although Fukushima is my hometown, my social and emotional connection to Fukushima prior to the disaster had weakened to the point of becoming almost non-existent. Like many other Tohoku-born people, I left my hometown immediately after graduating from high school to seek better opportunities in Tokyo and never returned home. As soon as I arrived in Tokyo, I erased my local dialect and hid my origin as a way to avoid the negative stereotypes associated with the region; it was a necessary strategy for survival (Morris, 2012). During the course of this self-driven assimilation, I internalized the colonizers and oppressed myself from inside (Freire, 1970). I lived without a voice or critical historical consciousness for many years. Despite my scholarly work and teaching on the discursive construction of marginalized people through the history of modern education in the US and Japan, I had never thought of examining my own history and positionality. Instead, I naively researched and wrote about “other” women. It was the tsunami that woke me up from this amnesia. The images of towns turned into piles of debris and the sight of people, referred to as “refugees,” crammed into temporary evacuation centers brought me right back to Fukushima emotionally. Through the work of Tohoku Gaku (The Tohoku Study), which gained attention after the disaster, I learned that Tohoku had historically been an internal colony of modern Japan (Akasaka, 2012; Hopson, 2017; Kawanishi, 2016; Okada, 2013). This knowledge brought about a paradigm change in me. Throughout my education in public school in Tohoku, my teachers taught me repeatedly that Japan is a homogeneous country, consisting of one language and one ethnic group, whose members share a common origin. Learning about a new version of history from the position of Tohoku paralleled a critical deconstruction of the dominant view of the region and the tension Tohoku has historically had with the center. First, the very name given to the region (Tohoku, the north-east of Tokyo) reflects the perspective of Tokyo, which is the economic, political, and cultural

48  Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima center of modern Japan. Seen from the center, Tohoku was historically documented as a distant and poor region, where uncivilized, immoral, indolent, and unsanitary people, who were different from them, lived. The Boshin Civil War of 1868, in which 31 han2 in the Tohoku region fought against the new imperial government, reinforced this negative image of Tohoku people and added another stereotype, that of local people being untrustworthy (Kawanishi, 2016). Throughout the modern history of Japan, the central government tried to “civilize” Tohoku people. In schools, we were taught only the standard Japanese language and a unilateral version of national history (Kawanishi, 2016). This experience overlaps with those of the colonized in other parts of the world. Another colonial aspect of Tohoku is the central government’s policy of developing the region for the purpose of achieving national economic goals rather than to benefit the region itself. This policy, which started in the early twentieth century, placed Tohoku behind (Okada, 2013). As a result, Tohoku had to survive by providing the center with natural resources (including energy), agricultural products, and cheap labor (Kainuma, 2012). After learning this version of the modern history of Japan, I came to realize that my determination to leave Fukushima for a better life, as well as the shame I carried around about my language and culture, was rooted in this history. My awareness of the marginalization of Tohoku also opened my eyes to the structure of exploitation manifested in energy policies in contemporary Japan (Mizuno, 2013). The fact that there are 14 nuclear power plants in Tohoku region, ten of which are in Fukushima, is not coincidental. The colonial relationship between Tohoku and the center established in the early twentieth century paved the way for Tohoku to host nuclear power plants in the 1960s (Kainuma, 2012). These power plants, which are owned by the Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO), send all the energy they produce directly to Tokyo, with none being used locally. While casting a critical eye over the structure of exploitation in Fukushima is significant, I also realized that we need to examine the long, intimate, and dependent relationship between the colonizers (i.e., the Japanese government and TEPCO) and the colonized (i.e., the local people in Fukushima). For example, four towns in Fukushima chose to have power plants while knowing the risks of nuclear power plants. For many years, these towns enjoyed the raised standards of living secured by the employment opportunities and subsidies TEPCO provided (Hirokawa, 2011; Kainuma, 2012). Everything appeared perfect, at least, that is how it seemed until the explosion revealed the structure of exploitation hidden under its perfect outlook (Mizuno, 2013).

Contested memories of home Nostalgia and IRB Going back to Fukushima after learning about this colonial history made me feel more attached to Fukushima than ever before. Each time I re-entered Fukushima after being away for 30 years, my heart filled with romantic

Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima  49 memories rooted in essentialized notions of home and self (Boym, 2001). This is how I felt when I returned to Fukushima for the second time: When I got out of the long tunnel, bright green speared my eyes. What I saw was not a strange land, as in Kawabata’s [1996] novel. It was a world I had known. The Bodhisattva statue right in front of the mountain, the flat farmhouses, the green rice fields were all familiar. It was as if I was back 30 years into the past. Tadaima: I am home. (Field note: July 7, 2014) Contrary to feminists’ claims of home as a dynamic place where you can transform your sense of self through the politicization of your own memories (Hooks, 1990), my restorative nostalgia made me feel that my true self and its connection to home were being restored. This nostalgia also spurred my commitment to conduct research as a native researcher for the benefit of the community and to avoid any practices that might replicate colonialism. However, my naive notion of home and my native identity collapsed as soon as I began recruiting participants for my research. Many of the invitation emails I sent to potential participants via acquaintances were never answered. This showed me that I was not an insider. At the same time, it challenged my romantic feelings toward home, which I thought constituted solid ground for my “true” identity. An email I received one day from an acquaintance who introduced me to a potential participant poignantly clarified how I was perceived in the community: She [a local community organizer] said that she began to feel skeptical about your research project after she read your email. People in the region do not want to be “guinea pigs” in anyone’s research project. You may not intend to take advantage of them, but they are going to see you with suspicion if you talk too much about your research project. It is difficult to communicate with Japanese people after having lived abroad for so many years. They might think you are talking down to them, depending on how you present your ideas. If they see you as being arrogant, they are going to reject you. (Personal Communication, November 15, 2014) In effect, this friend pointed out that the way I had communicated about my research project to potential participants was inappropriate. Following the IRB protocol, when I sent out the invitation emails, I tried to remove any elements of deception that might underlie the research by being transparent about myself and my research (Punch, 1994). However, as my friend’s email indicated, the detailed description of my purpose, procedures, and risks and benefits, which I determined without consultation with the participants and communicated unilaterally in writing, was viewed as a sign of arrogance because it lacked reciprocity and respect (Smith, 2012). I had to accept that IRB guidelines reflect the culture of the West, which did not align with the

50  Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima cultural code of Fukushima. I followed the IRB protocols strictly in order to conduct research ethically. However, contrary to my intention, my blind compliance with the guidelines resulted in replicating a colonial relationship between my potential participants and myself. The self I was bringing in was that of the colonizer. I had to admit how different I had become while I was away from home and that simply following IRB protocols could not guarantee the ethical conduct of the research (Librett & Perrone, 2010). Memories of Hiroshima and skepticism toward researchers/outsiders Given the reaction I describe above, I had to admit that the language I used in recruiting the participants evoked skepticism about me in prospective participants. However, the problem was more than my language. Another source of skepticism was collective memories of the Hiroshima atomic bomb and biomedical research on hibakusha3 conducted by the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission (ABCC). These painful memories circulating within the post-disaster communities, which drove me to an outsider position, highlighted the inhuman nature of the scientific studies conducted by the ABCC. For example, it was common for hibakusha to be picked up from their homes and taken to research institutions without notice (Jacobs, 2011). In addition, the Commission did not share its data, which could have benefited the health of the participants, nor did it provide treatment for the participants—the provision of free treatment could have been regarded as atonement (Lindee, 2016). The Fukushima residents’ skepticism toward researchers, rooted in their fear and anger, was sparked when the Radiation Effect and Research Foundation (RERF), an institution with historical ties to the ABCC, launched a large-scale biomedical study in collaboration with Fukushima Medical University (Sawada, 2013). This link between medical researchers and the pain hibakusha experienced was thus transposed from the past to the present: all researchers were viewed with skepticism. In fact, the term “guinea pigs” used in my acquaintance’s email was a popular cliché that circulated widely in Fukushima through social media after the RERF came to Fukushima. Through this metaphor, Fukushima people expressed their pain and anger about their bodies (which had been exposed to radiation) being turned into pathological objects of scientific studies, as had happened in Hiroshima. Even though my research did not involve experiments with human bodies, the difference between my research and medical research did not matter to the Fukushima residents. Their generalization of biomedical research to all types of research was a reminder that residents sensed the invasive and exploitative nature of ethnography, which could potentially harm those who become the objects of studies. My personal history in Fukushima and my cultural knowledge meant nothing to the prospective participants. Even the fact that I too embodied this collective memory of Hiroshima and felt the same pain ranked below my identity as a researcher, and thus went unrecognized. Unlike some native researchers, who capitalize on their cultural knowledge, language ability, and

Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima  51 social connections, I faced a major challenge in recruiting participants. As a result, I came to accept that my memories of “home” were no longer genuine: in effect, the “home” I remembered no longer existed, nor did a “true self” rooted in a “true home,” which I thought I could rediscover. I thus came to acknowledge that there is no such thing as true origin, true home, or true self (Adams-St. Pierre, 2008). I learned that meanings of home go through transformations as individuals become susceptible to contested memories and emotions. Although I could no longer consider myself an insider in the community, I was not completely an outsider either. With this novel sense of home, I had to generate new ways to work with people in Fukushima, which was once my home.

Trauma: unspeakable memories of catastrophe Encountering trauma So far I have discussed my experience of moving between insider and outsider positions , driven by romantic feelings toward home and by the skepticism felt by members of the community toward researchers. Each of these positions was determined by emotions rooted in specific memories as personal memories of my hometown and collective memories of Hiroshima circulated in the community. In addition to these memories, the community that experienced a catastrophe was impacted by a unique type of memory, namely trauma. Trauma has unique characteristics and effects, impacting community members and myself in a way that was different from how my nostalgia or collective memories of Hiroshima did. According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, trauma is direct or indirect exposure to events such as death, serious injury, or sexual violence, with those affected by trauma potentially developing symptoms such as anxiety, delusions, hallucinations, or disordered speech and behaviors (American Psychiatric Association, 2013). I originally viewed myself as an outsider to the trauma community because I had no direct experience of the catastrophe; nor did I think that the trauma had much impact on my participants or on how they interacted with me. Without this knowledge of trauma, I was sometimes dismayed at the way people behaved during the interviews: When I asked a [school] principal about the radiation contamination of school property, he burst into laughter and said: “I hope it’s safe.” I didn’t know what to say to him. On another occasion, a student came to a focus group interview. She remained silent the whole time. When I asked her if she wanted to share anything at the end, she responded with tears. I apologized to her and just thanked her for being there. A few days later, she told me she wanted to be there to be in a conversation about Fukushima. Many people I met emphatically said: “I don’t want people to forget about Fukushima. I want people to understand

52  Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima Fukushima.” However, when I asked them what they wanted people to remember about Fukushima, they looked at me with blank eyes and said: “I don’t know.” (Field note, December 13, 2015) Looking back, I believe it is reasonable to assume that the series of tragedies Fukushima people experienced impacted their psychological well-­being individually. For example, a survey conducted in Fukushima indicated that 21.6% were at risk of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD; Maeda et al., 2016). This percentage is significantly higher than the national average, which is 3%. However, I did not expect to find the effects of trauma on my participants, as none of them claimed that they had PTSD, and all participants I met were socially functional. It was only after I returned to the US that I came to realize that the puzzling behaviors demonstrated by some of my participants showed the effects of trauma. For example, as I noted in the field note above, some of them failed to remember the tragic events during the interview. This could have been a coping strategy for dealing with trauma; by pushing their feelings into their unconscious, they could avoid re-experiencing the horror (Thompson, 1995). Other participants did have memories of a particular event, but struggled to find the exact words to articulate their experiences (Caruth, 1996). This dilemma of wanting to speak but not being able to find words or remember the event clearly can result in tears, jokes, and incomprehensible utterances (Miyaji, 2007). After gaining some knowledge about trauma from literature, I came to understand that some of my participants were attempting to give testimonies while struggling with the dilemma of wanting to remember and speak about their tragedies and their inability to do so. Being drawn to the trauma community The emotional connection I formed with my participants who had experienced the disaster attached me emotionally to them and encouraged me to take an insider position. In fact, I wanted to understand the community and its members from an insider’s position. Taking this position also made me susceptible to trauma in the community (Nuttman-Shwartz, 2015). As past studies of trauma indicate, listening to victims’ stories causes one to transcend the boundary between self (insider) and other (outsider) (Zembylas, 2006). This is precisely what I experienced as I interacted with my participants. As I listened to their stories, the boundary between self and other became blurred. The dissolution of the boundary changed the power dynamics between us, as transcending the boundary through empathetic connections being formed with the participants could theoretically decolonize our relationship and erase the participants’ skepticism toward me, the researcher. However, this new relationship with the participants brought new challenges during the research, namely vicarious trauma. Like other researchers

Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima  53 who had worked with trauma-related topics or trauma victims, I encountered traumatic events indirectly through my participants, and began developing symptoms resembling trauma itself, such as anxiety, depression, or minimizing my research findings (Newman, Risch, & Kassam-Adams, 2006). It is also common for researchers who are affected by vicarious trauma to disengage from their work and isolate themselves from others at work as well as in their private lives (Nuttman-Shwartz, 2015). As I developed an emotional connection to the victims, I began feeling guilty about being there to do research, and eventually left the community. In addition, I minimized the value of my research and doubted the authenticity of my research findings (Dickson-Swift et al., 2009). One field note I wrote during my fourth month in Fukushima indicates the effects of trauma on my emotional status and actions: I am not sure why I am doing this research. Am I doing this just to collect data to justify theories in the scholarly community in the US? If so, am I just using people in Fukushima? Am I selfish to ask people who are in pain to tell their stories? What if I misrepresent them? Sometimes when I listen to people’s stories, I feel overwhelmed, and I cannot say anything or ask any questions. I couldn’t even turn on the voice recorder in my last interview. I have been here for four months, but I am not sure if I should continue this research or not. (Field note, January 6, 2016) This field note reveals the dilemma I was facing. I felt as though I was being drawn to the inside of the trauma community, where everyone shared a common understanding of the tragedy without having to utter any words (Miyaji, 2007). At the same time, I was still holding on to a researcher’s identity (that of an outsider) as I attempted to collect data and present the findings to outside audiences. These two positions caused a tension within me. Although I had the intention of moving away from the colonial nature of ethnography, which consists of studying natives objectively in order to eventually enlighten them, I could not think how this research could be different from other research that builds on the legacy of colonialism. I also had no concrete ideas about how this research might benefit members of the community. Also, being drawn into the trauma community bonded by silence, I was unsure whether it was possible for any outsiders to understand the meaning of the community members’ pain without physically being in the community and forming emotional connections with them. This concern expanded as I thought of the skepticism some community members continued to project toward me. At the same time, I was also concerned that the information I was going to share with the outside world could be falsely interpreted by others. That had the potential to cause more pain to victims of the trauma to whom I had become emotionally attached. While I did not give up on my desire to continue with my study, I remained silent and withdrew into the trauma community. This dilemma resulted in inefficient data collection, as the above field note shows.

54  Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima Being supported by insiders in the trauma community Telling stories about traumatic events is often challenging, as the nature of the experiences victims attempt to communicate may be beyond our imagination; sometimes, there are no words to describe these experiences. In addition, fear of re-experiencing the horror can block memories (Caruth, 1996; Dutro, 2013). Being drawn to this trauma community and vicariously experiencing the trauma, I also fell into a world of silence. Like the victims, those who experience the trauma vicariously find giving testimony challenging. That is the reason why I found it difficult to make progress in writing about what I witnessed in Fukushima. Laub (1992), who studied Holocaust survivors, noted that giving testimony requires effort on the part of both victims (insiders) and listeners (outsiders). In this sense, testimonies are never monologues, but they are dialogs between victims and listeners. In the dialogs, normally outsiders who did not experience the catastrophe guide others (the victims of the catastrophe). However, during my study, I encountered moments where my participants, the victims of catastrophe, took the initiative in engaging me in dialogs about the traumatic event so that I could give testimony. Although I was not aware of the nature of my interactions with my participants at the time, reading my field notes with new eyes made me realize that such dialogs were taking place even quite early in the data collection. For example: One day Mr. Shiraki suggested to me that he would drive me to the restricted zone. The area was washed out by the tsunami on March 11 and was abandoned after the nuclear power plant explosion. The tsunami ran through these homes and washed everything away. I imagined the faces of the people who once inhabited these homes, which were almost unrecognizable. What happened to them? Where did they go? Weeds were starting to grow from the debris left around the property. Although I had my camera with me, I just stood there silently. “Do I have a right to take photos of someone’s painful memories? Who am I to do this anyway?” Then, Mr. Shiraki spoke to me from behind: “Please go ahead and take pictures. You should take good pictures and tell our stories.” (Field note, June 26, 2013) Reflecting on this experience led me to reconfirm my view that research in post-disaster sites cannot be done without participants’ agencies and their desire to work with the researchers, who are outsiders. Being outsiders, researchers had no direct experience of the disaster or memories of it. However, it is possible for researchers to get close to the catastrophic event together with the victims; they can place themselves in the position of the participants (insiders) emotionally and cognitively through the guidance of their participants (Herman, 1992). From this experience, I came to confirm my role as a co-witness to the disaster.

Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima  55

Synthesis and discussion Multiple communities and fluid boundaries This journey between insider and outsider positions in post-disaster Fukushima was confusing and emotionally draining. However, it allowed me to understand the complex effects of emotions and the behaviors of community members as well as myself, and how these came to shift my insider and outsider positions. The experience also allowed me to speak about the multiple realities of Fukushima from multiple positions instead of making absolute truth claims about the community and its members from a single point of view (Lather, 1992; Toma, 2000). I believe that the reflective account of the knowledge construction process in reference to my shifting between insider and outsider positions in a post-disaster community adds a new perspective to past feminist scholars’ efforts to decolonize research (Fine, 1994; Villenas, 1996). Previous studies on native researchers’ insider and outsider identities have focused on the researchers’ relationship with the community where the research took place, which was also the researcher’s home. These studies often juxtaposed the culture of the research site with that of academia, which is located in the West geographically or intellectually (colonizer), and examined how researchers negotiated the tension between these two cultures. Similarly, reflecting this view of dichotomous cultures (those of the colonizers and of the colonized), past studies have discussed the researcher’s insider and outsider identities mainly in relation to the researcher’s affiliations to native cultures, in other words, whether or not they had connections to the language and culture of the community they studied, and how they used those affiliations (Al-Makhamreh & Lewando-Hundt, 2008; Cui, 2015; Narayan, 1993). I concede that my personal history of Fukushima had an emotional and social impact on my relationship with the community and its members. For example, my nostalgia reconnected me emotionally to Fukushima as soon as I returned there, and I saw myself as an insider. However, at the same time, I also experienced the complicated nature of insider and outsider identities. Despite my perception of myself as an insider, I was viewed as an outsider by potential participants during my stay in Fukushima, due to the community members’ skepticism toward researchers in general. Also, my lack of direct experience of the disaster positioned me as an outsider to the trauma community, where members bonded strongly through the unspeakable experience of the catastrophe (Miyaji, 2007). Yet, I was gradually drawn into the inside of that community. To fully explain these complex and fluid movements toward and away from multiple communities, we must use a new notion of boundary. In past studies, boundaries were defined as something fixed. The studies assumed that there was a clear boundary between the community’s culture and the researcher’s culture, and native researchers aiming to decolonize research did so by transcending this dichotomy. Through my reflections, I became aware of two aspects of the concept of boundary. In my study, I found that

56  Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima multiple boundaries coexisted in Fukushima. While some of these community boundaries overlapped with the geographical and cultural boundaries of Fukushima, not all of them did. Some emerged based on specific memories circulated in the community and how individuals felt about subjects and objects in their memories. For example, skepticism toward researchers rooted in memories of Hiroshima generated a community in Fukushima. Simultaneously, it created a boundary separating researchers (outsiders) and victims (insiders, and potential objects of research). These communities were not marked by clear, visible, and stable boundaries. The boundaries were instead fluid and dynamic; in my own experience, they disappeared and re-emerged, weakened and strengthened in response to emerging collective and personal memories and emotions. With these emerging boundaries, I was sometimes driven away from certain communities and positioned as an outsider, while at other times, I was gradually drawn into these communities and became an insider for a while. Being drawn both away from and into communities was a confusing experience. Furthermore, it deflected me from following my original research plan. I felt as though I had no control over my positions or my research. By writing this reflective piece, I came to accept the reality that I do not have control over everything as I cannot make anyone or myself feel in any particular way. Yet looking back, being open to affect was a rewarding experience. In fact, I regard it as the most crucial element of this research. The connection and disconnection I formed with the participants and the insider and outsider positions I took at different moments in the research provided me with new and unexpected insights into the community members’ experience of the disaster. New agencies and decolonizing research This experience of being open to affect also provided me with new insights into what agency means in research. In past studies, researchers’ agency was viewed as their commitment to conduct research ethically and to decolonize the research process. This was done by navigating through multiple discourses within communities and academia, carefully examining and reflecting on the researcher’s insider and outsider positions and acknowledging the interdependent relationship between the researcher (colonizer) and the researched (colonized) (Fine, 1994). In those studies, researchers’ agency was assumed to be internal to individual researchers. My experience in Fukushima overhauled this view of agency and provided an alternative viewpoint. I now believe that agency is not something individuals hold and exercise through their individual desire to change something outside of themselves, such as social structures or the research process (among others). Nor is agency about researchers’ subjective decision regarding whether or not to take the position of an insider, outsider, or both for the sake of conducting research ethically. This inquiry showed me that agency is a disposition that allows the researcher to be susceptible to affect and emotions running between and through bodies and objects (Ahmed, 2004). In other words, agency means

Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima  57 letting emotions move you and allow you to become both an insider and outsider. In my research, it meant either accepting community members’ skepticism toward me and remaining outside the community, or being drawn into the trauma community. Accepting personal vulnerability as a researcher succumbing to affect involves at the same time recognizing the agency of participants i.e., their ability to move with emotions and influence both the researcher and the research. This new perspective on agency also shifts the focus of discussions regarding the ethical conduct of research. In past studies, the focus was on the relationship between the researcher (colonizer) and the researched (colonized), how traditional research placed these two actors in an asymmetrical relationship, and how we can disrupt the nature of that relationship by modifying our dispositions and actions. However, in this new perspective on agency, the focus is not on researchers or the researched but on the emotions that move us toward or away from insider or outsider positions. We also need to pay attention to which emotions are at play, how they are related to history (memory), and how they affect the relationship between researchers and the researched, as well as the knowledge they produce. I believe that this shift away from the colonizer–colonized relationship, the recognition of both researchers’ and participants’ vulnerability to emotions, and the freedom to move along with emotions contribute to decolonizing research. Implications: accepting skepticism and moving on Accepting our vulnerability to various emotions to which we may be subjected during research and recognizing our participants’ agency provides new insights into the participants themselves and into significant issues implicitly present in the community. As emotions are tied to particular feelings about something, carefully observing community members’ feelings, inquiring into what feelings they may have about objects, persons, or events in the present or in their memories, and how these can make us and others feel in a particular way are necessary if we are to understand the participants’ behaviors as well as our own. Such an inquiry also has the potential to provide insights into how we should transform our research method. In my study, accepting and looking into causes of the skepticism projected toward me by potential participants led me to inquire further about collective memories of Hiroshima, especially as ABCC’s research on hibakusha resurfaced in post-disaster Fukushima. I learned that skepticism toward researchers had evolved as a result of two actions the ABCC researchers failed to take: (1) sharing data with the individual participants for their benefit; and (2) approaching potential participants in a personal way and establishing trusting relationships before collecting data. Based on this experience, I came to believe that 1) choosing research projects and methods that align with the interests and needs of the participants, and 2) sharing data with them at different stages in the research are necessary. Deciding on a research topic and methods requires researchers to engage in dialog with various stakeholders in the community in multiple settings. In addition,

58  Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima the careful development of relationships with potential participants will further safeguard against harm and exploitation (Librett & Perrone, 2010). However, becoming aware of the importance of those issues requires time. As post-disaster communities and individuals undergo multiple changes (for better or worse), their interests and needs may also change during the recovery effort. Thus, it is important for researchers to be involved in the community at every step of the research, and if necessary over the long term (Lavallée, 2009). In response, I plan to continue working with those who participated in my study and to get involved in the community’s reconstruction effort. For example, I have been communicating with the participants as I write drafts of articles, including this chapter. I ask them for their feedback on my drafts, especially to check that I am representing them and their community in ways that make sense to them. As a form of collaboration in the community’s recovery, I also conducted a workshop in the US about post-disaster Fukushima together with some of the Fukushima residents who participated in my study. This allowed them to fulfill their desire to speak about Fukushima from their point of view directly to outside audiences. I believe that these activities will nourish ties and strengthen joint advocacy work through research (Narayan, 1993). Researchers as co-witnesses to traumatic events Trauma was a significant factor influencing my data collection in Fukushima. Based on my experience of trauma, I suggest that researchers conducting research in a post-disaster community keep in mind that trauma impacts not only those who directly experience the catastrophe but also individuals who experience it indirectly (Nuttman-Shwartz, 2015). Even though we are outsiders to the trauma community due to lack of our direct experience of the catastrophe, we run the risk of being drawn into the trauma community and affected by their trauma (Miyaji, 2007). We can, however, make use of this ambivalent position to advance our study as well as to benefit the members of the trauma community. In collaboration with the victims, we can become co-witnesses to the catastrophe and retell testimonies of the disaster to others (Herman, 1992). Researchers as outsiders have access to discourses unique to the academic world. This status enables them to present testimonies from the post-disaster community to audiences in collaboration with victims in the trauma community. As Gunew and Spivak (1990) note, this position is a strategic place for the marginalized to speak to audiences who possess hegemonic power over the victims (colonized) if we are to seek change in the marginalized community. I would therefore like, as a co-witness, to give testimonies of post-disaster Fukushima to audiences in scholarly communities, as this will contribute to Fukushima people’s desire to be understood and remembered. To become a co-witness to a traumatic event, researchers must be well prepared. In particular, researchers conducting studies in post-disaster societies should equip themselves with basic knowledge about the symptoms of trauma, its impact on the researchers themselves, and how to cope with

Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima  59 these. Self-care is a crucial ethical issue in research because researchers cannot hold a healthy relationship with their participants if they have failed to protect themselves from psychological risks (Emerald & Carpenter, 2015; Dickson-Swift et al., 2009; Thompson, 1995). In fact, the International Traumatic Stress Studies Practice Guidelines advocate both self-care and supervision of researchers (Newman et al., 2006). Although there have been discussions on how education researchers and teachers can deal with their own difficult emotions during the research and in classrooms (­Emerald & Carpenter, 2015), the topic of trauma has not been widely covered in education research training courses. Therefore, I recommend that education research courses start including the topic of trauma. In designing a new course, we should collaborate with scholars in other disciplines who have been dealing with this issue in their research and practice, such as social work, psychology, and counseling. Learning about the trauma benefits not only the researchers who conduct ethnography in post-disaster communities but also many researchers in the education field in general, as students often have to deal with trauma-related topics such as violence, discrimination, and loss in educational settings (Miyazawa, 2017; Dutro, 2013).

Conclusion My experience in post-disaster Fukushima taught me that researchers conducting ethnography in a post-disaster society are likely to be susceptible to strong emotions circulating within the community regardless of whether they have cultural or personal affiliations with the community. While being influenced by emotions in the community can be confusing and may make the research process inefficient at times, it is nevertheless an indispensable part of research. In my case, the experience was the source of significant insights about the community as well as my insider and outsider positions. Thus, researchers should be open to those emotions and examine them closely instead of ignoring or fighting against them. In my study, accepting and examining the skepticism projected toward me by members of the community made me aware of the invasive and exploitive nature of research. In addition, it led me to reaffirm the importance of taking time to develop trust with participants before asking them to sign the consent form and start data collection. Sharing data and being involved in the community over the long term as communities and individuals go through the process of recovery is also significant. Another insight I gained was that researchers can change the relationship with their participants in the post-disaster society by allowing themselves to get close to the trauma community without losing their identity as researchers (outsiders). Doing this can lead them to become co-witnesses to the disaster and then relate those testimonies along with victims of trauma (­participants as insiders) as they engage in dialog about the traumatic event. This changing relationship with members of a post-disaster community shows that neither the researchers nor the participants are fully in control of the research process or of others involved in it. Instead, both are susceptible to feelings generated

60  Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima around various individual and collective memories. Being vulnerable to emotions in research means giving up the control researchers have traditionally had in research; in turn, this may also mean giving up their privileges as researchers. Furthermore, to move with emotions while recognizing the agency of participants (i.e., the fact that they too move with emotions and their emotions can move others) and one’s own privileges as researcher can contribute to decolonizing research. Doing so can be confusing, and even frightening at times. Yet it is a journey that researchers who are committed to the decolonization of research must embark on, whether at home or away.

Notes 1 This chapter is adapted with permission from previously published material by Miyazawa, K. (2018), Becoming an insider and outsider in post-disaster Fukushima. Harvard Educational Review, 88(3), 334–354. 2 A han was a political and economic unit of governance that preceded modern Meiji government, which began in 1868. 3 Hibakusha is a common term used to refer to people who have been exposed to nuclear radiation. The term was originally used to refer to atomic bomb survivors in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Today, it encompasses victims of nuclear accidents such as Three Mile Island and Chernobyl, victims of nuclear bomb testing, and nuclear power plant workers.

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62  Becoming insider and outsider in Fukushima Maeda, M., Ueda, Y., Nagai, M., Fujii, S., & Oe, M. (2016). Diagnostic interview study of the prevalence of depression among public employees engaged in long-term relief work in Fukushima. Psychiatry and Clinical Neurosciences, 4(70), 413–420. Miyazawa, K. (2017). Becoming co-­witnesses to the Fukushima disaster in an elementary literacy classroom. Language Arts, 94(5), 291–301. Miyaji, N. (2007). Kanjoto: Torauma no chisei gaku [Circular Island: Geography of Trauma]. Tokyo: Misuzu. Mizuno, M. (2013). Tohoku kara 50 nee go no Nikon wo egaku [Imagining Japan 50 years from now at Tohoku]. Retrieved from http://www.thefuturetimes.jp/ archive/no05/akasaka/index03.html Morris, J. F. (2012). Recovery in Tohoku. In J. Kingston (Ed.), Natural disaster and nuclear crisis in Japan: Response and recovery after Japan’s 3/11 (pp. 33–50). New York: Routledge. Narayan, K. (1993). How native is a “native” anthropologist? American Anthropologist, 95(3), 671–686. Newman, E., Risch, E., & Kassam-Adams, N. (2006). Ethical issues in trauma-related research: A review. Journal of Empirical Research on Human Research Ethics, 1(3), 29–46. Nuttman-Shwartz, O. (2015). Shared resilience in a traumatic reality: A new concept for trauma workers exposed personally and professionally to collective disaster. Trauma, Violence, & Abuse, 16(4), 466–475. Okada, T. (2013). History of Tohoku from the perspective of disaster [Saigaito kaihatsu kara mita tohokushi]. In A. Kawauchi, H. Kawanishi, H. Takaoka, M. Ookado, & T. Okada (Eds), Seizon no Tohoku shi [History of survival in Tohoku] (pp. 2–52). Tokyo: Otsuki. Pillow, W. S. (2003). Confession, catharsis, or cure? Rethinking the uses of reflexivity as methodological power in qualitative research. International Journal of Qualitative Studies in Education, 16(2), 175–196. Punch, M. (1994). Politics and ethics in qualitative research. In N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds), Handbook of qualitative research (pp. 83–97). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Rosaldo R. (1989). Culture and truth: The remaking of social analysis. Boston, MA: Beacon Press. Sawada, S. (2013). Scientists and research on the effects of radiation exposure: From Hiroshima to Fukushima. Asia-Pacific Journal – Japan Focus, 11(23–2). Retrieved from: https://apjjf.org/2013/11/23/Sawada-Shoji/3952/article.html Smith, L. T. (2012). Decolonizing methodologies: Research and indigenous peoples (2nd ed.). Dunedin: University of Otago Press. Thompson, B. (1995). Ethical dimensions in trauma research. American Sociologist, 26(2), 54–69. Toma, D. (2000). How getting close to your subjects makes qualitative data better. Theory Into Practice, 39(3), 177–184. Vidich, A. J., & Lyman, S. M. (2000). Qualitative methods: Their history in sociology and anthropology. In N. K. Denzin & Y. S. Lincoln (Eds), Handbook of qualitative research (2nd ed., pp. 37–84). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Villenas, S. (1996). The colonizer/colonized Chicana ethnographer: Identity, marginalization, and cooperation in the field. Harvard Educational Review, 66(4), 711–731. Zembylas, M. (2006). Witnessing in the classroom: The ethics and politics of affect. Educational Theory, 56(3), 305–324.

4 Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima

If someone asks me if the radiation level below 100 mSV/year was 100% safe or not, I have to say: “I don’t know” as a scientist. (Yamashita, Risk Communication Advisor, as cited in Meyer, 2011) I still would like to believe in the power of science. (Ishizaki, Vice President of Fukushima Dini Power Plant, as cited in Takahashi, 2015) I don’t know the risk of radiation on my health because I am not an expert. In fact, even experts don’t know that. So I feel nervous. (Junior high-school student, as cited in Fujita, Interview December 14, 2015)

Introduction The triple disaster of earthquake, tsunami, and nuclear power plant explosion inflicted physical, economic, social, and psychological damage on communities throughout Fukushima on an unprecedented scale. The communities in the coastal regions of Fukushima had hosted ten power plants since 1979, believing in the scientists’ assertion that nuclear power plants were absolutely safe. However, the disaster painfully revealed that such statements were falsehoods. The revelation that nuclear power was not safe after all annihilated the trust that TEPCO had diligently developed with residents over the previous 40 years. At the same time, skepticism toward the experts, especially TEPCO and the risk communicators appointed by the prefectural government, exploded (Dudden, 2012; Miller, 2016). Seizing this moment, enraged voices from the anti-nuclear movement galvanized the public to accuse “pro-nukes,” including TEPCO and members of the “nuclear village” (genshiryoku mura) consisting of government officials, scientists, and large construction and manufacturing corporations. What came to be fundamentally at stake in the wake of the disaster was the validity of scientific knowledge. In the modern world, science has been perceived as neutral and absolute. Citizens have always turned to scientists for answers when there DOI: 10.4324/9781003090083-4

64  Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima were conflicts in a society. However, in the case of a nuclear catastrophe, science not only failed to provide solutions, but also became the source of the disaster (Bator, 2012). The breakdown of trust in science also destroyed personal connections among actors surrounding the nuclear business, including national and local governments, TEPCO, scientists, the major media, and citizens. The Japanese government delicately attempted to mend the broken relationship between these actors by disseminating the message that the nuclear power plant was under control and Fukushima was safe. For their part, anti-nuclear activists catalyzed this moment to gain more extensive support from the public and achieve their long-term goal, which is to eliminate nuclear energy from this world. The critical voices raised by the activists against TEPCO further amplified the skepticism and dissatisfaction toward the government and major corporations which had been quietly present among citizens of all generations (Allison, 2013; Hasegawa, 2014). Amidst this chaos, residents of Fukushima Prefecture were faced with a real day-to-day issue, namely how to protect themselves and their families from the effects of radiation. This was not an easy task, as they were surrounded by contested definitions of radiation risk various experts disseminated to the public. The characteristics witnessed in Fukushima, including divisions over contested definitions of risk and skepticism toward the government are all manifestations of a risk society (Beck, 1999). To understand how these characteristics emerged in public schools in Fukushima, this chapter describes the actions of major stakeholders in post-disaster Fukushima: risk communicators, the Ministry of Education Science, Culture, and Technology (MEXT), the Fukushima prefectural government, anti-nuclear activists, the media, and students and teachers in public schools in Fukushima. Further, the chapter looks at how human actors, anti-nuclear activists, and MEXT used scientific knowledge to reduce or to justify fear about radiation and nuclear energy both before and after the accident. Finally, the chapter describes how contradictory scientific accounts of radiation risk tormented the residents and how teachers dealt with this issue while being pushed between feeling safe and unsafe as they heard new accounts of radiation risk. Through my analysis, the chapter will demonstrate how uncertain the discourse of radiation and nuclear energy was in Fukushima.

Nuclear energy as safe energy: a scientific explanation and silence Contested definitions of the safety of radiation and nuclear energy surged in Japan after the explosion of the Fukushima Daiichi power plant. This phenomenon quickly generated deep divisions within communities, schools, and homes. These divisions about the risk of nuclear energy represent two sentiments about nuclear energy from two historical periods: one is fear and pain about nuclear energy rooted in the memory of atomic bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki (1946 to 1954); the other is the hope of using nuclear

Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima  65 energy for peace, which started in 1954 following Eisenhower’s “Atom for Peace” speech. The Japanese government managed two contradictory sentiments about nuclear power—fear and hope—by tactfully presenting the nuclear power used in the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs as something separate from nuclear power generated at the nuclear power plants (Loh, 2012). While the atomic bombs were symbols of an unspeakable inhumane event that left a deep scar in the collective psyche of Japanese citizens, the government succeeded in convincing the public that nuclear energy was cutting-edge technology, which could propel the nation’s productivity and help it recover from the damage caused by the war (Penney, 2012). With this approach, the Japanese government quelled the fear and skepticism toward nuclear power that was prevalent the 1950s.1

Atomic bombs and nuclear power: two discourses of nuclear energy Public-school education played a significant role in turning negative public sentiment around nuclear energy into a positive one. The strategy was to craft and disseminate two separate discourses of nuclear power: the discourse of atomic bombs, which was tied to national trauma and patriotism, and “Atom for Peace” as a symbol of future industrial development. The distinctiveness of each discourse was manifested in two separate words: kaku (atom), which refers to the atomic bomb, and genshi (nuclear), which refers to the peaceful use of nuclear power (Kilpatrick, 2015). Government-issued history textbooks devoted significant space to describe the atrocities atomic bombs caused in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Some chapters in social studies textbooks even named atomic bombs (genbaku) as heinous objects that had destroyed Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and posed a threat to humanity. On the other hand, starting from 1965, government-approved textbooks for science and social studies across all the grade levels began incorporating the benefits of nuclear energy (Hisatomi et al., 2014). With scientific explanations of nuclear power and how it is generated, these textbooks celebrated nuclear power with a sense of hope and excitement. They argued that nuclear energy was the most advanced technology—clean, safe, and cost-effective (Koyasu & Shinozaki, 2013). Through education, nuclear energy even became the symbol of national progress, which had led Japan to recover from the devastation of WWII and achieve success in the creation of Utopia (Loh, 2012). As a consequence of this bifurcated discourse on nuclear power through public-school education in post-WWII Japan, the majority of citizens had difficulty making sense of the explosion of F1 right away. Remembering her experience on March 11, 2011, a college student in Fukushima, who was a high-school student in the Aizu region of Fukushima at that time, stated: I learned for the first time in my life that the nuclear power plant was not safe. I had never heard that before 2011. [When the accident happened,

66  Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima I asked myself:] Is nuclear energy not clean and safe? They didn’t teach us that before. I learned a lot about the war and the atomic bomb in my world history and Japanese history classes. They taught us facts like this and that happened…. We also talked about war and peace. But I didn’t have any knowledge about nuclear power plants. I only knew about atomic bombs. I learned stuff like your body disappears with the bomb and only the shadow remains on the staircase. I only had that kind of knowledge about atomic energy. So, when I heard about the hydrogen explosion at the Fukushima Daiichi power plant in 2011, I got scared. I wondered if my body was going to disappear or something. That’s the kind of image I had in my mind. I think most of us had very limited knowledge about nuclear power plants. (Yasuda, Interview, January 19, 2016) As Yasuda’s quote shows, the textbooks repeatedly presented nuclear power as clean (meaning that it does not produce CO2 like coal) as well as safe energy. This presentation of nuclear power was corroborated by the premise that scientific knowledge is neutral, and enables humans to make rational and objective decisions to advance our society. In this view, the only cause for nuclear power plant accidents would be human errors. However, that was not the case in Fukushima in 2011.

Waku Waku: exciting feelings about nuclear power The Ministry of Education, in collaboration with the Ministry of Energy, inculcated in students from a young age the myth that nuclear power was safe and peaceful. For example, Ministry of Education Culture and Science Japan (2008) distributed a booklet on nuclear energy titled Waku Waku Genshiryoku Rando [Waku Waku nuclear land] to schools throughout Japan. Waku Waku is an onomatopoeia that is often used to describe emotional excitement about anticipated encounters with persons, events, or objects. This choice of word demonstrates MEXT’s intention to invigorate students’ interests in atomic energy and have them form affective connections with it. The book also did a good job reducing students’ fear of science with its use of designs and colors such as baby pink and blue. In addition, the main characters (a science professor and seven robots) who explained the mechanism of nuclear energy in the Q & A format had round faces and eyes, which were unthreatening. The book did not totally conceal the risk of nuclear power plants. It did refer to accidents at Three Mile Island (TMI) and Chernobyl. Howerver, it attributed these accidents to operators’ errors, and asserted that accidents like those would never happen in Japan as there were layers of preventative measures in all plants in Japan (Ministry of Culture and Science Japan,, and Agency for National Resources and Energy, 2010; MEXT, 2010).

Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima  67 In addition to teaching about the safety of nuclear energy through government-issued textbooks, MEXT attempted to inculcate positive images of nuclear energy into the minds of young students by inviting them to participate in various activities and events. One example is the annual poster contest for the celebration of Nuclear Day (October 26), which commemorated Japan’s joining the International Atomic Energy Organization in 1957. The calls for posters were full of a pro-nuclear agenda (Samuels, 2013). For example, the 2008 call was entitled “Let’s Go To a Beautiful Future With Nuclear Power.” With this friendly and exciting tone, MEXT invited students to actively learn about and support nuclear power. The post stated: Today we use nuclear energy everywhere, and it is an indispensable means to sustain our lives. Nuclear power supplies one third of the total energy we use in our lives. So, let’s learn more about nuclear power and apply for the poster contest. (Ministry of Education Culture and Science Japan, 2008) The poster contests also attempted to lower students’ guard toward nuclear power, and encourage young people to see it as something relevant to our everyday lives and essential for the sustainability of our world. The following slogans from the sample posters exemplify this intent: This steaming hot rice is made from nuclear power. Let’s promote nuclear power to prevent a rise in sea levels. Nuclear power will brighten our towns and make us feel safe and protected. (Ministry of Education Culture and Science Japan, 2008) The first slogan highlights our close and natural relationship with nuclear energy by juxtaposing hot (steamed) rice, the staple food for the Japanese, with electricity from the nuclear power plant. The second example suggests concern over global warming by addressing the rise in sea levels caused by excessive CO2 emission from the use of fossil fuels. It suggests that using nuclear power as an alternative to fossil fuels will mitigate global warming. The third slogan emphasizes the “safety” nuclear energy guarantees in our lives. Through these educational events and activities MEXT succeeded in developing citizens’ trust in nuclear energy. However, the accident on March 11 ruptured this anthropotechnic belief. At the site of this catastrophe, the only statement the experts could make was sotei gai data (the accident was unimaginable) (Broinowski, 2017; Jordan, 2012). Amidst this confusion, the Ministry of Education quietly removed the Waku Waku Genshiryoku Rando from its website and put a hold on distributing hard copies of this book to children a month after the accident (Koyasu & Shinozaki, 2013).

68  Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima

Problems of risk communication Delayed announcement about radiation risks The safety myth over nuclear power plants had been prevalent in Japan for several decades since the 1950s. However, the accident on March 11, 2011 instantly collapsed the myth. As the basic premise of science was overthrown, scientists also witnessed citizens’ trust toward the national government and scientists fall apart, no longer able to maintain the belief that the government and science could protect citizens from risks (Beck, 1999). This meant that two major pillars of modern society, science and nation, revealed their fragility in the wake of the man-made catastrophe. Similar to other communities that experienced the characteristics of a risk society, such as Chernobyl, skepticism and animosity toward the government surged in Japan following the explosion of the Fukushima Daiichi power plant (F1). In the Tokyo metropolitan area, anti-nuclear activist groups, whose presence had been relatively peripheral in Japan since the 1960s, regained its power and succeeded in galvanizing citizens (Hasegawa, 2012, 2014; Oguma & Slater, 2012). These groups organized a series of anti-nuclear rallies throughout Japan, including one in Tokyo, where as many as 120,000 people attended (Kawasaki, 2013). The protesters voiced critiques of the post-WWII principle of economic supremacy over the wellbeing of citizens and the protection of the environment. Citizens sympathetic to this group, especially the younger generations, including workers in precarious jobs and young mothers, formed alliances to condemn the government. Some of them protested the government when it raised the radiation safety level in the disaster-stricken region from 1 mSV to 20 mSV per year (Dudden, 2012). Citizens’ skepticism toward the government was further exacerbated when the media revealed that MEXT had withheld information gained from the System for Prediction of Environment Emergency Dose Information (SPEEDI),2 a computer network system that provides real-time radiation contamination levels in the air, until March 23, 11 days after the power plant explosion. Their anger reached a peak when they discovered that the information MEXT shared then was only partial (Koide, 2018). The rationale for the government’s lack of transparency was their concern that publishing SPEEDI data, which they did not believe was completely reliable, would panic citizens (Koide, 2018; Shoji & Gill, 2013).3 Despite these reasons, the government’s decision to withhold information about radiation risks resulted in a large number of citizens in Fukushima being exposed to high doses of radiation (Broinowski, 2017; Dudden, 2012). This damage, in return, justified residents’ skepticism toward the government (Chiba & Matsuno, 2011). Sayako, a highschool student from Fukushima City, expressed how her skepticism toward the government grew after she found out the radiation level in her town on March 16, 2011 (Figure 4.1): The power plants are located near the coast, and I thought they were really away from Fukushima City [where I lived]. I also didn’t know

Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima  69

Figure 4.1  Airborne Radiation 4.29.2011.

anything about radiation. So, I thought there was no problem at all. My mother told me: “You can’t go outside; radiation is so dangerous!” But, I really didn’t understand why she was saying that because I couldn’t see anything in the air. March 16 was the day when high schools announced the results of the entrance exams. Since I applied to my high school through the early admission program, I’d already received an acceptance letter. But, I was still supposed to go to the high school to sign the form. My mother said: “Don’t leave the house! You can go there anytime. Don’t worry. They have already accepted you.”

70  Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima So, I listened to her advice and stayed home. My friends who took the exam all went to see the results in the snow. We found out later that the level of radiation in the air was 20 μSV per hour that day.4 (Sayako Ogata, as cited in Saito et al., 2014) Sayako and her friends did not know that within days of the explosion, radioactive particles had traveled with the clouds to the north-east of Fukushima Prefecture, including Fukushima City, Koriyama City, and Date City, which are 50–60 kilometers away from the power plant, contaminating the region as the particles fell to the ground with the rain (Date City Disaster Prevention Office, 2018; Hisatomi et al., 2014). The US Department of Energy monitored the radiation level in the region and provided a map of highdose radiation contamination to several ministries. However, the authorities did not publish this information (Asahi Digital, June 18, 2012). As public schools in Fukushima City didn’t know about the contamination, they continued their activities following the regular school calendar, resulting in thousands of young students being exposed to high doses of radiation. Contested models of radiation risk Despite the widespread concerns about the risk of radiation and uncertainty about radiation safety levels, schools in Fukushima started the new academic year on April 11 (Matsushita & Inokari, 2013). It was not until April 19, a few weeks after schools had opened, that MEXT issued the radiation safety guidelines for Fukushima schools. Publication of these guidelines, which was intended to reduce public anxiety and confusion about radiation risk, failed to achieve its goal. This failure was mainly due to the prevalence of two major contested models of radiation risk, which experts used to develop safety guidelines as well as to evaluate them. These were the As Low As Reasonably Achievable (ALARA) model and the Linear Non-Threshold (LNT) model. Each model espoused its own rationales for radiation safety and risk supported by scientific evidence. Thus, the debate as to which model was more appropriate was a political rather than a scientific one. The “pronukes,” most of the government-related organizations, and scientists who worked for national universities supported the ALARA model. On the other hand, anti-nuclear activists endorsed the LINT model. Reducing fear with the ALARA model As Low As Reasonably Achievable (ALARA) is a model of radiation risk developed by the International Commission on Radiological Protection (ICRP), an international pro-nuclear organization. This is a holistic model, which assesses radiation risk by taking into consideration multiple non-health factors such as social, economic, and psychological factors. The ALARA model reckons that exposure to radiation between 20 mSV and 100 mSv per year is reasonable in an emergency situation such as an accident at the nuclear

Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima  71 As low As Reasonably Achievable (ALARA) Model

Emergency 20 mSv - 100 mSv

Post-Emergency 1 mSv - 20 mSv

Normal 1 mSv

Figure 4.2  ALARA Model.

power plants (Imanaka, 2017). This model simply does not recommend forced evacuation of residents from communities where the cumulative radiation level is 100 mSV per year or lower as evacuation could cause other risks. According to the model, it is realistic for residents to stay in their communities and continue to lead their lives with caution for a while because the level of radiation will decrease gradually either naturally or through decontamination efforts. The Japanese government, who were concerned about the economic impact of the disaster, adopted the ALARA model. Accordingly, they implemented a forced evacuation order only to regions where the radiation level was 20 mSv/year or higher (Ministry of Environment, 2013; Figure 4.2). The radiation safety guidelines for schools in Fukushima, which MEXT published on April 19, 2011, were also aligned with the ALARA model. Since Fukushima was in a post-emergency situation (the stage immediately following an extraordinary emergency situation), the MEXT guidelines declared that the cumulative amount of residents’ radiation exposure per year should be no more than 20 mSV.5 This meant that radiation in the air up to 3.8 μSV/hr was safe. MEXT also stated that the ideal cumulative radiation level should gradually be lowered to 1 mSV per year (0.19 μSV/ hr) as the communities gradually phased out of the post-emergency stage. In addition, MEXT recommended municipal offices to decontaminate school properties to bring the radiation level down to 0.19 μSV/h (Ministry of Culture and Science Japan (MEXT), 2011). Because this order was a recommendation, not mandatory, there were no sanctions or support from the government to implement it. However, without detailed explanations of the rationale behind the ALARA model, some residents continued to feel uncertain about these guidelines. Complying with the MEXT initiative, the Fukushima Prefecture Education Board trained teachers in 700 schools within the prefecture on how to conduct radiation safety education in their classrooms using a handbook titled Guidebook on Radiation Education in October 2011.The handbook was produced by MEXT with the support of “experts” they selected themselves. In addition to the dissemination of the handbook across Japan, MEXT also enforced their definitions of risk in Fukushima by mandating teachers to

72  Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima conduct lessons on radiation safety without deviating from the facts stated in the book (Fukushima University Research Committee of Supplementary Materials on Radiation, 2012; Okada, 2014; Saito, 2012). Although the textbook did not refer to the ALARA model, descriptions of radiation safety through the book clearly indicated that they were adopting this model. For example, one chapter in the book stated that receiving between 1 and 20 mSV per year was normal in a community such as Fukushima. In addition to legitimizing their standard and to reduce students’ anxiety over radiation, the book listed common daily activities that could cause cancer or other health complications, and compared their risks with the risk of radiation contamination in Fukushima. Science shows that cancer risk increases when one receives radiation at the level of 100 mSV or higher per year. According to the national cancer research center, the risk of cancer increases by 1.08% when one receives radiation between 100 mSV and 200 mSV per year. This increase in risk is equivalent to the risk we have when we failed to eat 110g of vegetables per day (1.06) and when one consumed food with high sodium (1.11–1.15). In addition, the research studies on the atomic bomb survivors and those who received radiation treatment for childhood cancer provide no evidence that radiation one received in the past will have a negative genetic impact on his/her children. (MEXT, 2014, p. 10) Another strategy the textbook adopted was to present radiation as part of our lives even before the nuclear disaster. For example, the book provided a chart listing common activities in our lives that are accompanied by exposure to radiation, such as X-rays and flying to New York (MEXT, 2014). An activity in the workbook first asked students to list daily activities (e.g., traveling by airplane) that result in radiation exposure, then asked them to add up the amount of radiation exposure. The result of the calculation would likely to show students that they had been exposed to radiation of up to 20 mSV per year even prior to the nuclear disaster. This hands-on activity involving numbers is an effective strategy to convince students that exposure to radiation up to 20 mSV a year was normal (Goto, 2012). Activities like these in the government-issued handbooks underestimated longterm exposure to low doses of radiation. At the same time, the activity problematized citizens’ anxiety over radiation exposure, insinuating that such anxieties were rooted in students’ lack of scientific knowledge about radiation. While presenting a neutral outlook, the MEXT-issued textbook essentially supported the pro-nuclear stance of the Japanese government, which had persisted since the 1950s. Even after the nuclear disaster, they continued to manage the public’s anxiety over radiation instead of directing their attention to the causes of anxiety (i.e., nuclear power plants), how and why the nuclear power plant exploded, how badly it contaminated the biosphere, and how the contamination was likely to impact their health and for how long.

Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima  73 Legitimizing fear with the LNT model Another popular model of radiation risk that became prevalent in Fukushima was the Linear Non-Threshold (LNT) model. Unlike the ALARA model, the LNT model is endorsed by anti-nuclear organizations. The LNT model assumes that there is no exact threshold below which there is no health risk. In other words, the model suggests that the greater the amount of radiation one is exposed to, the greater the risk of developing health complications. The proponents of this model recommended that residents of Fukushima evacuate from Fukushima to minimize the health risk. If they were to stay in Fukushima, they should avoid any external or internal exposure to radiation by constantly measuring radiation levels in the air, water, and food they took in. One of the supporters of this model was the United Nations Human Rights Council UNHRC, which made a series of public statements about radiation risk in Fukushima. Based on the LNT model, UNHRC provided recommendations for the Japanese government to lower the radiation safety level to 1 mSV per year (Dudden, 2012; Kawasaki, 2013). Following their recommendation, anti-nuclear activist groups in Japan condemned ICRP and the Ministry of Environment in Japan for making an inhumane decision, which was to maintain the radiation safety level at 20 mSV per year (Fukushima Women Against Nuke, 2014, June 2). In communicating their ideas to young citizens, proponents of the LNT model, like the ALARA model supporters, used plain language. They also appealed to young readers’ interests by providing examples relevant to their ordinary lives. This is exactly the strategy MEXT used in their textbook of radiation safety to promote their stance on radiation risk. For example, Earth Child, an anti-nuclear non-profit organization that advocates for children’s rights and environmental justice, published a newsletter in which they emphasized the danger of radiation in our everyday lives. They also compared cases from Chernobyl with those from Fukushima to highlight the risky state of Fukushima. An excerpt from the newsletter stated: The radiation safety standard applied to Fukushima is 20 times as high as what is considered safe in other communities. In Chernobyl, the government ordered mandatory evacuation to those who lived in areas whose annual cumulative amount of radiation exceeded 5 mSV per year. Japan’s safety standard is four times higher than that. It is not an environment where children can live safely in the long term. This standard violates article 25 of our constitution, which states that “the rights of people shall be designed for the promotion and extension of social welfare and of freedom, justice, and democracy.” (we also need to know that) Dr. Bandajefsky, a pathologist at Gomel State Medical University in Belarus, published a research finding that infants who accumulated 10 bq of cesium 137 per 1 kg of their weight developed heart arrhythmia. (Earth Child, 2012, March 30) This article condemned the current Japanese government’s radiation safety standard applied to Fukushima (20 mSV/year) by comparing it with the

74  Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima radiation safety standards adopted in Chernobyl in the 1980s. Their stance was aligned with the LNT model, which claims that the greater the exposure to radiation, the greater the health risks we are likely to have. The medical research finding quoted in the newsletter reinforced the point by stating that cesium 137 was the cause of medical complications among children in Belarus. It suggests the newsletter was based on the LNT model as it focused strictly on the physical factors while omitting social and psychological factors that could affect residents’ overall wellbeing in post-disaster communities. By strictly focusing on the health risks of radiation exposure, this newsletter legitimized Fukushima residents’ fear of radiation.

Caught in the middle The government-issued textbook on radiation safety and the article on the health risks of radiation represent two contradictory discourses of radiation risk. People in Fukushima were exposed to these two discourses constantly and were caught in the middle, with little explanation of the political and scientific backgrounds to these models. This prolonged exposure to contested definitions of radiation risk increased fatigue and confusion among residents. These phenomena also manifested themselves intensely in schools as they began to prepare for reopening in April 2011. As stated earlier, until April 19, no specific guidance or information on how to ensure safety on school property was forthcoming from the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology (MEXT) or from the prefectural and local school boards. Thus, as they began to plan reopening of schools, teachers had to develop safety protocols to protect their students. The discussions on how to operate schools turned into heated debates among teachers. Kobayashi, who taught in a high school in Fukushima City, recalls an intense meeting at her school in April 2011: When we first talked about whether or not to bring students back to school (in April), we got into a heated debate. A young teacher said: “I can’t tell my students to come to school.” I had never seen such a fierce debate in a teachers’ meeting. Another teacher said: “Our situation right now is not like the disaster in Kobe.6 People said schools helped children heal from the trauma of the disaster then. That does not apply to us right now.” (Kobayashi, December 2015) In many schools, teachers could not avoid being caught between contradictory opinions about radiation risk. Heated arguments took place even in the teachers’ unions, which had historically provided counter-narratives to the education authorities from teachers’ points of view (Yamamoto, 2006). At the beginning of April, when schools were left on their own to figure out safety guidelines, Sugiuchi, the secretary of the Fukushima Prefecture High School Teachers’ Union in Fukushima City, attempted to develop safety

Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima  75 standards to share with union members, following the democratic principles embraced by the union. However, as soon as he began collecting opinions from the members, he encountered a major challenge. He recalls the conundrum: The teachers’ union in Fukushima Prefecture requested the prefectural board to publicly announce the safety standards. But they didn’t respond. Members asked us to come up with our own standards collectively as the union. So, I began collecting members’ opinions. Some said everyone should just evacuate from Fukushima. Others said it wasn’t necessary at all. I was bombarded with many emails. I tried to summarize those emails and began writing a statement based on the summary. When I finished about half a page, I said to myself: “I can’t do this. I can’t say whether it is safe or not.” There were too many opinions and too much information. Some members were adamant about evacuation. On the other hand, we had students right in front of us and parents, who wanted to stay in Fukushima. Above all, I was here and I didn’t want to evacuate. People had very different opinions about the radiation risk. I said to them: “We are all here right now. We should do our best to lower the amount of radiation exposure. That’s the only thing I could suggest. (Interview, Sugiuchi, December 26, 2015) As Sugiuchi stated, the Fukushima Teachers’ Union could not come up with a unified safety standard. Sugiuchi’s decision not to provide any specific number in the safety guidelines overlapped with that of MEXT and the Fukushima Board of Education. They all had to face the new reality of a risk society where they could no longer rely on scientists or national government to assert whether or not Fukushima was safe. Admitting this new challenge, Sugiuchi chose a pragmatic approach. Instead of falling into the endless debate on whether or not individual standards or risk models were legitimate, he concentrated his efforts on minimizing the amount of radiation students were exposed to at school. The bottom-up approach he used meant that, rather than relying on the government to come up with safety standards and implement them, Sugiuchi encouraged teachers to take responsibility for protecting their students by utilizing resources available to them at each school. Ironically, the authorities’ reluctance to take immediate and concerted action to protect students from radiation promoted democracy in their own schools.

Becoming scientists Not only was there a delay before the authorities provided guidance to citizens immediately after the plant’s explosion, but people were also dismayed by the contested definitions of radiation risk communicated through the media. In this chaotic situation, some citizens in Fukushima took the initiative to learn about radiation risks and implemented actions to reduce their

76  Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima exposure to radiation. It was common for ordinary citizens in Fukushima to obtain Geiger counters to measure radiation levels at home and in their neighborhoods. Groups of mothers who were extremely concerned about their children’s health even developed a network and began sharing the data through an online platform (Nakao, 2020). Some students in public schools also carried Geiger counters with them and measured radiation levels at home and school. Kobayashi, who was teaching at a technical high school in 2011, remembers how well-informed her students were about radiation on the first day of school in April 2011. I didn’t feel like starting a new semester without talking about the disaster. So, I said to the class: “I understand how difficult it is for you to come to school in these extraordinary circumstances. So, I want to teach in ways that deserve your time and effort.” Then, I said: “I wonder how much radiation we have in this classroom.” A student replied: “I have a hakaru-kun [geiger counter].” She already had a geiger counter. My students were highly conscious of this kind of issue. (Interview, Kobayashi, December 21, 2015) Measuring radiation became a concerted effort by students and teachers to ensure safety in some schools as they had received no guidance from the authorities with regard to decontamination and radiation safety. At Sugiuchi’s school, teachers began measuring radiation on campus with the support of students: Neither the local education board nor MEXT wanted to announce the contamination level of school property. So, I obtained fifty geiger counters. I also convinced the school board to prepare 50 geiger counters for schools. A Christian organization donated 100 geiger counters to the teachers’ union. We delivered those to each school. I borrowed seven Russian-made geiger counters from the Board and gave them to students. I asked them to measure the radiation level in three spots on campus twice, in the morning and before leaving school …. Also, the science club measured radiation levels on our school property and created a radiation map. On their map, they marked hot spots with a picture of a landmine. We saw that map and began talking about having to decontaminate the property. That was in July. During summer, when classes were not in session, some of us volunteered to decontaminate those hot spots. (Interview, Sugiuchi, December 26, 2015) An initiative like this demonstrates the emergence of bottom-up democracy, subverting the normal practices in Japanese schools, which are centralized and bureaucratic. Normally, schools and public offices are positioned within the hierarchical structure of communication and command. In this structure, MEXT sits at the top, prefectural and city boards in the middle,

Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima  77 and individual schools at the bottom. However, the urgency generated by the nuclear disaster contingently transformed students and teachers from passive recipients of commands into active citizens. The agency collectively exercised by teachers and students signaled a turning point in the history of nuclear education. In addition, the examples of how students and teachers dealt with radiation contamination on campus foreshadows the new relations between science and citizens in our society. In the first stage of modernity (before the accident), the public assumed that scientific experts were the only people able to derive complicated knowledge about nuclear and radiation, relying entirely on the judgment of “experts” to make decisions related to nuclear energy and radiation. However, revelations of the uncertainty of scientific knowledge in the wake of the Fukushima disaster destabilized public trust in experts and led to the emergence of citizen scientists, actively seeking scientific information and using it to make democratic decisions in their communal lives instead of solely depending on experts (Takagi, 1997).

Conclusion The explosion at the Fukushima Daiichi power plant demystified the grand narrative of “Atom for Peace” that had dominated post-WWII Japan. At the same time, the rupture of the safety myth reduced public trust in the Japanese government and TEPCO. Further, MEXT’s failure to provide prompt and accurate information about radiation contamination to residents of Fukushima inflated their skepticism toward the Japanese government. At the heart of the problem was the uncertain nature of scientific knowledge (Beck, 2007), which no one had imagined prior to the accident. Contested definitions of the risk of radiation emerged among experts immediately after the explosion of the power plant. Mixed messages about risk circulating through the mass media caused much confusion for the public. It even created divisions within communities, at work, in schools, and at home. Experts from both pro-nuclear (the government and members of the “nuclear village”) and anti-nuclear factions (anti-nuclear activists who belonged to a large global network of activists) both claimed their roles as experts. Both sides fully utilized scientific knowledge to justify their claims to communicate their versions of the truth to their audiences while harshly denouncing their opponents’ claims. Those in favor of nuclear, including the ICRP, the Japanese government, MEXT, and the major media used the ALARA model to claim that Fukushima was safe. This model, which assesses risk more holistically by taking into consideration psychological, economic, and social factors, problematized residents’ fears of radiation. On the other hand, anti-nuclear activists adopted the LNT model, which claims that there is no threshold in the safe amount of radiation exposure; this means that any exposure to radiation, even the smallest amount, has the potential to cause health issues. Based on this stance, experts who adopted the LNT model stressed the importance of reducing radiation exposure as much as possible.

78  Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima While both models are supported by science, they are rooted in two contrasting political stances on nuclear power. Despite the influence of political power in their statements about radiation safety, “experts” from both pro-nuclear and anti-nuclear sides maintained the “neutral” outlook of scientists. This stance is not something new to the Fukushima disaster. The dramatic discursive shift from an anti-nuclear to pro-nuclear stance that the Japanese government led together with scientists in the 1950s clearly shows that development, application, and dissemination of scientific knowledge is always driven by political interests. This history of communication involving scientific knowledge, and the chaotic situation in post-disaster Fukushima, have implications for how scientists should communicate scientific knowledge (e.g., risk of radiation) to the public in a democratic society. Scientists should first explain the political and uncertain nature of scientific knowledge, including knowledge about nuclear energy and radiation (Lindee, 2016), recognizing and affirming the indivisible relationship between scientific knowledge dealt with in labs and professional circles, and the world outside of labs, which is political, historical, economic, and cultural. By acknowledging this connection, scientists also come to integrate their perspective and identity as citizens with their professional identity. As much as scientists become close to citizens by integrating their perspectives and identities, communication about science in a risk society requires ordinary citizens to think and act like scientists. In other words, they need to become citizen scientists (Takagi, 1997). Some actions that teachers and students took in schools and communities in post-disaster Fukushima suggest the emergence of citizen scientists in Fukushima. Instead of being caught up in the political battle between pro-nuclear (ALARA) and anti-nuclear (LNT) models, some teachers came up with pragmatic solutions to protect themselves from harmful radiation. For example, teachers and students measured radiation levels in their schools and communities, using Geiger counters. They also compiled and published the results. At Sugiuchi’s high school, teachers also voluntarily decontaminated hot spots on their campus based on the radiation map his students created. This example show that they made decisions about their lives in their own communities and took actions based on scientific data without depending on scientific experts and the government. Interestingly, the expansion of citizen scientists did not take place in an organized way. Rather it happened contingently as radiation released from the broken power plant made its way into communities and schools. Citizens’ proximity to radioactive substances made scientific knowledge more tangible and relevant to their lives. The emergence of citizen scientists in Fukushima signals the advent of a new stage of society, in which citizens have a new relationship not only with nuclear energy but also with scientific knowledge.

Notes 1 The percentage of Japanese citizens who viewed nuclear energy as harmful dropped from 70% to 30% between 1956 and 1958 (Tanaka & Kuznick, 2011).

Contested definitions of risk in Fukushima  79 2 SPEEDI stands for System for Prediction of Environmental Emergency Dose Information. MEXT invested over 12 billion yen (US$ 108.5 million) in this system. The development of the system started in 1979 after the Three Mile Island accident. It traced the movement of radiation particles using meteorological and geographic data (Shoji & Gill, 2013). 3 Confirming the legitimacy of this stance, MEXT also proclaimed that it would not use data from SPEEDI in making decisions on evacuations in the future (Koide, 2018). 4 According to the ALARA model, the safety level is 3.8 mSV/hr, while in the LNT model, it should be 0.23 mSV/hr. 5 The International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) also stated that annual doses of up to 20 mSV per year are safe for the entire population, including women and children (Hamblin, 2012). The World Health Organization (WHO) and the United Nations Scientific Commission on the Effects of Atomic Radiation (UNSCEAR) also asserted that there were no immediate radiation-related illnesses or deaths and declared the major health impact to be psychological (Broinowski, 2017). 6 When the magnitude 7.3 earthquake hit Kobe in 1995, the media disseminated messages that schools were safe places for children in Kobe.

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5 Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing

We are going to generate new education policies, to recover from the disaster. We will promote education to create new citizens, who love and honor our homeland, and contribute to the reconstruction of Fukushima. (Fukushima Prefecture School Board & Fukushima Prefecture Governmental Office, 2014) We reflect on the past, to see the future. (University student in Fukushima, 2016)

Introduction Although the earthquake of March 11 impacted all residents of Fukushima, the level and type of impact they experienced differed depending on which part of Fukushima they lived in. Those who lived in coastal regions at the time of the disaster were the hardest hit. Many lost their homes and loved ones to the tsunami. In addition, high doses of radiation emitted from the Fukushima Daiichi Power Plant (F1) forced them to evacuate from their homes immediately after the plant’s explosion on March 12. After moving from one evacuation center to another, some chose to return home despite the high doses of contamination, while others settled in subsidized temporary housing or relocated to other cities within and beyond Fukushima. This loss and displacement caused many evacuees to suffer from trauma for many years. According to Tsujiuchi (as cited in Hatachi, 2018, March 10th), 67% of the 1,083 evacuees from Fukushima were suffering from symptoms of PTSD in 2012. While the rate of PTSD decreased gradually, 47% of evacuees still experienced symptoms in 2017. We also should not forget that suicide rates among evacuees remains high even today. Evacuation added a unique challenge to school-age children. Being taken away from their social network and placed in an isolated environment in new schools, many developed social maladjustment and psychological issues (Fukushima High School Teachers’ Union Women’s Division, 2013). The damage in the central and west parts of Fukushima was relatively small compared to that inflicted on people in the coastal region. For example, the central region of Fukushima (e.g., Fukushima City and Date City) was free DOI: 10.4324/9781003090083-5

84  Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing of damage from tsunami. Although the earthquake brought some damages to the region it was not as great as in the coastal region. What impacted this community the most was high levels of radiation which contaminated the entire biosphere. Radiation contamination not only posed a health risk to the region’s residents but also caused economic decline in the region whose main industry was mainly agricultural. The boycott of produce from this region in the national market due to fear of radiation resulted in the loss of sales in produce, which amounted to 2.85 trillion yen from 2011 to 2014 (Nohara & Narukawa, 2015). Contrary to these two regions, the Aizu region, which is almost 100 kilometers away from the nuclear power plant, experienced little impact from the tsunami or radiation. Knowing the scarce damage of the disaster in this region, residents from the coastal towns evacuated there. Thus, the major challenge of disaster residents in Aizu had centered on how to support and integrate the evacuees, who were suffering from the trauma, into their communities. Despite the continuous suffering of disaster victims, the major media promoted a discourse of hope in all regions in Fukushima. In emulation of the modern history of using education as the source of economic revitalization, education became the focus of reconstruction campaigns in disaster-stricken communities. The implementation of the reconstruction discourse in Fukushima schools could be seen in walls filled with slogans such as kizuna (bonding) and gan baro (Hang in there!). The term kizuna, which means to bond with one’s community, stressed the restoration of the good old days prior to the disaster (Figure 5.1).

Figure 5.1  Gambarou Posters in School.

Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing  85 In accordance with the reconstruction discourse that permeated the nation, the Fukushima Board of Education pressured schools to restore normality. This resulted in forcing schools to re-open as early as April, a month after the disaster, and resume all activities that were in place prior to the disaster. Despite the Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology (MEXT) and prefectural and local school boards urging the restoration of normality in schools, many students were still feeling pain from the disaster. Those who lived in the central and coastal regions had anxieties over radiation contamination, and these unstable living conditions affected their behavior at school. Teachers noticed a general decline in motivation and increase in truancy among students across all regions in Fukushima (Miura et al., 2012). However, under the pressure to promote normalization in schools, teachers and students had no space or time to reflect on their disaster experiences. Contested definitions of radiation risk permeated throughout their communities and trauma from the disaster also prevented students from sharing their emotions and thoughts about it. Amidst this crisis, some creative teachers questioned a rapid return to the normal schedule. They found small windows of time in their content classes and extra-curricular activities to create spaces where students could share feelings and thoughts about the disaster. Some used discussions and writing; others included more artistic approaches such as drama.

Schools under pressure for normalization College entrance examination pressure To orchestrate the reconstruction effort in Fukushima, the Fukushima Prefecture Governmental Office published Fukushima Reconstruction Vision in July 2011. The report devoted a significant number of pages to education, emphasizing that young citizens are the key actors of community reconstruction. Following this vision, the Fukushima Education Board issued a blueprint for education entitled Fukushima Reconstruction Plan for Education in March 2014. This plan reflected policy makers’ sense of urgency about filling in the academic gaps caused by the disaster. For instance, the plan stressed the importance of pulling up overall scores in the annual national academic achievement test to catch up with other prefectures. In doing so, they suggested teachers use strategies such as competitions, incentives, and sanctions tied to students’ test scores. The report especially emphasized the urgency to develop students’ twenty-first-century skills, including flexibility, resilience, and the ability to analyze information and solve problems for community to recover from the disaster (Fukushima Education Board, 2014). Closely examining the content of the report with education policies and guidelines MEXT provided in the past 20 years, it becomes clear that the goals and methods expressed in the Fukushima Education Board’s report were neither innovative nor specific to post-disaster contexts. In fact, they were mere replications of existing national-level policies grounded in the human capital

86  Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing model of education. The report not only lacked critical reflection of the human capital model of education, which partly led to the nuclear disaster, but also refrained from examining the role public-schools in Fukushima played in promoting pro-nuclear energy policy and business. Echoing the vision of education delineated in the reconstruction plan, schools in post-disaster Fukushima promoted normalization. Despite the mental and physical fatigue brought on by the disaster, most teachers throughout Fukushima pulled together and resumed normal operation in April. Schools across Fukushima, including coastal towns where the entire population had to relocate, welcomed both new and returning students within a month of the disaster (Takeuchi, 2012). Bringing back normal daily schedules in a time of crisis is not an entirely bad idea. Familiar daily routines help victims connect with their past and bring a sense of continuity and security in their lives (Boym, 2001). However, effort to restore normality placed teachers and students under a tremendous amount of pressure at the same time. Some teachers from the coastal region, whose school buildings were damaged by the tsunami and radiation, had to immediately set up their classrooms to resume teaching. In some coastal towns, students had to commute by bus, leaving home as early as 6 a.m. (Ugaya, 2011). For example, students who evacuated from Okuma, Namie, and Tomioka1 attended satellite schools, which was built quickly on other school property, in other cities and towns within Fukushima Prefecture2 (Fukushima Prefectural Government, 2015; Kobayashi, 2013). Schools that hosted evacuee students also became absorbed in this chaos as teachers in those schools were burdened with excessive amounts of administrative work to assist students transferring in and out of their schools while also carrying regular teaching loads. In some schools, teachers even risked their own health to decontaminate school buildings. These teachers were also victims of the disaster. They assumed these responsibilities at work while dealing with their own trauma due to their loss of homes and loved ones (Sanuki, Sato, Miyashita, & Nakata, 2013). Despite prolonged chaos and trauma since the disaster, teachers still had to comply with the enforced normality at school. Kobayashi, who taught in a high school in Fukushima City, stated: Those [researchers and journalists] who come here to interview us always ask me if anything has changed in schools since the disaster. To be honest, nothing has changed. The entrance examinations have not changed. We cannot change that. The academic year started as usual. Nobody even thought of adjusting their schedule for us. Nobody thought of starting our school a week later or anything like that. (Kobayashi, Interview, December 21, 2015) As Kobayashi stated, there were no fundamental changes in the curriculum or schedule in the high school in Fukushima City where she taught. This effort for normalization was part of the Japanese government’s strategy to lower

Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing  87 citizens’ anxieties over radiation. Adopting the International Commission on Radiation Protection’s (ICRP) ALARA radiation safety model (As Low As Reasonably Achievable),3 MEXT announced its radiation safety guidelines for schools on April 19, 2011. Under the guidelines, exposure to radiation up to 20 mSV per year was deemed safe. This meant that municipalities outside the evacuation zones were designated safe zones so that no evacuation would be mandatory. Following the guidelines, schools located outside the forced evacuation zones resumed normal school schedules and activities. This normalization initiative under abnormal circumstances required all students and teachers to juggle the fear of radiation while being responsible for satisfying all academic requirements. Understandably, this policy created enormous stress, with the level of pressure and anxiety particularly apparent in high-school seniors preparing to take entrance examinations for college. In Japan, private and public colleges administer entrance examinations at the beginning of every year, as early as January to March. While alternative methods of college admission have become more widespread over the past ten years, competitive colleges still use entrance exam scores as their sole criterion for student admission. Their obsession with maintaining this method of admission reflects the history of the Japanese meritocratic system. Since the Meiji era, Japanese society has maintained the status quo through its education system, where secondary and post-secondary schools are clearly ranked. The ranking of schools has been a mark of the quality of institutions and their students. Thus, the ranking of the school from which a person graduates has a significant impact on their career trajectory. In this system, college entrance exams had literally been the gatekeeper of sustaining the status quo. This practice of social selection through education, which had been deeply embedded in the minds of citizens for over a century, drove a massive number of students to invest in this severe academic competition in the name of meritocracy (­Tokunaga, 2012; Watanabe et al., 2000; Yamamoto, 2006). Reflecting this trend, secondary education built a curriculum aiming to send more students to high-ranking universities. Since the entrance exams have long been memorization based, teaching in secondary schools was equivalent of feeding students a vast amount of knowledge in the subject areas that students were going to be tested (math, Japanese, English, science, and social studies) (Fukushima University Innovative Learning Lab, 2015; Halász, 2014). As well as the pressure of college entrance exams, students and teachers were also under pressure to increase their school’s test scores in the national academic achievement test, which started in 2007. These pressures from exams had already been high prior to 2011. They became further amplified by the disaster. High-school students aiming to go to college were anxious that they had fallen behind academically due to the disaster. One high-school student expressed this fear in a drawing titled “Memory of 2011”: I drew a picture to show extremely busy days I had during the year of the disaster. Entrance examinations, graduation art shows, and radiation.

88  Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing Among those, I was most stressed about the entrance examination. Yes, I did worry about radiation, but what pushed me to the edge was the entrance examination. (High-school student as cited in Kobayashi, 2013, p. 59) Her drawing shows a girl running along a narrow winding road. Books are chasing her as she runs. She does not seem to be able to stop or see other paths. It appears that she simply has to move forward as fast as she can on this fixed narrow path. Her words and drawing demonstrate the enormous pressure she felt to win in the education competition despite the catastrophe she was experiencing a few month after the disaster. Pressure for national academic achievement test While students were overwhelmed by the pressure for the entrance exam, teachers also was placed under the enormous pressure to increase their students’ national academic achievement test scores. Fujita, a teacher in a junior high school in Date City, which is located about 60 kilometers from the plant, recalled the intense pressure for academic achievement that permeated her school in 2011: FUJITA:  Schools

believed that restoring normality was necessary to calm down our students. It was five years ago, so I don’t remember exactly, but they [policy makers] believed that normalization in school was the best way to bring stability back to our students’ lives. And there was another reason. The education board had been striving to increase test scores even before the disaster. MIYAZAWA:  Are you referring to the national academic achievement test? Were scores low before 2011? FUJITA:  They were not very good compared to those of other prefectures. So, the Fukushima Prefectural Board of Education was eager to push students harder even before the disaster. I guess they thought they couldn’t afford to suspend the plan because of the disaster. They still had to promote academic achievement. We just had to endure this pressure. We were compelled to make sure our students’ scores would go up no matter what. That was why we opened our schools as usual. (Fujita, Interview December 14, 2015) As the quote shows, policy makers’ ambition to surpass other prefectures in the national academic achievement test did not evaporate in the face of the disaster. In 2012, a year after the disaster, the Fukushima Prefecture Department of Education published a detailed analysis of Fukushima students’ academic performance in the national academic achievement test, and expressed concerns over their mediocre performance. As a way of improving their academic performance, the board also mandated schools to fully utilize the Plan,

Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing  89 Do, Check, and Act (PDCA) model, implementation of which had begun in 2010 (Fukushima Prefecture Department of Education, 2012. This model, which MEXT endorsed, was originally a management model developed and used in business to increase productivity. Utilizing this model, each school was to plan their instruction (Plan), implement their plan (Do), assess how well they accomplished their goals based on the plan and why (Check), and take action (Act) to eliminate the challenges identified in the check stage (MEXT, 2012). As a part of this model, MEXT also required schools to administer six formative assessments in four subject areas within a year prior to the national academic achievement test. These assessments were to gage not only students’ academic achievement but also the quality of teaching (Fukushima Prefecture Department of Education, 2012; Sanuki et al., 2013). This data-driven accountability method of education was a new form of governance adopted globally in in the twenty-first century (Hopmann, 2008; Miriam, Lingard, Rizvi, & Taylor, S. (Eds.)., 2001; Peters, 2001). Despite the enormous global popularity of this model, research has found that emphasis on accountability in education narrowed curriculum and lowed the quality of teaching (Au, 2011; Darling-Hammond, 2004). The application of this model in Fukushima provoked similar concerns. Under constant pressure to improve students’ test scores, teachers found it difficult to integrate skills and knowledge that were irrelevant to the test. Consequently, topics such as disaster, radiation, and nuclear power—topics directly relevant to students’ lives in post-disaster communities—were eliminated from their curriculum. Preoccupation with test scores even led many teachers to think of any disaster-related issue as an obstacle to academic achievement (Kobayashi, 2013).

Between love and fear Kizuna (mandatory love) The normalization of schools was part of the wider national discourses, kizuna and reconstruction. Kizuna means “bond” and this term is often used to describe a romantic emotional connection with one’s homeland (Samuels, 2013). The word kizuna circulated at full power throughout Japan immediately following the disaster. For example, the media broadcast heartwarming stories of kizuna from the disaster-stricken communities. They also repeated messages such as Ganbare Fukushima (Cheer Up, Fukushima) or Makeruna Fukushima (Don’t Give up, Fukushima) to provide emotional support for the victims of the disaster (Allison, 2013; Broinowski, 2017). Driven by the sense of kizuna, citizens throughout Japan sent food, supplies, and money to Fukushima. In addition, as many as 420,000 volunteers from all over Japan arrived in Fukushima to support victims living in temporary evacuation centers. Volunteers also helped clean up towns filled with debris. Witnessing this prompt and well organized recovery effort, the international media applauded the Japanese people’s resilience, kindness, and calmness (Kawasaki, 2013).

90  Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing Officials strategically adopted kizuna slogans in the field of education, too. For example, the Fukushima Reconstruction Plan for Education published by the Fukushima Prefecture government was written in an emotionally engaging tone. The report’s sub-title, “Reconstruction by Collective Power of All People Who Love Fukushima,” seduced readers into being emotionally part of this collective reconstruction effort. The report also suggested that education was the hub of the community where kizuna was nurtured. The opening paragraph of the report read: The happiness of human beings cannot be attained without community. We have a history of kizuna in our communities in Fukushima. It is our treasure. It has a great value that the rest of the world would look up to. To implement our reconstruction, we must protect, develop, and enact this kizuna. The disaster showed us that we have strong kizuna within families and communities. By uniting school, home, and community, we can revive our education together. (Fukushima Prefectural Government Office, 2011, p. 8) Love is a concept commonly adopted by leaders as nations recover from tragedies (Boym, 2001; Broinowski, 2017; Brown & Mackie, 2015; Slater, Morioka, & Danzuka, 2014). History shows that governments employ the discourse of love, and projection of romanticized memories of the past onto the future as strategies to empower citizens when a nation is in the state of uncertainty (Petersson, Olsson, & Popkewitz, 2007 Ahmed, 2014). The repeated use of kizuna in the Fukushima Education Reconstruction Plan indicates that policy makers were aware of the affective power of love. They wrote this plan in a positive tone, and directed readers’ attention to a hopeful future, where the community they had lost in the disaster was fully restored, perhaps even embellished. They did so with the hope that it would provide a sense of stability and hope within the minds of disaster victims who had been forced to live with uncertainty. This type of heartwarming nostalgic discourse also directed the public’s gaze away from the ongoing tragedy and fear of radiation. This concealment of the negative emotions and realities behind the celebration of community reconstruction plans overlaps surprisingly with the hidden meaning of kizuna. Ironically, the etymology of this word divulges that the original meaning of kizuna is a rope (tsuna) that was used to tie horses and cows to a hitching post. In other words, kizuna signifies a “chain” or “obligation” that deprives animals of liberty of movement as they are placed in a subjugated position in an anthropocentric world (Gogen yurai jiten, 2021). The original menaing of kizuna suggest the mandatory nature of love hidden behind the connotation of romantic feelings (Samuels, 2013). Policy makers’ repeated use of kizuna in their reconstruction campaigns encouraged citizens in Fukushima to demonstrate “obligatory love” for the community, even though the object of the “beloved land” was contaminated by radiation. From an administrative point of view, communicating this hidden message to reattach

Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing  91 residents to Fukushima was particularly important in 2011, when the number of citizens fleeing from Fukushima was increasing. Fear Fear is an emotion that works in the opposite direction to love. While love pulls one’s body toward the objects of love (in this case Fukushima), fear naturally pulls one’s body away from what we perceive to be the source of potential harm (Ahmed, 2014). Fear was a common feeling in Fukushima right after the explosion of the power plant. Fearful of the radiation released from the power plant, those living nearby evacuated their hometown immediately after the explosion. The enforced evacuation order for communities located within a radius of 20 kilometers from the plant legitimized their fear. At the same time, those who lived between 20 and 30 kilometers from the plants were ordered to stay inside and not to evacuate despite massive radioactive fall-out. Those who lived beyond the 30-kilometer radius were told that they did not have to worry about radiation. Suspicion of the government and confusion over the contested definitions of radiation risk inflated public fear, leading as many as 40,000 people to voluntarily evacuate from Fukushima (Fukushima Prefecture Planning and Management, Department Statistical Research Section, 2012). In the face of the rapid population decline, both the national and local government invested even more heavily in promoting the kizuna discourse to reduce residents’ fear and keep them in Fukushima. This government action was necessary to sustain the local and national economy. While anti-nuclear activists demanded the government apply the standards of evacuation employed in Chernobyl (5 mSv/year4), the national government adopted the International Commission on Radiation Protection’s (ICRP) safety standard, which deemed exposure to radiation up to 20 mSV/year was safe. In this way the government problematized residents’ fear of radiation. Kizuna (love of community) discourse added  another pressure to surpress fear. The government-led kizuna campaign even reached to a point that the public expression of fear in Fukushima became associated with disloyalty to the community. Against this social background, residents began to conceal their fear and rejected the  idea that their land was contaminated (Broinowski, 2017; Slater et al., 2014). The public expression of love and suppression of fear was also transferred to schools in Fukushima. The following essay written by a junior high-school student in Date City, which is 60 kilometers away from the power plant, shows how she positioned herself in the dominant discourse of kizuna. Honestly speaking, I don’t understand much about radiation. So, I don’t feel scared when I watch the news about radiation. Even if I understand it, I don’t think I will change my view. My brother and father understand radiation and nuclear power a lot more than I do. They sometimes

92  Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing express anxiety but they never said they wanted to leave Fukushima. In fact, they never want to leave. I am the same. Nobody around me says anything like that. People who are overreacting are those who live outside Fukushima. When I watched a TV interview in Tokyo, most of them said they were worried….When I see that kind of news, I wonder why they are so worried. Our radiation level is higher than theirs. But we eat food that has been tested. So, we shouldn’t worry. We have buildings that got destroyed by the tsunami. They have not been fixed and are still standing there broken. I feel that people in Tokyo are not being considerate of us. They worry too much about their little problems. Of course, there are people who want to help us, too. (Junior high-school student cited by Association of Composition Education in Fukushima, 2013) This student articulated that she did not feel scared of radiation at the beginning of her essay. By making this statement, she demonstrated love for her community and commitment to its reconstruction. At the same time, the student presented fear as a “wrong” feeling, something those who are loyal to their community should not harbor. While she admitted that her brother and father expressed anxiety about radiation in the latter part of her essay, she quickly clarified her statement by asserting that their fear did not exceed their love for Fukushima. She also added that “nobody around me says anything like that” [wanting to leave Fukushima]. This statement shows that she assumed that sentiment toward Fukushima among residents was equally patriotic. At the same time, she problematized “others,” those who lived outside Fukushima, who fret too much about radiation. The essay even communicated her hatred and anger toward “them” (those who live outside Fukushima), who were obstructing Fukushima’s recovery by pathologizing Fukushima. Her essay implies that she is influenced by the principle of nationalism. The bond among members of a particular community goes hand in hand with constructing enemies, and increasing the intensity of hatred toward the out-group (Ahmed, 2014). Contested feelings in classrooms: love and fear This student’s assumption that fear is the wrong feeling in Fukushima is rooted in the official declaration of Fukushima’s radiation safety in April 2011. The new safety standards, which followed the ICRP’s ALARA model, proclaimed that radiation levels in the non-evacuation zones would not have a harmful effect on human health. Following the government policy, municipalities in Fukushima launched safety campaigns.5 In addition, Dr Yamashita, a risk communicator who worked for the Fukushima Prefecture government, spread the official message that Fukushima was safe by holding a series of community meetings throughout Fukushima. His repeated comments that radiophobia (excessive fear of radiation) was more harmful to one’s health

Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing  93 than radiation itself, discouraged residents from expressing fear of radiation (Broinowski, 2017; Jacobs, 2014; Slater et al., 2014). Despite the government’s assertion that Fukushima was safe, individuals who remained in Fukushima continued to feel fear silently. An anonymous survey published by the Fukushima government office in 20126 revealed that approximately 90% of participants were concerned about radiation. Although the radiation level in the air had decreased significantly, levels of fear, especially of internal exposure to radiation, remained high (Hisatomi et al., 2014). Fujita, who taught in a junior high school in Date City, sensed that many of her students were also experiencing fear, but were hesitant to express it. MIYAZAWA:  Do

you think your students had spaces to talk about the disaster or how they felt about it? FUJITA:  I don’t think so. Many of them told me they hardly or never talked about it. Their grandmother and mothers might talk about whether or not they should eat produce from Fukushima, but they wouldn’t talk about that in front of other kids. Students couldn’t share their worries with their friends. They were afraid of being laughed at. Other kids might tell them: “Are you still worrying about those things? That’s stupid.” So, they didn’t want to share their feelings. They hardly had opportunities to talk about the disaster with their friends or even with their families. I didn’t know about their suppressed fear until I did my second writing activity on the disaster experience. (Fujita, Interview, December 14, 2015) While Fujita was becoming aware of the silence of fear among her students, the normalization initiative in Fukushima schools did not provide pupils with time and space to talk about fear or even about the overall experience of disaster. Fujita felt that there was something utterly wrong about this, politically. Starting school without talking about the disaster and spending every single day as if nothing had happened did not align with her teaching philosophy, which was grounded in seikatsu tsuzurikata (life experience writing). Seikatsu tsuzurikata is a critical pedagogy that has over 100 years of vibrant history, especially in the Tohoku region. The pedagogy encourages students to use all five senses actively to make sense of the world they live in. The pedagogy also acknowledges cultural and linguistic differences between Tohoku (North East region of Japan) and the center (Tokyo), which manifest themselves clearly in government-censored textbooks and curriculum. To subvert this top-down education and to empower students in Tohoku, seikatsu tsuzurikata teachers have historically used two principles. One is to have students use their community’s language in discussions and writing at school, instead of standard Japanese. Another strategy was to have students bring questions and knowledge rooted in their everyday life experiences into classrooms and place them at the center of learning. Seikatsu tsuzurikata

94  Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing teachers believed that these strategies, which allow them to think on their own using the language rooted in their life experiences, were a fundamental pre-requisite for individuals to become socially conscious and active citizens (Kokubu, 1974). Fujita, who had been practicing seikatsu tsuzurikata for a decade prior to the disaster, was convinced that the seikatsu tsuzurikata pedagogy would be a vital tool for empowering students in post-disaster Fukushima. However, the rigid timetables and curriculum goals schools had set for teachers meant that Fujita had to carve out a small window of time during her home room and Language Arts classes to conduct activities informed by seikatsu tsuzurikata pedagogy. The first activity Fujita conducted was during her Language Arts class. At the beginning of the session, she asked her students to list how their lives had changed since the disaster. Students orally gave examples one after another. Fujita listed each of them on the blackboard. Soon, the blackboard became filled with facts such as not being able to play sports, not being able to drink tap water, or having to wear long-sleeved shirts and masks when they were outdoors. Seeing these changes collectively in class provided a common ground for students to acknowledge that fear about radiation was a common feeling in the community, even though no one had expressed it openly prior to this activity. In the reflective essay students wrote after this activity, one student expressed his concerns about eating vegetables produced in Fukushima: One day I saw on the news that they found an extremely high level of radiation in the beef produced in Fukushima. I was shocked because my parents told me that we buy local produce and meat. I also remember my father bought tomatoes from the high school where he worked a few days after the nuclear power plant accident He said: “It’s safe because they are grown in a greenhouse.” However, I questioned about that later. “Is it really safe, honestly?” When I reflect on this carefully, I think it’s sad that even people in Fukushima can’t trust vegetables grown in Fukushima. We can’t let something like this happen. We can reconstruct Fukushima and eliminate negative rumors about Fukushima. But that will happen only if we can truly trust our local produce. (Junior high-school student, as cited in Fujita, 2012, p. 4) This essay communicates the undercurrent of fear and the dilemma in the student’s mind. While he honestly expressed his concerns about eating vegetables produced in Fukushima, he also immediately denied such a feeling by saying fear was a hindrance to the reconstruction of Fukushima. The last paragraph, “We can reconstruct Fukushima and eliminate negative rumors about Fukushima products only if the residents can truly trust our produce,” even sounds like a reminder to himself that he must not be afraid of radiation. The way the student concluded his essay shows that kizuna (obligatory love) exceeded fear even after the collective recognition of the presence of radiation.

Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing  95 Reflecting on these writing activities Fujita expressed her regret that she was not able to achieve the final goal of the unit she had in mind. I wanted my students to understand why they had to live with fear like that. I had students write concrete experiences of disaster as a starting point, but what I wanted them to see ultimately, was something larger….But I found out I couldn’t do that in one or two sessions. Our students wrote an essay in my Language Arts class, but we really didn’t have time after that session because we had to prepare for school events and entrance exam etc. So they graduated without completing the unit. (Fujita, Interview, December 14, 2015) Fujita’s goal, which was to raise students’ social and political consciousness by critically examining their experience of disaster, is admirable. It is also a necessary goal if citizens are to commit not to repeat a tragedy such as this in the future. Fujita even had practical methods of instruction, which she had mastered through her long years of practicing seikatsu tsuzurikata. However, she was only able to complete the initial stage of the project, due to the tight schedule at school. Meanwhile, discourses of kizuna, couched in romantic language, continued to dominate Fukushima, leaving residents responsible for their own health and economic conditions while downplaying the radiation risk (Broinowski, 2017).

Trauma and developing empathy at school Developing empathy with evacuee students Creating spaces for students to share their disaster experiences was a delicate and complicated process for Sato, a drama teacher at Onuma High School in Aizu Misato. The town was 100 kilometers away from the nuclear power plant. Thus, the scale of damage caused by the earthquake and radiation was significantly less than what evacuee students from the coastal towns experienced (Sato, 2017). When Sato announced to his students in the drama club that he would be creating a play on disaster, focusing on the experience of evacuee students, local students expressed ambivalence. Students at Onuma High School essentially did not view themselves as victims of the disaster and did not think they would be able to understand the internal pain of evacuee students. Writing a scenario and acting out the role of evacuee students without an empathetic connection to them could end up objectifying their pain to use it in their performance. They were concerned that such an act risked turning their classmates who had been evacuated from the coast towns into objects of pity. They did not want to be a part of such a dehumanizing experience (Sato, 2017; Zembylas, 2006). At the same time, they felt it was important to tell the story of the disaster. A scene from the play succinctly represented this dilemma:

96  Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing SOTA:  I don’t really want to do SATOMI:  Really? SOTA:  I couldn’t say that to my

the play on the disaster.

advisor. I didn’t say anything because everybody said it’s fine. We didn’t really experience the disaster. So, I am not sure if we should act these characters as if we understand the disaster and the nuclear power plant. Isn’t that going to be a pity? SATOMI:  Someone has to do it, otherwise people will forget about it. HARUKA:  I don’t really like that. It’s like you’re making a show out of a disaster and the nuclear power plant. YOSUKE:  I don’t like it either. SATOMI:  Why? YOSUKE:  I just doubt that doing the play like this will change anything. (Sato, 2012) As this scene portrays, students from Aizu were concerned that doing this play would hurt their peers who had evacuated from the coastal towns, and in particular, they were aware that they would not understand the pain of the evacuees. Seeing the local students’ reluctance, Sato engaged his students in deeper conversations about their feelings about their disaster experience and the play for a long time. Through individual and collective deliberation, students came to admit the impossibility of completely understanding others’ pain, despite empathy and good intentions (Caruth, 1996). They also acknowledged that having to live with this limit to their understanding was painful. This acceptance, however, led everyone, regardless of whether they viewed themselves as victims or not, to become open and vulnerable in telling stories authentically. Based on this awareness, all the students decided to take part in the play. Rather than telling the stories of “evacuees/­victims from the coast,” all the students told their own stories of the disaster, including their ambivalent relationship with their new classmates from the forced evacuation zones. Expressing trauma through art Once students in the drama club understood the importance of vulnerability in the play, they became committed to representing their internal experiences. Sato was aware that communicating those experiences sensitively would require special consideration. One of the challenges facing trauma victims is that they are caught between the desire for their storeis to be heard, and not being able to find the words or produce coherent speech. This is because often victims have partial memories of the traumatic event, and fear that they might re-experience the event if they talk about it. Trying to represent a horrifying experience can result in fragmented language, which may not be comprehensible to audiences who did not share the experience (Laub, 1992). Sometimes, those who are in pain are not able to remember the event clearly or cannot find words to describe such an experience, despite their desire to be heard (Miyaji, 2011). Thus, in telling stories of catastrophic

Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing  97 events that are beyond others’ imagination, what is important is not to list “objective” facts about the event. Rather, we need to create a space of imagination where audiences can move emotionally closer to the pain experienced by victims of the traumatic event. Sato made use of this understanding in designing his play, and the playscript demonstrates the tacit use of a number of strategies. One was to repeatedly insert silences in the dialogs in some parts of the play. Another was to provide a rigid dialog structure, such as question and answer. In this scene a group of students are playing the game “Odd Man Out” in a classroom after class. SOTA:  This is the last question. Eri wrote the question. Who does not belong? ERI:  Who ran away from the nuclear power plant? SOTA:  Only Eri and Yayoi raise hands. (silence) ERI:  Who hears the sound of the tsunami at night and cannot sleep? SOTA:  Only Eri and Yayoi raise hands. (silence) ERI:  Who lost family members and friends even though they were not sick,

had an accident, or committed suicide?

SOTA:  Only Eri and Yayoi raise hands. (silence) ERI:  There is no God. SOTA:  Only Eri and Yayoi raise hands. (silence) ERI:  We do not need sympathy. SOTA:  Only Eri and Yayoi raise hands. (silence) ERI:  We never give up. SOTA:  Eri, Yayoi, Haruka, and Katuya raise hands. ERI:  We still want to be kind to people. SOTA:  Eri, Yayoi, Haruka, Katsuya, Satomi, and Sota ERI:  We will never forget. SOTA:  All of them raise hands. ERI:  Who thinks Yayoi and I can survive? SOTA:  All of them except Yayoi and Eri raise hands.

Yayoi and Eri raise hands. Everyone is watching. They smile. The lights go up and the music starts.

raise hands.

(Sato, 2012)

In contrast to the playful outlook of the game, this scene communicated painful messages and ended with hope. In communicating their messages, Eri and Yayoi neither enlisted objective facts about disasters nor described their emotional experiences of the disaster in detail. Instead, Eri asked her classmates a series of short yet acute questions about the disaster, and they responded by simply raising or not raising hands. The pattern of question, pause, and response provided both the actors and audiences with a structure that they could rely on in making sense of the characters’ pain and speculating on the future. The repeated pauses after each question directed the audience’s gaze to Eri and Yayoi, who were left standing under the spotlight with their hands up. This strategy of purposefully using minimal language interspersed with

98  Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing repeated silences echoes the belief that language is insufficient to fully represent traumatic experiences (Caruth, 1996; Dutro, 2011; Felman & Laub, 1992). The play also enabled audiences to witness Eri and Yayoi’s silent testimonies. Because Eri and Yayoi did not articulate what happened to them on March 11, the only thing the audience could do was to let the meaning emerge from silent moments while gazing at Eri and Yayoi under the spotlight. By using their imagination during the silent moments, audiences and characters collectively reassembled a story of trauma guided by Eri’s questions. This was a form of collective witnessing that is a precursor to collective healing (Berlak, 1999). Sharing pain in public While the kizuna and reconstruction was the dominant discourse permeating Fukushima, there were teachers who questioned them. However, teachers like Fujita and Sato carved out time and space for students to share their disaster experiences at school. Sharing the pain of individuals in the public space through the drama and essay writing was a first step toward healing. At the same time, some argued that sharing pain itself is not sufficient for the victims to recover from collective trauma and reconstruct their communities. Sugiuchi, who taught in a high school in Nihonmatsu, a city in the central region of Fukushima Prefecture, was one of the teachers who held this view about reconstruction. Sugiuchi felt that public discourses in post-disaster Fukushima disregarded the past (pain) and drastically shifted citizens’ attention to the future (reconstruction). Like Fujita and Sato, he believed sharing the pain of disaster in the public space was important. However, he also stressed that students must examine the social, historical, and political contexts that caused such pain in individual lives. By doing so they could make a conscious connection between their personal lives and society. Engaging in critical reflection of their personal experience in connection with the social also meant students discarding the “victim” mentality and taking actions in their lives to prevent such a tragedy in the future. Sugiuchi explained his stance: So, we have to ask ourselves questions, like why are we here? Why do we have to feel scared (of radiation)? If we don’t ask those questions, students will just continue to victimize themselves. This kind of mentality stops us from thinking about how to change our current situation. I want my students to understand why we have nuclear power plants in Fukushima and why the accident happened. I want them to unpack these facts one by one and make sense of them. It is definitely a personal issue (the fear of radiation or evacuation), but you have to go beyond that. You have to see the social aspect of it. It’s really difficult, but you have to go there. You can’t just teach about how to protect yourself from radiation. There is no social aspect to that kind of lesson. (Sugiuchi, Interview, December 28, 2015)

Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing  99 Sugiuchi acknowledged that expressing feelings such as fear of radiation and pain of displacement was important. Embracing those feelings serves as the foundation for the next step, where students ask themselves why they have such feelings. To do so is to politicize our feelings. Sugiuchi’s statement, “if we don’t have those (social and political) questions, students will just continue to victimize themselves,” shows his rationale for politicizing emotions. Pain is a delicate feeling to deal with in public spaces because any obsession with pain can dehumanize victims and overtake their individual stories. Pain can even deprive individuals of agency and stop them from being active members of current and future societies. Sugiuchi continued to ask his students “Why do we have pain?” in his classes. He did so to prevent them from falling into the pattern of victimization and silence. To direct one’s gaze to the cause of such pain, including a man-made disaster (the nuclear disaster) requires courage. This is because looking at the cause of pain require victims to get close to the core of their pain and re-experience it. This also brings the difficult past into the present, a process that trauma victims and perpetrators seek to avoid. However, without continuing our conversations on how and why some members of our community ended up having scars on their bodies and minds, and why they continue to suffer from them, we will not be able to genuinely heal from the pain and reconstruct our communities (Ahmed, 2014). We must identify and accept the cause of the pain, whether we identify ourselves as a victim, perpetrator, both, or neither, and take action to remove those causes from our society. While the official curriculum of public schools in post-disaster Fukushima did not recognize the importance of such healing, conscious efforts by teachers like Sugiuchi to have students collectively witness the pain and create a space to politicize it signals hope for collective healing. Such education practices also provide hope for envisioning a Fukushima where the causes of the pain (i.e., residents’ complicated relationship to nuclear energy) are dissolved.

Conclusion Fukushima became an emotionally charged space as the residents experienced the disaster. While residents suffered from trauma and ongoing fear of radiation contamination, the kizuna and reconstruction discourse promoted by the local and national government suppressed those negative feelings. This tendency also affected educational sites. The normalization discourse enforced by Fukushima Prefecture Education Board led teachers and students to eschew the topic of radiation contamination and instead channel their energy toward returning to normal, meaning teachers and students immersing themselves in raising academic achievement test scores, which had lagged due to the disaster. In the face of this reconstruction initiative, teachers and students in Fukushima remained silent about their disaster experiences and concealed their feelings related to disaster and ongoing radiation contamination. However, there were teachers who questioned such silences and disrupted the dominant discourse of normalization in schools. They heeded

100  Reconstruction and creating spaces for healing their students’ silenced voices and shared them in class and in larger public spaces. Some teachers carved out time in their classes and created a space for healing. Others used extra-curricular activities (such as the drama club) to engage their students in exploring and expressing their pain and predicament. Despite differences in method and spaces, they succeeded in extracting and sharing students’ voices of pain and fear. History has repeatedly witnessed the plight of victims and their continuous suffering, yet our society has swept them under the rug as the nation pursues economic development. Unfortunately, throughout the twentieth century we have witnessed cover-ups and public suspicion toward the authorities, as the examples of Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and Minamata clearly show (Gill & Tsurumi, 2014; Jacobs, 2014). This history shows that Japan operates on a system of oblivion, which allows individuals to escape from taking responsibility and critically examining the causes of the disaster. Japan had pursued a path of catching up and overtaking Western nations, despite the repeated tragic failures of the past two centuries, including WWII and Minamata disease. The Fukushima disaster was an extension of this modern history. Fujita, Sato, and Sugiuchi quietly yet courageously disrupted the pattern of cover-ups rooted deeply in the history of modern Japan by breaking the silence. A subversive practice like this, even if it is conducted on a small scale by individual teachers in classrooms, provides hope for a future that deflects from the model of development in the modern Japanese society.

Notes 1 These towns were designated forced evacuation zones on March 12 due to high radiation contamination levels (Fukushima Reconstruction Station, 2020). 2 Some towns moved the entire town including municipal offices to another town within Fukushima. Okuma moved to Aizu, Tomioka to Miharu, and Namie to Nihon Matsu. There were 26 satellite schools in total (Fukushima Reconstruction Station, 2020). 3 The ALARA model is explained in detail in Chapter 4. 4 In Chernobyl, areas with cumulative doses of radiation of 5 mSV/year were designated mandatory evacuation zones. The level used in Fukushima was 20 m/SV (Broinowski, 2017). 5 Both Fukushima City and Koriyama City, 50 to 60 kilometers from where residents from the designated evacuation zones relocated, conducted strong safety campaigns. 6 Fukushima Prefecture administered the survey in May 2011 and published the results in September. A total of 3,022 residents participated in the survey. The participation rate was 54.9%.

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6 Discrimination against hibakusha and developing global networks

We need to contemplate the meaning of deaths the 20th century witnessed. Then we should think about new meanings of life and the possibility of rebirth by in light of those deaths. (Oe, 1995, p. 33) When the electricity came back on several days later, I saw the power plant’s explosion repeatedly on television. I asked myself: “Can I be a hibakusha?” I felt scared. Then I realized I might be. (Dudden, 2012, p. 349)

Introduction: radiation contamination and disgust The contested definitions of radiation risk given by experts placed residents in Fukushima in an ambivalent position. The official discourse stressed the safety of Fukushima and promoted kizuna (love for community). Despite the Japanese government’s effort to quell anxiety among residents in Fukushima, many lived in silent fear of radiation contamination (Allison, 2013). Anti-nuclear groups’ repeated assertions that Fukushima was highly contaminated and dangerous justified this fear. The politics of radiation also impacted the way those outside Fukushima treated Fukushima people. Although sympathetic toward the victims of the disaster, many citizens outside Fukushima also projected a sense of disgust toward Fukushima people based on the belief that hibakusha (those who had been exposed to radiation) could harm them despite their innocent appearance. Disgust, like other emotions, is productive, and it moves people physically and emotionally toward other people or objects. Disgust contains two contradictory movements: it first moves us get close to someone or an object that we see as harmless or even attractive, but it is immediately followed by a movement to pull one’s body away from the object. Such a reversal movement occurs as one recognize the potential harm that the person or the object, which one was originally attracted to, could inflict on us (Ahmed, 2014). Citizens in Japan exerted this emotion (disgust) to people and materials from Fukushima for fear that they were highly radioactive. Consumers in the Tokyo area who had been purchasing produce from Fukushima withdrew their custom immediately after the nuclear disaster (Sand, 2012). DOI: 10.4324/9781003090083-6

Hibakusha and global networks of support  105 The boycott of produce from Fukushima caused devastating economic damage to many communities in Fukushima that depended heavily on agriculture and tourism (Hoshi, 2012). The estimated total economic damage caused by this rumor amounted to 2.85 trillion yen from 2011 to 2014 (Nohara and Narukawa, 2015). Residents in Fukushima were both devasted and puzzled by these consumers’ reactions. Since the disaster, Fukushima Prefecture had adopted rigorous radiation safety standards for produce. To avoid the spread of radiation effects across Japan, local government and agricultural cooperatives had been putting only produce which had passed inspection on the market (Date City Disaster Prevention Office, 2018; Fukushima Prefectural Government Office, 2011). Thus, they did not understand why the boycott of their produce and discrimination against Fukushima people continued. The public’s reaction to Fukushima people suggests that human beings tend to operate on emotion rather than logic. At the same time, it reveals the productive power of emotions. Scientifically speaking, neither produce nor evacuees from Fukushima were radioactive. However, the public act of calling produce and evacuees “disgusting” made them become disgusting (Ahmed, 2014). Furthermore, we need to be aware that the sentiment of disgust itself is contagious. In facing this adversity, students and teachers in Fukushima responded in two distinctive ways. One group identified themselves as hibakusha (victims of nuclear disaster and atomic bomb) or their allies. Using this identity as a platform, they formed alliances with other hibakusha around the world. They participated in anti-nuclear activism by sharing the plight of Fukushima people. On the other hand, another group used scientific data to prove the safety of Fukushima. They problematized the sense of disgust projected onto their bodies, pointing out that there was no scientific ground for the general public’s claim that Fukushima was dangerous or that people from Fukushima could transmit radiation to others. Those who took this stance did not identify themselves as hibakusha, as doing so would contradict the safety message about radiation they were promoting. These two contradictory responses to the sense of disgust the public projected onto Fukushima were transposed to the education activities that took place in post-disaster Fukushima. This chapter explores how students in Fukushima responded to discrimination after being exposed to radiation following the nuclear power plant accident. Two education programs are examined, each of which had a unique way of responding to the public’s projection of disgust onto Fukushima people. One is the High School Peace Seminar (HPS), a network of high-school students who learned about the victims of nuclear power so as to create a nuclear-free world. The other is Education for Sustainable Development (ESD), managed by UNESCO (UNESCO, n.d.). History of discrimination against hibakusha Hibakusha refers to those who received high doses of radiation, and experienced immediate and visible signs of deterioration in their bodies (i.e., skin burns, hair fall-out). It was first used to refer to survivors of atomic bombs in

106 Hibakusha and global networks of support Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945. The contemporary definition of hibakusha includes individuals who are vulnerable to long-term exposure to low doses of radiation, the effects of which are often invisible. The number and types of hibakusha have increased worldwide in the postWWII era, reflecting the atrocious history of nuclear power since the 1950s, with the oxymoronic promotion of nuclear bomb testing and the “peaceful” use of nuclear power. Today the umbrella term hibakusha encompasses military personnel, victims of nuclear and hydrogen bomb testing, workers at nuclear power plants, and victims of nuclear power accidents. Workers in uranium mines, an ingredient used for nuclear bombs and power, are also listed as hibakusha (Broinowski, 2017; Jacobs, 2014; Saito et al., 2014). As we can see from this list, the presence of hibakusha is ubiquitous around the world. Fukushima people became part of this evolving list in 2011. While many hibakusha experience some form of medical complications, the nature and level of their suffering varies depending on the amount and duration of the radiation they received. For example, victims of atomic bombs who were present within a one-kilometer radius of ground zero suffered severe burns to their skin, bleeding, and loss of hair, and 50% of them died within two months. Successive studies of hibakusha across the world have also revealed that long-term exposure to radiation, even in small doses, is dangerous, as it can damage the body at the cellular level, causing cancer and leukemia. The effects of exposure to radiation are intergenerational, as cellular mutations even carry over the generations (Imanaka, 2017). At the same time, there has been a lack of scientific evidence to prove the definite cause-and-effect relationship between radiation exposure and hibakusha health conditions. This reality has hindered appropriate treatment and compensation for hibakusha in Japan (Lindsee, 2016). Governments using atomic energy, whether for war or for economic development, have historically downplayed the risk of radiation. This history unfortunately resurfaced in Fukushima in 2011. The new safety standards for radiation contamination set by the Japanese government2 locked Fukushima people into an environment where the annual dose of radiation could be as high as 20 mSV, a level 20 times higher than that of normal societies. In the midst of the Japanese government’s safety campaign, those who demanded the government lower the safe dose levels in Fukushima were condemned as having radiophobia and even called unpatriotic (Broinowski, 2017; Slater et al., 2014). At the same time, people outside Fukushima labeled Fukushima people as hibakusha, and discriminated against them. Cases of bullying against Fukushima people who relocated or traveled to other prefectures skyrocketed (MEXT, 2018). At the same time, boycotts of agricultural produce imported from Fukushima in the national market due to fear of radiation contamination caused severe declines in sales and significant economic damage to farmers (Nohara & Narukawa, 2015). This vulnerability to the contradictory forces of government downplaying radiation contamination and the public discriminating against them for being victims of nuclear disaster is a fate common to hibakusha across the globe.

Hibakusha and global networks of support  107 Disgust and discrimination against Fukushima The nuclear accident brought a harsh reality to those who remained in Fukushima as well as to the evacuees. Evacuees who fled Fukushima seeking a safe haven often became the target of “disgust” as they settled in a new town. Sometimes even their friends and relatives expressed this negative and unreasonable emotion toward them. Onuki, a retired high-school teacher from Minami Soma City, remembered what her fellow community members experienced when they evacuated from their town in March 2011. People [evacuees from Fukushima] just wanted to get gas, but they were told to get out of the gas station because “they were contaminating their property.” Some of them drove to their relatives’ house outside of Fukushima to stay there, but they were told they couldn’t come in because they could bring radiation into the house. Kizuna is such a beautiful word, but it has no meaning for us. Of course, there are some good people, but not everyone is like that. Some kids who evacuated from here [Fukushima] would never tell others where they are from, even now. They could get bullied if they did. (Onuki, Interview, July 4, 2016) Echoing the stories told by Onuki, a MEXT survey revealed that bullies told evacuee students “Don’t get close to me” and “Don’t transmit radiation.” Evacuees were also called “radiation” or “virus” and were accused of “causing the radiation fallout” (MEXT, 2018; Shiraki, 2016). There was a hidden assumption that those who received radiation were equal to radiation itself, and that touching them or getting close to them could make others radioactive. Research shows that bodies that have been exposed to low doses of radiation cannot harm other bodies (Shiomi et al., 2014). Thus, it is scientifically incorrect to assume that evacuees from Fukushima could directly harm others with radiation. We can even argue that such a discriminatory act is a sign that the perpetrators were suffering from radiophobia, over-anxiety about radiation contamination. An essential question: are people in Fukushima hibakusha? Contrary to the general belief that Fukushima and its people were contaminated by radiation, people in Fukushima did not in general identify themselves as hibakusha. In fact, during my seven months’ stay in Fukushima City, I seldom met anyone who identified as hibakusha. Saito, a high-school teacher in Fukushima City, explained why residents abstain from using the hibakusha label: It’s not like we received radioactive fallout from an atomic bomb. We didn’t receive a high level of radiation unless we were working in the nuclear reactors. In that sense, we are not like those hibakusha [atomic

108 Hibakusha and global networks of support bomb survivors]. However, we did receive radiation, which is not natural. We received artificial radiation due to the explosion of the nuclear power plant. It happened against our will. In that sense, we are hibakusha. (Saito, Interview, December 17, 2015) Saito also referred to the residents’ reluctance to become targets of discrimination for identifying themselves as hibakusha: A doctor from Fukushima basically said that he would be enraged if someone called his son a hibakusha. He was insinuating that it is true that we had been receiving a low dose of radiation. However, he didn’t want others to place Fukushima people in the category of hibakusha. Doing that would lead to discrimination, which he considered unbearable. He was not denying that we had been exposed to radiation. He was also not saying the pain of hibakusha was irrelevant to us. Those who do not want to place the hibakusha label on themselves are not necessarily ignoring the fact that they have been exposed to radiation. They are just trying to eliminate the chance of discrimination they might encounter. This issue of whether you call yourself hibakusha or not has a complex nature. We should not be in conflict with each other over whether we should call ourselves hibakusha or not. Some people choose to call themselves hibakusha to assert their reality of radiation exposure in the public space. Others choose not to place the label on them to avoid discrimination. (Saito, Interview, December 17, 2015) According to Saito, most people in Fukushima did not view themselves as hibakusha, even though they admitted that they had been exposed to radiation. The residents’ decision to draw a clear distinction between victims of atomic bombs and victims of nuclear power plant accidents like themselves had been common in post-WWII Japan even before the Fukushima disaster. The division between these two types of hibakusha started with the discursive shift from “nuclear power for war” to “nuclear power for peace” marked by Eisenhower’s “Atom for Peace” speech in 1954. Since then, the Japanese government had promoted these two separate discourses of nuclear power, using public-school education and the major media (Yoshimi, 2013). The Japanese government was successful in implementing the “atom for peace” campaign in the 1950s. Today it is common for Japanese citizens to view Hiroshima and Nagasaki as the first and last inhumane uses of nuclear power. These separate discourses of nuclear energy also constructed two separate groups of hibakusha. The Japanese people also maintained the division between these two groups by assigning them different kanji (Chinese characters). While both types of victims are pronounced hibakusha, 被曝者3 is used to refer to victims of radiation generated by agents other than bombs. On the other hand, 被爆者4 is used to refer to the victims of atomic bombs (Ogata, 1991). The new generations of hibakusha, those who became victims

Hibakusha and global networks of support  109 after WWII, are 被曝. They include victims of atomic bomb testing, nuclear power plant workers, and victims of nuclear power plant accidents. The majority of them were exposed to long-term low doses of radiation. Despite the subtle differences among victims of nuclear disaster as represented in the Chinese characters, medical and social consequences for both groups of hibaksusha are the same. Some victims of nuclear accidents, for example nuclear plant workers who were at the plant at the time of the explosions at Three Mile Island, Chernobyl, or Japan Nuclear Fuels Conversion Company (JCO) in Tokai village, received a high dose of radiation, and they suffered from the same symptoms as victims of atomic bombs such as bleeding, scars, and hair fall-out. In addition, both victims of atomic bombing and nuclear plant accidents often experience internal damage due to long-term exposure to low doses of radiation. Consequently they suffer from the development of leukemia, cancer, and birth defects. Researchers in the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission (ABCC)5 and the Radiation Effects Research Foundation (RERF), a Japanese organization established as a successor to the ABCC, were aware of the effects of internal exposure to radiation among atomic bomb survivors. However, they silenced this fact for decades (Lindee, 2016; Sawada, 2013). This lack of transparency contributed to reinforcing the discursive divisions between atomic bomb survivors (被爆者) and victims of nuclear accident (被曝者). However, the Fukushima accident awakened collective memories of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and galvanized people to form connections between these two tragic events (i.e., atomic bomb and nuclear disaster) (Kilpatrick, 2015). As soon as the incident in Fukushima became public, atomic bomb survivors from Hiroshima and Nagasaki reached out to victims of the nuclear disaster in Fukushima, addressing their common pain (Lindee, 2016). The mass media also questioned the division between the two separate narratives of nuclear power. Such actions certainly had some impact on the identity of disaster victims in Fukushima. However, the majority of the residents continued to avoid putting the hibakusha label on themselves for fear of discrimination.

Two high-school programs in Fukushima The two discourses about nuclear power that had been present in Japan since the 1950s elicited two contrary responses to discrimination against Fukushima people. “Anti-nukes” condemned such an act as a human rights violation, at the same time targeting their criticism at the very cause of the disaster victims’ pain, the pro-nuclear policy that had been dominant in Japan since 1954. Contrary to this stance, another response to discrimination was rooted in the government-led safety campaign in Fukushima. This group criticized the public’s discrimination against Fukushima people by rejecting the very claim that Fukushima was contaminated by radiation. This group repeated the Japanese government’s proclamation that radiation levels in Fukushima had met the standards of safety set by the International Commission of Radiation Protection (ICRP). Based on this claim, they rejected

110 Hibakusha and global networks of support the hibakusha label the public attached to them and declared that it was inappropriate for anyone to boycott produce from Fukushima. These two different responses to discrimination against Fukushima people were also present in education spaces in post-disaster Fukushima. Because the official curriculum in public schools adopted the pro-nuclear stance, teachers repeatedly had to tell their students that Fukushima was safe. However, after-school and summer programs, which were free from the constraints of MEXT’s curriculum guidelines, allowed participants to introduce alternative views of nuclear energy and hibakusha. Some programs took the anti-nuclear stance while others adopted a pro-nuclear stance in teaching about nuclear disaster. In this section, I will analyze and compare two out-of-school programs in Fukushima for high-school students: the High School Peace Seminar (HPS), which adopted anti-nuclear principles and goals; and Education for Sustainable Development (ESD), which, did not take neither pro-nuclear nor anti-nuclear stance.

High School Peace Seminar (HPS) Background The High School Peace Seminar (HPS) is a subset of a large anti-nuclear organization called Japan Council against Atomic and Hydrogen Bombs (Gensuikyo). Founded in 1955 in response to the US hydrogen bomb testing conducted in the Marshall Islands, this organization has developed a global network of hibakusha seeking to eliminate nuclear power from this world (Gensuikyo, n.d.). Emulating their parent organization’s goal, HPS aims for the elimination of atomic bombs and nuclear energy. To achieve this goal, each local HPS branch conducts public campaigns, at which they ask the public to sign the petition to eliminate nuclear energy (Okimura, 2017). HPS also regularly organizes field trips and symposiums where members from various local branches interact with each other and with global hibakusha. In the past, members of HPS had visited Kochi prefecture, and met with former crew members of the Lucky Dragon Five, who received radiation fall-out in the Marshall Islands in 1954, when the US conducted hydrogen bomb testing there.6 Selected members of HPS have also visited Hiroshima and Nagasaki, which experienced the atomic bombs in 1945, and Semipalatinsk (Kazakhstan), whose residents had experienced 40 years of nuclear bomb testing since 1949 under Soviet rule. The Fukushima disaster encouraged members of HPS to expand the definition of hibakusha from victims of atomic bombs to nuclear power plant workers and victims of nuclear disaster. Saito, an advisor to HPS in Fukushima City, saw that HPS could provide his students with an opportunity to critically reflect on their challenges in Fukushima.

Hibakusha and global networks of support  111 I want to connect with citizens in other locations, who have suffered from pollution-related disease or nuclear disasters. I want to meet people from different locations, who have been repressed by state power. I want to know how they fought and survived. I want to learn from their courage and experiences. It’s exhausting to live in this situation, but I want to continue to live in Fukushima. I don’t want to give up. We can learn from survivors in Minamata, Hiroshima, and Nagasaki. We can learn from more survivors and our allies across the globe by forming networks. We can interact and invigorate each other. I think people in Fukushima have to learn to tell their own stories. My dream is for Fukushima to be a part of the global network of survivors. (Saito, Interview, December 17, 2015) Saito’s intention was to give students in Fukushima opportunities to reflect on their experiences in juxtaposition with experiences of hibakusha from around the world. To become part of this global network is synonymous with becoming conscious of the dominant pro-nuclear discourse that had historically separated survivors of the atomic bomb from victims of nuclear disaster. He wanted to overcome this political division. Catastrophes in risk societies are manufactured through state power with the use of science and technology. While catastrophes affect everyone, they cause the most harm to those who are already in marginalized positions (Beck, 2007). Thus, it is no coincidence that hibakusha throughout the world (Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Bikini Atoll, Semipalatinsk, Chernobyl, Three Mile Island) come from communities that are in economically and geographically marginalized locations (Jacobs, 2014). In 2011, Fukushima joined this long list of forgotten victims of nuclear power. As Saito pointed out, all hibakusha face common struggles; they suffer from the same medical, economic, and social consequences of society’s use of nuclear energy. With this insight, Saito wanted his students to understand that their struggles in Fukushima are no different to those of other hibakusha around the world. Recognizing common pain as hibakusha The ambition that Saito expressed was not common in Fukushima. Even though residents in Fukushima were aware that they received radiation fallout in 2011, most residents didn’t view themselves as hibakusha. The basic reason for their reluctance to embrace this label was the post-WWII discourse of nuclear energy, which defined hibakusha as survivors of atomic bombs. On top of this fact, there were other economic and social factors that led Fukushima people to reject the label of hibakusha. One factor was declining sales of vegetables and fruits from Fukushima. Another was increasing cases of bullying against evacuees from Fukushima. Both events occurred immediately after the disaster, due to public concerns over radiation contamination. Fear of discrimination and the desire to revive the economy led those who remained in Fukushima to dissociate themselves from other

112 Hibakusha and global networks of support hibakusha. Reflecting this common sentiment in Fukushima, members of HPS in Fukushima also did not see themselves as hibakusha at first. Nor did they think the issue of the atomic bomb was relevant to them. However, hearing testimonies from hibakusha on field trips led some members to recognize the common pain they shared with hibakusha. For example, Suzumu Misaki, a crew member of the Lucky Dragon Five, a fishing boat from Kochi prefecture, told HPS students his memories of being exposed to a high dose of radiation near the Marshall Islands on March 1, 1954. He was not aware of the seriousness of the accident while he was on the boat as the crew members, including himself, had not been informed about the testing or the risk of radiation. However, as soon as Misaki returned to Japan, he and his fellow crew members were faced with severe discrimination (Saito, Yamashita & Hashimoto, 2014). A student shared Misaki’s story: He (Suzumu Misaki), a crew member on the Lucky Dragon Five, felt bad for other crew members, who were still single because nobody wanted to marry them. He also said he had always lived with the fear that he would get sick one day. He stopped fishing and began a tofu business. However, people called his tofu “Atomic Tofu.” So, his business didn’t do well. When he was in the hospital, his neighbors avoided his family because they thought he and his family could pass radiation on to them … (Okazaki, cited in Saito et al., 2014, p. 10) Misaki’s story points to the common fate of hibakusha. The public projected disgust and even anger toward Misaki and other crew members of the Lucky Dragon Five instead of expressing empathy. Members of the community also operated on the false belief that a person who receives radiation (hibakusha) could harm others with the radiation they carry. The same type of fear of radiation re-emerged in Japan after the nuclear disaster in 2011, and placed people in Fukushima in a difficult position (Leopard, 2017). Hearing the story of a former crew member of the Lucky Dragon Five, a student from Fukushima City prompted Ogata, a high school student from Fukushima, to make explicit connection between the two events, nuclear testing in the Bikini Atoll in1954 and Fukushima disaster in 2011. After watching the documentary, I understood what happened when hydrogen bomb testing took place. The fishermen who went to the Bikini Atoll were exposed to nuclear fallout, but they didn’t know anything about it. When they came back, doctors suddenly measured their radiation level, and they had to throw away the fish they caught. They were treated badly. In Fukushima, we also were not informed about the radiation fallout. If we had known that, we would not have stood outside for long hours to get water. Neither would we have gone to the school to look up the results of the entrance examination on a day snow was falling7.… Atomic bombs, hydrogen bombs, and nuclear power plants are

Hibakusha and global networks of support  113 essentially the same. Nuclear power always brings pain in human lives. There is nothing good about them. I don’t know if we can eliminate nuclear energy soon, but as one of the hibakusha, I’d like to continue to tell others my story to help them make better choices for the future. (Ogata, as cited in Saito et al., 2014) In this essay, Ogata recognized the common nature of two events, her own experience of nuclear disaster in Fukushima, and what the fishermen on the Lucky Dragon Five experienced in 1954. She also became aware of the common fate that victims of these two events shared. This awareness further led her to declare her identity as hibakusha. It was a bold act, which defy the public discourse in Japan, which had intentionally separated atomic bombs from nuclear energy. Complying to this separation of two discourses the majority of residents in Fukushima dissociated themselves from hibakusha. Some even expressed anger for being labeled as ‘hibakusha” for fear of discrimination and bullying. Ogata, on the contrary, went beyond this politically crafted devide between victims of atomic bomb and victims of nuclear disaster. Through her conscious choice of identifying herself hibakusha at the end of her essay, she has also shifted the blame of radiation contamination from hibakusha to those who developed and made decisions to use them, whether for war or for economic development. Empathy and forming alliances with global hibakusha HPS promotes formation of alliances among global hibakusha and their allies through direct interaction between members. As a part of this initiative, members of Fukushima HPS visited Kochi prefecture in 2012, and hosted a symposium in Fukushima City in 2013. These venues exposed members to first-hand accounts of nuclear catastrophes and led them to recognize the common fate they shared with other hibakusha, and to develop empathy with them. Some HPS participants who did not have direct experience of nuclear disaster became allies of the hibakusha, as they understood the plight of hibakusha through direct interactions with them. For example, a student from Hiroshima who visited Semipalatinsk in Kazakhstan in 2011 remembered the hideous effects of nuclear disaster she witnessed there. Over the 40 years since 1949, a million citizens there had been victims of nuclear bomb testing without their knowledge.8 The student reflected on her visit to the Anatomical Museum in the Medical University of Semey in Semipalatinsk.9 I went to Semipalatinsk just out of curiosity when I was in the 10th grade. There, I learned about the horror of nuclear bomb testing, whose effects still remain today. What was most shocking was a deformed fetus in formalin. When I saw it, I immediately thought: “How did the parents feel when they saw this baby?” I felt the pain in my heart when I thought of their feelings. (Nikami, as cited in Saito et al., 2014, p. 8)

114 Hibakusha and global networks of support The bodies on display provoked fear and pain at first in the mind of the young student. However, Nikami did not avert her gaze from the evidence of this dehumanizing event. In the essay, she stated “I felt the pain in my heart.” This phrase indicates that Nikami allowed herself to be vulnerable to the pain of hibakusha. Although she could not know the pain of hibakusha exactly, as she had never had the same experience, she was able to imagine their pain, and became affected by it. This action is love and empathy (Ahmed, 2014). These two emotions are the basis of alliances with hibakusha. Nikami was aware of her limitation in understanding the pain of hibakusha. However, she took the issue of nuclear not as others’ issue, but her own, despite her lack of direct experience of atomic bombs or radiation. Cosmopolitanization: expansion of network HPS has a long and successful history of forging alliances among hibakusha and their allies based on empathy and the anticipation that without intervention, there will be another nuclear catastrophe. Based on this common ground, hibakusha and their allies from various communities across the globe have worked together for decades to abolish nuclear power from this world. This type of alliance is unique in that it is bottom up, and not bounded by national governments or intergovernmental organizations. Another unique characteristic of this organization is its global-scale connection between local actors, which means that groups of hibakusha who had a specific history of nuclear disaster in their communities (e.g., Hiroshima, Chernobyl, Semipalatinsk) work with other hibakusha and their allies from other geographical locations across the globe to achieve a common goal. This form of alliance was exemplified by students from Hiroshima visiting Semipalatinsk in Kazakhstan as well as Kochi and Fukushima in Japan through HPS’s field trips. The third characteristic of HPS’s network concerns its mission. The members form alliances based on the common belief that nuclear energy poses a threat to mankind regardless of time and space. This type of alliance in response to man-made risks across the globe is called cosmopolitanization (Beck, 2011; Beck & Levy, 2013). As the world continues to witness nuclear catastrophes, these victims’ plight and their call for the abolition of nuclear power has been expanding. HPS participants, including students from Fukushima, have become part of this cosmopolitanization movement since 2011. Anticipation of the recurrence of catastrophes like nuclear disaster continues even after the Fukushima disaster, urging individual citizens across the globe to form direct alliances with other citizens to mitigate the risk of catastrophes. Public-school education, which historically operated within the framework of nationalism, has contributed little to cosmopolitanization across the world. However, our society’s shift to risk society, where we are all vulnerable to world risk (e.g. global warming, nuclear disaster, financial crisis, and pandemic) calls for paradigmatic change in education across the world.

Hibakusha and global networks of support  115

Education for Sustainable Development (ESD) History of ESD Another education program in which some Fukushima students participated after the disaster is Education for Sustainable Development. This program has a unique history and philosophy that form a contrast to HPS. Thus, what ESD students saw as at the heart of the problem in Fukushima, and how they responded to the issue of discrimination against Fukushima people, was different from HPS. This section first provides an overview of ESD, its history and basic principles, then discusses how students in Adachi High School in Nihonmatsu City, Fukushima prefecture, enacted those ESD principles through their activities in post-disaster Fukushima. Founded in 2005 as a major UNESCO initiative, ESD has promoted education for the creation of a sustainable society in which individuals have harmonious and sustainable relationships with others as well as with nature (Paraschivescu et al., 2011). This balanced approach to development is fundamentally different form the modern notion of development, whose primary focus is economic. Another characteristic of ESD is that it views education, in all forms and at all levels, as the major driver to achieve this sustainable goal. ESD aims to teach students to understand complex and interconnected issues that threaten the sustainability of communities, including poverty, discrimination, war, wasteful consumption, environmental degradation, and health. ESD is also action oriented. Thus, in addition to helping students understand the nature and causes of these issues, it encourages them to come up with ways to resolve these issues in order for their communities to remain sustainable (Thakran, 2015). ESD encourages schools to use interdisciplinary approaches and nurture students’ critical thinking and problem-solving skills. It also promotes collaboration between schools, communities, and institutions internationally in order to share innovative practices (Nikolopoulou et al., 2010). As a platform for sharing practices, ESD annually hosts regional and international symposiums for educators and students where participants present their local community’s issues related to sustainable development and generate action plans together (Paraschivescu et al., 2011). Japan, which proposed the idea of ESD to the UN General Assembly in 2002, played a major role in promoting ESD during the Decade of Education for Sustainable Development (2005–2014). Japan had also been the major sponsor for during this era, and hosted two major conferences in Nagoya and Okayama (Singer, Gannon, Noguchi & Mochizuki, 2017). In addition to contributions on international platforms, Japan has actively promoted ESD domestically. For example, MEXT incorporated ESD competencies in its Course of Study in 2006.10 Reflecting this high level of commitment to ESD, MEXT also urged public schools to become members of the UNESCO Associated School Network, a worldwide virtual network of schools that fosters international collaboration among participants. Their efforts resulted in as many as 1,120 schools in Japan becoming ESD schools by 2020 (MEXT, 2021).

116 Hibakusha and global networks of support This history of ESD indicates that it espouses a different system of governance and operation from that of HPS. HPS, which is a suborganization of Japan Council against Atomic and Hydrogen Bombs (Gensuikyo, n.d.), is a bottom-up network of hibakusha that expanded to the global scale. ESD embraces both the top-down and the bottom-up approaches (Mochizuki, 2016). For instance, ESD’s major principles and agenda are determined by representatives of major member nations of UNESCO. However, individual schools are expected to implement those principles in ways that meet the needs and interests of local contexts. Schools throughout the world are also encouraged to collaborate with other international actors within the network of UNESCO ESD schools to tackle sustainability issues that their local communities are facing. Another major difference between ESD and HSP sets on each organization’s political stance on nuclear power. For HSP, an anti-nuclear power stance was fundamental to the program’s existence. ESD has no political affiliations with nuclear-related organizations. Nor does it promote or deny nuclear energy. Rather, the program provides a space for students to develop and use specific skills (e.g., reflection, critical skills, leadership) and scientific methods of inquiry so that they can find their own answers to the questions that are relevant to the sustainability issues of their own community. Nuclear energy could be one of the sustainability issues students explore in collaboration with peers in their own school and other schools that are part of the UNESCO Associated School Network. ESD in Adachi High School Adachi High School, which is located in Nihonmatsu City11 in Fukushima, joined UNESCO ESD Schools in 2012. Sugiuchi, a social studies teacher, first used a period of Integrated Studies12 to engage students in the ESD activities. For example, students shared their disaster experiences and how these had impacted them. Building on this discussion, students researched radiation risk in their communities and gave presentations in class. In 2014, a selected group of students attended the ESD international conference held in Okayama City in Japan, and gave a presentation about radiation contamination in Fukushima. Following this event, in 2015, students participated in an ESD international exchange program in Germany. What drove these students to engage in this inquiry was more than their victimhood. It was rather their sense of responsibility to revive their community and desire to maintain their dignity as they faced discrimination for having been exposed to radiation. Sugiuchi, the advisor to ESD in Adachi High School, planted the seeds for his students to develop this disposition. Sugiuchi stated: Fukushima has people who got displaced due to the earthquake, the tsunami, and the nuclear power plant accident. In addition, we are suffering from radiation contamination. The accident contaminated our beloved

Hibakusha and global networks of support  117 homeland. This means that the accident disrupted our sustainable development. We have to continue to live in Fukushima. We need to make our home a better place than before and not repeat the same mistake. (Sugichi, Interview, December 28, 2015) ESD’s overarching goal is to develop students’ critical thinking and research skills, using sustainability issues in their community as a case study. Sugiuchi knew that his community’s sustainability issue was nuclear disaster. Thus, he placed students’ experience of the nuclear disaster at the heart of his ESD activities. Throughout the project, he guided his students to deliberate on how and why nuclear disasters have happened. Following the ESD’s principles, Sugiuchi ensured that students adopt democratic method of inquiry. This meant not taking a definitive stance, either pro-nuclear or anti-nuclear. Instead, he structured the discussions in ways that allowed students to examine both the pros and cons of nuclear power based on scientific data (Paraschivescu et al., 2011). Fuhyo (groundless rumors) and discrimination In their inquiries into local sustainability issues, students chose fuhyo (groundless rumors about Fuksuhima’s radiation contamination). There were some students who expressed their fear of radiation. However, as a group, they ended up choosing fuhyo (groundless rumors about Fukushima’s radiation contamination) and the economic damage it brought to their community as the topic of their project. They wanted to explore how and why fuyho started and then generate concrete actions to eradicate it in order to restore community’s agricultural business. Their choice of the project was inseparable from the demographics of the classroom. The majority of students were from agricultural households and had directly experienced economic hardship at home instigated by the boycott of produce from Fukushima in the national market. As soon as students began their research about radiation contamination, they poignantly condemned the general public’s lack of scientific knowledge and overemotional reactions toward Fukushima consumers in metropolitan areas exhibited. Students also expressed their desire to mitigate these irrational reactions among consumers by providing them with accurate scientific knowledge about radiation contamination. Their approach to the pursuit of sustainable development, utilizing scientific knowledge, aligned well with the principles of ESD as well as the safety guidelines the Japanese government had set. Thus, students did not question their arguments. The Adachi High School project focused exclusively on economic issues. Sustainability of Fukushima’s natural environment, however, was on the margins of their project. Their lack of consideration for the natural environment was apparent in the opening statement of their presentation at the Okayama ESD conference.

118 Hibakusha and global networks of support What comes up in your mind when you hear the term “Fukushima”? When I input “Fukushima” as a keyword on the internet, I found headings like “Is Fukushima a part of Japan?” and “Fukushima has a radiation contamination level 10 times higher than Chernobyl.” The image that Fukushima is dangerous has been instilled in the minds of the general public. I think discrimination against Fukushima people and reputational damage is a serious problem. It is as bad as radiation contamination. First of all, the statement that Fukushima is dangerous is a scam. It is not supported by scientific evidence. (Adachi High School, 2014, November 11) This opening statement shows that the students problematized the conflation of Fukushima with Chernobyl, which had also experienced a large nuclear power plant accident. Their commitment to extinguish this conflation is understandable, as apocalyptic images of Chernobyl juxtaposed with images of Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant (F1) had been circulating on social media since the Fukushima disaster. Students were worried that mixing up these two accidents without taking into consideration the political and historical context would damage Fukushima. The students even asserted that this misunderstanding was the source of discrimination against Fukushima’s people and its produce. By making this statement, students demystified the common public perception that Fukushima was dangerous. What was undercurrent in their opening statement was concern for the economic issue rather than the environmental issue or well-being of Fukushima’s people. In the same presentation, the students condemned the general public’s lack of scientific knowledge about radiation was the cause of discrimination against Fukushima people. Based on this premise, they made an ardent plea to their audiences to understand that produce from Fukushima was safe. In doing so, the students included empirical data they had collected from local farmers and branches of Japan Agricultural Cooperatives. The data from Fukushima show that the radioactivity levels fell quickly in most vegetables: just five months after the disaster, only a handful of samples exceeded the limit. They also showed two peaks for mushrooms: one for fresh mushrooms and the other for dried mushrooms. With regard to rice, we tested it on a bag-by-bag basis to ensure that radioactive cesium levels does not exceed the safety standard. We put it on the market only when safety is ensured. (Adachi High School ESD, 2014, November 11) These statements reflected the presenters’ assumption that lack of accurate scientific knowledge about radiation contamination in Fukushima among ordinary citizens was the very source of the fuhyo, and discrimination and boycott of produce from Fukushima. They sought to solve this problem by “educating” audiences. Thus, they provided scientific knowledge to the audiences. They also stressed farmers’ rigorous efforts to reduce radiation

Hibakusha and global networks of support  119 by explaining the rigorous monitoring protocols they had been following before they put produce on the market. Though this presentation, they contributed to improve the two sustainability issues that their community was facing, economic damage and discrimination. There is no doubt that these are significant sustainability issues that their community has been facing since the nuclear disaster. However, there are other effects of nuclear disaster that the community members, including these students have been suffering from, which is the actual damage of natural environment and human health brought by radiation contamination. In fact, these two major sets of issues, economic damage brought by fuhyo ( groundless rumors about Fukushima’s radiation), and negative effects of radiation on humans and the natural environment in Fukushima, are in paradoxical relationships. If students address concerns for radiation contamination in Fukushima they end up undermining the safety of agricultural produce from Fukushima, thereby justifying public’s fear of Fukushima and its produce. Thus, students had to chose only on the issues, either economic damage or radiation risk. Students did not verbalize the tensions between these two issues and simply focused on addressing the issue of fuhyo, which was fundamentally attributed to consumers’ lack of scientific knowledge. Audiences also went along with the presenter’s choice of sustainability issues in Fukushima. Thus, there were no fundamental discussions about why some citizens continue to be afraid of Fukushima and its produce or why farmers in Fukushima have to deal with these calamities to begin with. Glocal issues and cosmopolitan empathy Since its inception, ESD has encouraged global participants to work together to solve sustainability issues that various communities across the globe face (UNESCO, September 18, 2017). Reflecting this principle, audiences responded to Adachi High School students’ presentations about economic damage and discrimination caused by the disaster with empathy. Instead of simply listening to their presentation, they even offered practical support. For example, a group of high-school students from Okayama came up with ideas on how to tackle the economic problems in Fukushima. A student from Adachi High School, struck by the empathy they demonstrated, wrote: I was very surprised that students in Okayama said they wanted to visit Fukushima for their school field trip. I never thought they’d come to Fukushima. Also, they said that they’re coming up with an idea for a brand that represents the partnership between Okayama and Fukushima. I never knew that some people outside of Fukushima wanted to support us. I came to feel that maybe there are more people like that in Japan. Then, I realized that I need to continue sharing my experiences in Fukushima with others who live outside Fukushima. (Adachi High School, 2015, May 22)

120 Hibakusha and global networks of support Another student from Adachi High School commented: Some people (from Okayama) said they wanted to take a class about Fukushima. Others said we should do more radiation safety education to eliminate discrimination against Fukushima people and boycotts of Fukushima agricultural produce. They said their friends have stereotypes about Fukushima, and say negative things about Fukushima without really knowing what they are taking about. They also came up with ways to inform others about Fukushima, like hosting a farmer’s market at the Okayama station and sell produce from Fukushima there. (Adachi High School, 2015, May 22) This narrative shows that students from Okayama extended empathy to students from Fukushima. This act of kindness surprised the Fukushima students as it was the complete opposite of what they had been used to—public expressions of disgust toward them since the disaster. Students from Okayama showed sincere interest in learning more about conditions in Fukushima, some even expressing their desire to visit Fukushima, meaning they were not afraid of physically being in Fukushima despite the prevailing rumors that Fukushima was dangerous. The Adachi High School students were moved by the sincerity of these words. Okayama students also offered to help Fukushima by telling their peers about safety in Fukushima. Fukushima students learned that Okayama students’ commitment was genuine as they translated their words into action. A group of students organized a series of events in Okayama City, selling produce and commodities from Fukushima in 2015 to increase sales of produce from Fukushima (March 19, 2015). This initiative has even been passed on to the next cohorts of high-school students in Okayama. They have been hosting events to commemorate the Fukushima disaster and to celebrate their partnership every year in March. The support demonstrated by their actions is very much in the spirit of ESD, which promotes solutions to communities’ sustainability issues through collaboration. The practical actions that ESD participants took to support Fukushima’s recovery from the disaster worth applauding. These actions also indicate their sincere empathy for Fukushima people, with whom they had not had any contact prior to attending the ESD conference. However, the empathy they expressed was fundamentally different from the empathy HPS students extended to hibakusha. HPS students, whether or not they had direct experience of nuclear disaster, embraced nuclear disaster as their own issue. Through direct interactions with hibakusha in their fieldtrips and workshops, they became aware of the disastrous effects of nuclear energy and their own vulnerability to the risk of nuclear disaster. On the other hand, students from Okayama ESD did not perceive the nuclear disaster as an issue that had an immediate impact on their present or future lives. The empathy and hospitality they showed to those who were in dire need of help is an act of cosmopolitanism, a moral obligation that citizens of privileged nations have (Nussabum, 2010). The reason why cosmopolitan empathy emerged

Hibakusha and global networks of support  121 in ESD is the way in which students from Adachi High School presented their community’s sustainability issue. They addressed the secondary social effects of nuclear disaster, namely discrimination and economic decline due to prevailing rumors that Fukushima was unsafe. The way they framed the problem did not provide sufficient room to discuss the actual harm the nuclear disaster inflicted upon human health and the natural environment. Nor did it lead to an inquiry about why some citizens, including residents in Fukushima, were concerned about radiation contamination. Lack of this discussion also prevented them from looking into the heart of the major sustainability issue, our dependence on nuclear power to sustain our modern lifestyles and economy.

Responsibility: a forgotten issue Sugiuchi, the advisor to ESD in Adachi High School, was pleased to witness his students’ development of confidence, communication and leadership skills in ESD. At the same time, he was also aware of ESD’s limitations. He was especially concerned that his students’ presentations lacked attention to the causes of the nuclear accident as well as the ongoing radiation risk the residents had to bear. At the same time, he was sympathetic to his students’ choice of addressing fuhyo as their community’s major sustainability issue. He stated: Those who live here, including myself, don’t want to think that we live in a community filled with radioactive substances. Students say that people say that Fukushima is dangerous. So, what about me? They end up developing anger toward those who discriminate against them. I think there’s nothing we can do about that. I also think we still have many issues here we need to work on because fuhyo is hurting us. So, we have to explain to consumers why they shouldn’t avoid produce from Fukushima. I know we have to tell others more than that, like why we have to suffer from this [contamination] to begin with. We have to talk about the real damage. Fuhyo is only one side effect of the disaster. It’s hard to communicate both issues (e.g. actual damage caused by radiation and rumor about radiation contamination) at the same time because if we say our land is contaminated because of the nuclear accident, we end up admitting that Fukushima is dangerous and we should stay away from it. We end up sounding like those who are boycotting produce from Fukushima. If you lean on one side you end up neglecting the other. So, you have to look at both sides. (Sugiuchi, Interview, December 28, 2015) As Sugiuchi mentioned in this statement, he was highly aware of the necessity to talk about “real damage” of nuclear disaster instead of simply talking about fuhyo (the secondary damage). However, he was cautious in guiding students to examine both real and secondary damage of the disaster as he

122 Hibakusha and global networks of support was aware that they were sensitive, contested, and complex issues. Sugiuchi wanted to show his students the complex nature and effects of the nuclear disaster. Thus, he gave lectures and showed films that pointed to the causes of the disaster, including the role of the “nuclear village,” or a network of governments, construction companies, and power companies, which had together promoted the construction of power plants in Fukushima. Sugiuchi’s students understood his lectures. Accepting his message that they should incorporate political and historical factors that led to the disaster, they added some slides on the social and economic context of Fukushima to their presentation. However, those slides were separated from the rest of the presentation, which focused on the safety of Fukushima and on unjust discrimination against people in Fukushima. The students also avoided discussions of responsibility for nuclear disaster in their presentation despite Sugiuchi’s advice to think about the fundamental causes of the disaster. Interestingly the incentive for students to think beyond the superficial problem of fuhyo came from audiences in an international ESD conference in Germany in 2015. When Hasegawa, a student representing Adachi High School, gave a presentation about fuhyo and radiation safety in Fukushima at the conference, she did not receive such empathetic responses from her audiences as her classmates did in Okayama. Instead, the audiences questioned her on her view of nuclear power. Hasegawa reflected on the moment: The members of UNESCO asked me what percentage of Japanese citizens needed to disagree with nuclear power in order to eliminate it. I think they were thinking about why Japan could not give up nuclear power plants when Germany decided to close all the power plants in response to the Fukushima nuclear disaster. I didn’t know what to say. Then the chair of the symposium asked the audience: “How many of you are against nuclear power?” Most of them raised their hands. I had been paying attention to the news about the nuclear power plant accident and its consequences. However, I’d never thought about it so deeply. I learned that the problem was a lot more complicated than I thought. I think I grew up a little bit by interreacting with the audiences, who have been thinking about this issue more deeply than I have been. (Hasegawa, March 24, 2015) Hasegawa, just like her peers from her high school, undoubtedly assumed that her community’s sustainability issue was fuhyo, the unscientific premise that Fukushima was contaminated by radiation and dangerous. She gave her presentation based on this premise. However, contrary to her expectations, the audiences drew her attention to the very cause of the problem, namely the existence of nuclear power plant and our dependence on nuclear energy. This was something she had never anticipated. At first, she was puzzled by the question, and admitted her inability to answer it. Gradually, she came to realize the complicated nature of the problem in Fukushima. Being aware

Hibakusha and global networks of support  123 of the social, political, and historical factors that led to fuhyo illuminated her own responsibility in causing the disaster. I used to think that we were victims of the nuclear disaster and expected someone to be responsible. Now I feel ashamed at our indifference to genpatsu [the nuclear power plant]. We didn’t know much about it before the disaster. Then, we just turned our back to it after the disaster. I think we can never solve this problem with this kind of attitude. Instead, we will continue to have more problems [if we continue to be this way]. (Hasegawa, March 24, 2015) This statement shows Hasegawa’s emerging identity as a citizen. Instead of falling into victimhood, she critiqued her own and Fukushima people’s indifference to the issue of nuclear power. By saying “We just turned our back to it,” she also critiqued Fukushima people’s general reluctance to discuss the real causes of the nuclear disaster. She further pointed out that such a passive disposition would lead to more problems in the future. While recognizing the actual damage inflicted on her and her fellow citizens, she also urged herself and others to take responsibility for examining the causes of the disaster, and find ways to prevent the recurrence of the catastrophe in the future subjectively. Hasegawa’s statement indicated that Sugiuchi’s students were gradually moving toward the goals he was striving to achieve through ESD: ESD is education that aims to turn students into learners who make active contributions to the communities they live in. They do research, discuss, and present their findings. Through those experiences, they become active learners. ESD is like planting seeds. (Sugiuchi, Interview, December 28, 2015) By stating “ESD is like planting seeds,” Sugiuchi was implying that teachers’ responsibility in the ESD programs was to prepare students to begin their inquiry. The work is invisible and time-consuming. Often, even teachers and students do not see the outcome of their work right away. As happened in Adachi High School, students ask questions which may be one-dimensional and superficial at the beginning of the inquiry. At other times, students may spend a significant time exploring answers to those questions and not look at more fundamental aspects of the issue. However, doing so is a necessary step in student-led inquiry; the continuous act of asking questions and looking for answers in collaboration with their peers both within and outside their communities would gradually transform these students into active learners and responsible citizens. The gradual growth that Adachi High School students demonstrated through ESD activities is proof that ESD was a viable platform for learning in a post-disaster community where residents were facing complicated sustainability issues.

124 Hibakusha and global networks of support

Conclusion Apart from the physical damage caused by tsunami and earthquake, people in Fukushima suffered from economic and emotional pain due to discrimination against them. A baseless rumor that Fukushima was highly radioactive evoked fear and a feeling of disgust toward people and materials from Fukushima among citizens throughout Japan. In addition to discrimination against evacuees from Fukushima, drastic declines in sales of produce from Fukushima devastated its economy. This chapter examined how students in Fukushima responded to this discrimination, using two education programs in Fukushima, the High School Peace Seminar (HPS) and UNESCO’s Education for Sustainable Development (ESD), as examples. Students in both programs saw discrimination against Fukushima people as unjust. Yet why they thought it was unjust and how they tried to mitigate the discrimination was different in the two programs. Students in HPS formed empathetic relationships with global hibakusha, as they recognized challenges common to victims of the Fukushima disaster and victims of atomic bombs. They called for abolition of nuclear power from the hibakusha perspective. Students in ESD, on the other hand, drew a clear line between Fukushima people and hibakusha and channeled their energy into proving, through scientific evidence, that Fukushima was not contaminated by radiation. A comparison of the emotional responses of participants in these two programs to the issue of discrimination against Fukushima people provides additional insights into the issue of nuclear energy. The three emotions of fear, disgust, and empathy were entangled with each other in a unique way in each program. Students in both programs recognized the pain that victims of nuclear disaster equally shared. They also problematized the feeling of disgust that the general public projected onto victims of nuclear disaster. What marked the difference between these two groups was how each group dealt with the fear of nuclear energy and radiation. Witnessing the ongoing plight of global hibakusha allowed HPS students to develop empathy with hibakusha, while also justifying their fear of radiation and nuclear energy. This feeling led them to strongly advocate for elimination of nuclear energy. On the other hand, students in ESD were silent on fear of radiation in general. Students from Fukushima didn’t talk about their fear, as admitting to it would have debunked their own appeal that Fukushima was safe and they were not hibakusha. This decision was a logical one. If they expressed their own fear of nuclear energy and radiation, they would inadvertently end up justifying the general public’s fear toward produce from Fukushima for being radioactive. In order to argue for the safety of Fukushima and put an end to citizens’ projections of disgust toward Fukushima people, they had to conceal their own fear of radiation. Lack of opportunity to examine the fear of radiation that was prevalent elsewhere in Japan as well as in Fukushima prevented the participants in the ESD conference from discussing the more fundamental and urgent sustainability issue in our society, which is the potential risk of our prolonged reliance on nuclear energy.

Hibakusha and global networks of support  125 These examples demonstrate the importance of unpacking our tangled emotions in understanding the complex position of nuclear disaster victims. Doing so also requires us to address the two opposing discourses on nuclear power, pro-nuclear versus anti-nuclear, as each discourse promotes certain emotions while mitigating others. Furthermore, historicizing Japanese citizens’ participation in these two discourses and the emotions attached to each discourse is necessary. We have had complex relationships with nuclear power, including the atomic bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945, the promotion of peaceful use of atomic energy since 1953, and the Fukushima disaster in 2011. Each event generated unique emotions: pain in 1945, hope in 1953, and a mixture of fear and hope in 2011. In understanding how and why the citizens of Japan participated in these changing discourses of nuclear, we must unpack the emotions that circulated within each discourse, and examine how they impacted us. Such emotional work in education requires collaboration between education programs such as HPS and ESD, which have differing historical origins and political goals. Each program was able to bring unique insights and emphases on the issue of nuclear energy stemming from their own history and philosophy. While collaboration may bring ideological and emotional conflicts among citizens, in-depth and heartfelt conversations among participants revealed how nuclear power had been an indispensable material in our lives. Unpacking different emotions individuals from particular geopolitical positions have had toward nuclear power, and examining the causes of those differences through dialogs, can help students expand their perspectives on nuclear energy. Only the arduous work of education, dealing sensitively with this contentious and emotional topic, can provide us with a solution on how to sustain this world with or without nuclear energy.

Notes 1 Fukushima faced an estimated 2.85 trillion-yen loss (or US$26 billion) over three years in tourism and agricultural sales due to negative rumors about radiation contamination of its land and agricultural produce. 2 International Commission of Radiation Protection (ICRP)’s As Low As Reasonably Achievable (ALARA) is a model of radiation safety. Considering that there are multiple risk factors that are social, psychological, and economic that pose a threat to the wellbeing of individuals in the community, the model deems exposure to radiation up to 20 mSv per year is safe in post-disaster communities. 3 The second character, 曝, consists of two parts. The part on the left is “sun.” The part on the right means explosion or violence. The sun signifies that this type of explosion is natural. 4 The second character, 爆, consists of two parts. It is almost the same as 曝 in the previous character. The only difference is that the part on the left is “fire” instead of “sun.” This shows the strong heat that accompanies explosion. 5 The US government organization that researched effects of atomic bombs on human bodies in Japan. 6 During the Cold War, the US conducted 65 atomic bomb tests (Starr, 2018).

126 Hibakusha and global networks of support 7 This student is referring to March 16, 2011, when clouds containing radioactive substances traveled from F1 to the northeast and reached Fukushima City and surrounding towns 50 to 60 kilometers away. The radiation level in the air in Fukushima City on that day was 20 mSV/hr, or almost 100 times higher than the level of radiation in a normal environment. 8 While the damage became apparent with the fall of the Soviet Union, given the lack of sovereignty from the polity that caused the tragedy, Kazakhstan is left on its own to recuperate from it and deal with ongoing and generational health effects. 9 Starr (2018), who conducted a study in Kazakhstan in 2015, argues that residents adapted to the radioactive environment and critiques such a public display of deformed bodies as a form of violence. 10 There are six ESD competencies: 1) systematic thinking; 2) values related to sustainable development; 3) ability to think of alternatives (critical thinking); 4) ability to collect and analyze information; 5) communication skills; and 6) leadership development (Shinkawa & Arimoto, 2012). 11 Nihonmatsu City is located in the central region of Fukushima, about 50 kilometers away from the Fukushima Daiichi Power Plant, F1. The city suffered from radiation contamination after the explosion of F1. 12 Integrated Studies is a multidisciplinary learning format in which students are expected to engage in inquiry about topics that are relevant to them and their communities. MEXT mandated all public schools to offer a period of Integrated Studies in 2002 (Motani, 2005).

References Adachi High School. (2014, November 11). The impact of harmful rumors on Fukushima and its future. UNESCO World Conference on Education for Sustainable Development, Okayama, Japan. Adachi High School. (2015, May 22). Fukushima Okayama fukko samitto ni hon ko roku nin ga sanka shimashita [Six students participated in Fukushima and Okayama reconstruction summit]. https://adachi-h.fcs.ed.jp/blogs/blog_entries/index/ page:2?frame_id=154 Ahmed, S. (2014). The cultural politics of emotion. Edinburgh, UK: Edinburgh University Press. Allison, A. (2013). Precarious Japan. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Beck, U. (2007). World at Risk (740388). New York, NY: Polity Press. Beck, U. (2011). Cosmopolitanism as Imagined Communities of Global Risk. American Behavioral Scientist, 55(10), 1346–1361. Beck, U., & Levy, D. (2013). Cosmopolitanized nations: Re-imagining collectivity in world risk society. Theory, Culture & Society, 30(2), 1–31. Broinowski, A. (2017). Informal labour, local citizens and the Tokyo electric Fukushima Daiichi nuclear crisis: Responses to neoliberal disaster management. In Suzuki & Soh (Eds.), New Worlds from Below-Informal life politics and grassroots action in twenty-first-century Northeast Asia (pp. 131–166). ANU Press. https:// www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt1pwtd47.11 Date City Disaster Prevention Office. (2018). Dudden, A. (2012). The ongoing disaster. The Journal of Asian Studies, 71, 345– 359. doi: 10.1017/S002191181200006X Fukushima Prefectural Government Office. (2011). Fukushima fukko bijon [Fukushima Reconstruction Vision]. Fukushima, Japan: Fukushima Prefectural Government Office.

Hibakusha and global networks of support  127 Gensuikyo. (n.d.). Hibakusha to no rentai [Solidarity with hibakusha]. Gensuikyo website. https://www.antiatom.org/intro_activity/solidarity.html Hasegawa, M. (2015, March 24). Setsuzoku kano na shake wo mezashite Katashi ni dekiru koto [What I can do to create a sustainable society].[Power Point Slides] World Conference on ESD. Heidelberg, Germany. Hoshi, I. (2012). Fukushima No Fukkou Saisei To Sumato Siti Project No Tenkai Ni Tsuite [Fukushima’s reconstruction, rebirth and the operation of smart city project]. Fukushima No Shinro, 11, 22–32. Imanaka, T. (2017). 20 miri siberuto to maboroshino anden anshin ron [20 mil sievert and illusory theory of safety and relief] Radiation effect and thyroid cancer. Kagaku, 87(7), 0681–0689. Jacobs, R. (2014). The radiation that makes people invisible: A global Hibakusha perspective. The Asia-Pacific Journal, 12(31), 1–11. Kilpatrick, H. (2015). Sagashite imasu: Kaku no torauma wo ninshiki surukoto [I am searching: Recognition of nuclear trauma]. The Asia-Pacific Journal, 13(7), 1–14. Leopard, C. (2017, March 10). Fukushima no fuhyo wo tometai [I want to stop the negative rumors about Fukushima]. WebVoice. https://shuchi.php.co.jp/voice/ detail/3675?p=1 Lindee, S. (2016). Survivors and scientists: Hiroshima, Fukushima, and the radiation effects research foundation, 1975–2014. Social Studies of Science, 46(2), 184–209. Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology Japan. (2018). Genshiryoku hatsuden jiko to niyori fukushimaken kara hinan shiteiru jidou seito ni taisuru ijime no jokyo no kakunin ni kakawaru holo appu kekka ni tsuite [Results of follow up study on Bullying against students evacuated from Fukushima due to nuclear power plant accident]. MEXT. http://www.mext.go.jp/b_menu/houdou/29/04/__icsFiles/afieldfile/2017/04/11/1384371_2_2.pdf Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology Japan. (2021). UNESCO Sukuru to wa [What is UNESCO School?] https://www.mext.go.jp/ unesco/004/1339976.htm Mochizuki, Y. (2016). Educating for transforming our world: Revisiting International debates surrounding education for sustainable development. Current Issues in Comparative Education, 19(1), 109–125. Motani, Y. (2005). Hopes and challenges for progressive educators in Japan: Assessment of the progressive turn in the 2002 Educational Reform. Comparative Education, 41(3), 309–327. Nikolopoulou, A., Abraham, T., & Mirbagheri, F. (Eds). (2010). Education for sustainable development: Challenges, strategies, and practices in a globalizing world. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publication. Nohara, K., & Narukawa, M. (2015, October). Measuring lost recreational benefits in Fukushima due to harmful rumors using a Poisson-inverse Gaussian regression? ERSA conference papers from European Regional Science Association. http://econpapers.repec.org/paper/wiwwiwrsa/ersa15p344.htm Nussabum, M. (2010). Patriotism and cosmopolitanism. In G. W. Brown & D. Held (Eds.), The cosmopolitanism reader (16802731; pp. 155–162). New York, NY: Polity. Oe, K. (1995). Iyasareru mono [Those who are healed]. In Aimaina nihon no watashi [Ambiguous self in Japan] (pp. 19–34). Tokyo, Japan: Iwanami Shoten. Ogata, Y. (1991, February). Sekai no hibakusha [The world hibakusha Hiroshima].

128 Hibakusha and global networks of support Okimura, T. (2017, January 20). Tokyo kokosei heiwa zeminaru ga Harajuku de hatsu no hibakusha kokusai shomei gaitou senden koudou [Tokyo high school peace seminar conducted PR and collected signature for international hibakusha]. Bulletin of the Japanese Council Against A & H Bomb. https://www.antiatom. org/Gpress/?p=14311 Paraschivescu, V., Botez, N., & Bacovia, G. (2011). Education for sustainable development. 15(2), 132–140. Saito, T., Yamashita, M., & Hashimoto, J. (2014). Kakuhisai ni mukiau seinen gakusei no tsudoi: Heiwa no tanemaki usagi wo zenkoku ni [Young students united to face nuclear world: Spreading peaceful rabbit seeds across the nation].Tokyo, Japan: Meiyusha. Sand, J. (2012). Living with uncertainty after March 11, 2011. The Journal of Asian Studies, 71(2), 313–318. doi: 10.1017/S0021911812000034 Sawada, S. (2013). Scientists and research on the effects of radiation exposure: From Hiroshima to Fukushima (J. Buckley, Trans.). The Asia-Pacific Journal Japan Focus, 11(23), 1–17. Shiomi, M., Kiyohara, Y., Nakano, T., Murayama, T., Goto, K., Tashiro, N., Taniguchi, T., & Hirata, H. (2014). Shogakusei no tame no hoshasen fukudokuhon [Radiation sub reading for elementary school students]. Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology Ministry. Shiraki, T. (2016). Inochi wo itsukushimi heiwa ni ikiru koto: Kodomo fubo kyoshi no ikizurasa ni yorisoi kibou o tsumugu sakubun kyoiku wo mezashite [To nurture life and to live peacefully: Empathizing struggles of children, parents, and teachers, and constructing literacy education for hope] (pp. 1–7). Singer, J., Gannon, T., Noguchi, F., & Mochizuki, Y. (Eds.). (2017). Educating for sustainability in Japan: Fostering resilient communities after the triple disaster. New York, NY: Routledge. Shinkawa, M., & Arimoto, M. (2012). Research for Japanese like competency and assessment through challenges of eager schools for sustainability after the great earthquake and tsunami. Journal of Sustainable Development, 3(9), 61–70. Slater, D. H., Morioka, R., & Danzuka, H. (2014). Micro-politics of radiation. Critical Asian Studies, 46(3), 485–508. Starr, M. (2018). Paradise and apocalypse: Critiques of nuclear imperialism in Kathy Jetnil-Kijiner’s IepJaltok. Common Wealth Essays and Studies, 41(1). https://journals.openedition.org/ces/400 Thakran, S. (2015). Education for Sustainable Development. Educational Quest: An International Journal of Education and Applied Social Sciences, 6(1), 55–60. doi: 10.5958/2230-7311.2015.00009.4 UNESCO (2017, September 18). Global goals, local actions: Towards education and lifelong learning for all. UNESCO Institute for Lifelong Learning. http://uil.unesco.org/lifelong-learning/learning-cities/global-goals-local-actionstowards-education-and-lifelong-learning UNESCO. (n.d.). What UNESCO does on education for sustainable development. https://en.unesco.org/themes/education-sustainable-development/whatUNESCO-does Yoshimi, S. (2013). America no kumo [The American cloud]. Todai OCW The Global Focus on Knowledge Lecture Serie, Tokyo. https://ocw.u-tokyo.ac.jp/ lecture_files/11359/9/notes/ja/08yoshimi20131205final.pdf

7 The OECD Tohoku School

Introduction The discourse of reconstruction and normalization permeated Fukushima as soon as the residents had recovered from the initial shock of the disaster. Local school teachers and administrators complied with this trend diligently. Despite the fatigue from many hours of volunteer work in their schools since March 11, on top of dealing with their personal trauma, teachers in Fukushima devoted their energy to re-establishing normality in schools. Meanwhile, the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD) and Japan’s Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology (MEXT) were generating another education plan for disaster-stricken communities. Seizing the moment disaster generated, they wanted to introduce a new education program for the twenty-first century, which they had been struggling to implement since the 1990s (Halász, 2014). They thought the relaxation of the curriculum in disaster-stricken communities was the perfect opportunity for them to implement an experimental model of education. In April 2011, when the disaster-stricken communities were still at the recovery stage, Angel Gurría, Secretary-General of the OECD, visited Japan with a proposed plan for a Tohoku School (OECD, 2014). MEXT immediately endorsed the idea. The Japanese government also agreed to support the program by allocating a budget from Education Grants for Reconstruction. Over the following ten months, actors from the private and public sectors, including Fukushima University, MEXT, OECD, the City of Paris, and Dentsu, the largest marketing company in Japan, developed a blueprint for an OECD Tohoku School (TS). TS1 was an innovative out-of-school education program, which aimed to assist students from the disaster-stricken regions in reconstructing their communities by imparting competencies citizens needed for the twenty-first century. The new pedagogical model for the twenty-first century was the Tohoku Change Model, a non-hierarchical flexible leadership structure. This model aimed to empower young people in the Tohoku region by reconfiguring traditional hierarchical relationships between adults and the young, including traditional relationships between teachers and students in Japanese public schools (Halász, 2014). TS started in March 2012 with 90 secondary school students from three DOI: 10.4324/9781003090083-7

130  The OECD Tohoku School Table 7.1  Local OECD teams from Fukushima prefecture and number of students

1 2 3 4 5 Total

Date team Soma team Adachi team Okuma team Iwaki team

Number of students

Number of students who joined in the middle of the program

6 8 7 2 17 40

0 2 3 2 2 9

disaster-stricken prefectures2 and adult supporters from the private, public, and academic sectors (Miura, 2012). There were in a total of 40 students from Fukushima, who participated in the program (Table 7.1). Over the following two years, TS participants attended six intensive three-to-five-day workshops held between semesters. This chapter will discuss how and why local actors, educators, and students in Fukushima formed (or failed to form) networks with major national and international actors involved in TS. Based on the perspectives of the participants in this educational program, the chapter will also explain how and why actors involved in TS affected (or failed to affect) each other in TS. The chapter will conclude with suggestions on what a new education model in a post-disaster society should look like.

Education reform in Japan from the 1990s to 2011 TS came into existence as part of the OECD and Japanese government’s persistent efforts to achieve education reform since the 1990s. Capturing society’s shift from an industrial to a knowledge-based society, the OECD took the lead in disseminating the narrative of placing education at the center of economic development in the twenty-first century. In particular, the organization emphasized the idea of key competencies, a set of knowledge and skills that are essential to the economic wellbeing of our societies as well as individuals’ lives (Henry et al., 2001). Following the OECD’s recommendation, MEXT introduced these competencies, which they renamed ikiru chikara (zest for living), to its National Council on Educational Reform (NCER, Rinkyoshin) in 1998 (Lincicome, 1993; MEXT, 1996, 1998; Motani, 2005; Takayama, 2013). NCER asserted that the ikiru chikara are an essential set of skills that allow citizens to continue learning throughout their lives, and to reinvent themselves flexibly to meet uncertain and fast-changing job markets (Ogawa, 2013). In addition, they advocated for launching a drastic education reform to promote ikiru chikara. This education reform intended to revolutionize the basic function and purpose of public-school education that had been in place since 1872, when compulsory public-school education was introduced in Japan. Aside from inculcating patriotic values to young citizens, public schools sorted out students based on their abilities, and provided basic training before they took

The OECD Tohoku School  131 their place in the existing hierarchy of occupations (Watanabe et al., 2000). In order to place students on the appropriate educational pathway, Japanese high schools and colleges administered annual entrance exams. With increasing competition among students and schools in post-WWII Japan, junior high schools and high schools became sites where teachers prepared students for high-stakes memorization-based tests. The 2002 ikiru chikara reform sought to disrupt this competitive, rote learning-based education. Since 1998, MEXT had attempted two major curriculum reforms to promote ikiru chikara. However, despite their creative and persistent efforts, both reforms failed to produce the expected outcomes. One major reason for the failure was a lack of support from classroom teachers, who were used to the traditional culture of rote learning and were thus reluctant to make these changes in their curriculum and teaching. Others had difficulty imagining this new type of education as they had never seen examples of it. Teachers especially felt uncertain about Integrative Studies (IS), a new course mandated to schools by MEXT beginning in 2002 (Katsuta, 2018). In IS classes, teachers were expected to conduct project-based learning in which they guided their students to inquire into issues relevant to their interests and lives in their communities. Unlike other subjects, there were no specific textbooks or resources available for IS. Instead, teachers were expected to identify resources in collaboration with stakeholders in their communities. However, lack of teacher training and access to suitable materials for IS sessions left many teachers at a loss (Kariya, 2008; Tokunaga, 2012). Despite the causes of the failure being supported by research, MEXT provided no teacher training in the second attempt at reform (Bjork & Tsuneyoshi, 2005). Another cause of failure in ikiru chikara reform was the decision to cut 30% of the subject content knowledge from the national curriculum guidelines (Komikawa, 2002; Cave, 2001).3 This bold decision reflected MEXT’s take on the twenty-first-century curriculum, which was to be competency based. In traditional memorization-based education, a rigorous education was equated with dissemination of a great amount of knowledge to students, so for the past several decades MEXT had been adding more materials to the national curriculum guidelines with every revision. However, with this new reform under the banner of ikiru chikara, the goal was reduced to developing a set of skills that fell under the following broad categories: (1) using symbols interactively; (2) working in heterogeneous groups; and (3) acting autonomously (OECD, 2005; Ogawa, 2013; Takayama, 2013). In this paradigm of education, the amount and type of curriculum content did not matter. Instead, it was more important for students to engage in inquiry actively. To promote such learning, teachers were encouraged to bring topics relevant to students’ lives and interests into classrooms, not just in IS classes, but across the curriculum. At the same time, they were discouraged from spoon-feeding information to their students as they had done in the past. Cutting down the amount of information in the government-censored textbooks was a way for MEXT to encourage this type of student-led learning.

132  The OECD Tohoku School This curriculum reform faced serious public resistance in 2006 when Japanese students’ academic achievement in the PISA Program for International Student Assessment (PISA)4 declined drastically. In response to this unexpected crisis, in 2008 MEXT restored the curriculum content to its pre-2002 level (Takayama, 2010; Tokunaga, 2012). At the same time, they required educators to continue their efforts to promote ikiru chikara. The new purpose of education, with the continuous expectation of disseminating a vast amount of knowledge to students, required a change in teaching methods. Instead of investing effort into teacher training, MEXT adopted an accountability measure designed to enforce implementation of the curriculum. MEXT required all students in public schools to take a national academic achievement test each year to measure their mastery of ikiru chikara (Kariya, 2008).5 Scores by school, district, and prefecture were published. This method, which is designed to promote competition among schools, put added pressure on teachers and administrators to increase their students’ test scores.

Cultural gap between public schools and TS The brief history of education reforms in twenty-first-century Japan illustrates the struggles teachers faced making the shift from memorization-based education to inquiry-based learning. When the disaster took place in 2011, MEXT and OECD decided to use this event to showcase the ikiru chikara education to public-school teachers. OECD immediately proposed an education project, OECD TS, which aimed to reconstruct the disaster-stricken regions’ economy by equipping students with OECD KCs (ikiru chikara). They soon gained support from MEXT and the Reconstruction Agency in Japan. Fukushima University joined the team and agreed to take on the major administrative responsibilities. The program also gained endorsements from renowned private corporations in Japan including, Uniqlo (a global apparel company), Dentsu (a marketing company), and TV Man Union (a TV production company). In addition, numerous Japanese and international artists, journalists, scholars, and event producers agreed to support the program (Fukushima University, 2013b). During the year 2011, TS successfully recruited approximately 90 student participants and 20 educators from disaster-stricken regions. Tohoku Change Model vs hierarchical model The education reform put forward by MEXT in 2002 sought to change both curriculum and teaching in Japan drastically to promote ikiru chikara, skills deemed indispensable to survive in the knowledge-based economy. Since MEXT had failed to develop ikiru chikara through previous education reforms, TS attempted to develop this skill using the new model of education in a relatively controlled environment with the support of the OECD. MEXT ultimately wanted to transpose this model to public schools

The OECD Tohoku School  133 throughout the nation. TS’s goal was to deconstruct the rigid, hierarchical model of education dominated by licensed teachers and administrators (Cave, 2014). They wanted to replace it with a new, flexible, non-hierarchical network of teachers, students, and supporters from the private and public sectors (government administrators, private corporations, academia, and public schools). TS called this model the Tohoku Change Model. However, TS failed to mobilize teachers to support this initiative. According to the survey conducted after the completion of TS, only 15% of teacher participants indicated that TS would have a significant impact on their teaching, while almost 30% of them said that it would have absolutely no impact on their teaching. In addition, the majority reported that their colleagues would have reservations about implementing this approach (Halász, 2014). Unfortunately, the reason for the failure has to do with the TS administration’s use of the Tohoku Change Model. Contrary to the mission of the Tohoku Change Model, which promotes non-hierarchical relationships among participants, TS relied on a hierarchical structure of communication and governance to run the program. One salient example was TS headquarters’ reliance on the existing hierarchical structure of command to recruit teachers. TS headquarters instructed each prefecture’s education board to identify teacher volunteers first. Then, the prefecture board communicated the message to the education board in each city within the prefecture. The individual city education boards contacted the school principals within the city. The principals finally nominated a teacher from their school (Fukushima University Innovative Learning Lab, 2015). This top-down method of selecting teacher volunteers posed a challenge for TS to gain the full support of teachers during TS workshops. Teachers who were asked to participate in TS without pay did so out of a sense of obligation in response to their principals’ request. Thus, the majority of teacher participants played only passive roles during TS. Another example of top-down decision making and communication structure was the way in which OECD TS communicated the goals of the program “to advertise the attractiveness of the Tohoku region in Paris in 2014.” Instead of using a non-hierarchical structure, Barbara Ischinger, OECD Director of Education, communicated the goal to the participants in the first TS workshop through a video letter (Miura, 2012, p. 14). Fund raising: an education activity? The goal of the OECD TS was to recover the communities devastated by the disaster, using ikiru chikara, the equivalent of the OECD KCs. Although it was not explicitly stated in the official description of the program, recovery meant economic recovery. Thus, the activities in the TS were business oriented. For example, students learned about branding, marketing, digital communication, and fund raising. Teachers, both those who participated and those who did not, viewed this aspect of TS with discomfort, suspicion, and even hostility.

134  The OECD Tohoku School For example, Hatakenaka, who participated in the TS, received harsh critiques when he asked his colleagues at his school to support his students’ fund-raising activity in TS. My colleagues were furious about the idea of students raising money to fund their project. Their anger was beyond my expectation. I received comments like: “What are you thinking? Are you making junior high school students go to corporations and ask for money?” and “Is it ethical to have them sell items in online auctions?” I explained to them that what TS was trying to do was not like that, but nobody listened to me. The criticism from the teachers hurt the students, and more than half of our students left TS. (Hatakenaka, as cited in Fukushima University innovative Learning Lab, 2015) The comments that Hatakenaka received from his colleagues demonstrate the teachers’ assumptions about what public-school education is for and what role teachers should play. Since the birth of public-school education in 1872, teachers in Japan had historically played the role of constructing patriotic, modern citizens by disseminating the basic political and moral values aligned with the regime that was in power at the specific historical moment. From 1872 to 1945, until Japan’s defeat in WWII, public-school teachers imparted basic moral values grounded in national Shinto (Yamamoto, 2015). However, between 1945 and 1952,6 under the Supreme Command of Allied Powers’ (SCAP) occupation, teachers, including those who had taught before 1945, overhauled the traditional moral values of Japan, and actively disseminated democratic values through their lessons. In the tumultuous history of modern Japanese education, teachers consistently functioned as loyal public servants by disseminating the political ideologies of the dominant regime. In addition to assuming these political obligations, teachers contributed to the development of the nation’s economy, especially after the defeat in WWII. Teachers helped the nation by separating their students into the appropriate occupational or academic track and preparing them for entrance examinations. Within this system of education, apart from the small number who taught at vocational schools, teachers taught the major subjects on which students are tested in their entrance examinations. In this model of education, teaching practical occupational skills was the task of employers. This division of responsibilities also emulated the division of public and private sectors in Japanese society: teachers, who are public servants, teach students academic knowledge and moral and political values; employers, from the private sector, teach skills and knowledge that are tied to specific jobs once new employees begin their poisitions in their corporations. However, implementation of neoliberal policies in the 1990s in Japan, which economicalized all parts of our lives, has blurred the boundaries between the public and private sectors. The advent of neoliberalism in education changed the responsibilities of teachers drastically. Those who had traditionally belonged to the “public” domain and did not deal with business

The OECD Tohoku School  135 (profit making) had to teach skills and knowledge that had practical application in the labor market. A drastic shift in nations’ industries from manufacturing to the knowledge-based economy also required teachers to teach new types of skills and knowledge in schools; instead of teaching skills specific to certain occupations, teachers were to teach all students specific competencies in order to thrive in the knowledge-based economy (i.e., ikiru chikara). The fund-raising task that students and teachers in OECD TS had to engage in was a concrete example of the new twenty-first-century curriculum. Unlike in the past, they could not expect the government to distribute public funds for this education project. Instead, they had to learn how to run the project by raising funds. Hatakenaka, a public-school teacher who participated in TS, was supportive of this new curriculum. However, he was not successful in getting his colleagues’ endorsement. As the OECD survey indicated, Hatakenaka’s experience was not an exception. The majority of public-school teachers from disaster-stricken communities expressed their reservations about implementing the Tohoku Change Model (Halász, 2014). Enforcing a new model of education Implementation of the new model of education, especially fund raising in the curriculum, also made some teachers feel uncomfortable. On teacher recounted her experience of fund-raising activity during TS. I went to JR [Japan Railways] to ask for funding in the summer of 2013. We were not informed about this task until the last minute. So, we had to prepare handouts and practice our presentation within a short period of time. I felt pressured to get two high school students ready to give a presentation and ask for funding in front of adults in a large corporation. I felt pressured to do so because I was told that TS was lacking funding to host the event in Paris. So, I put a lot of pressure on my students. Looking back, I regret what I did. JR was sympathetic, but unfortunately, they were not able to give us any funding. (Sachiko, Aoda, as cited in Fukushima University Innovative Learning Lab, 2015) The quote shows the teacher’s ambivalence about mobilizing her students to engage in fund-raising activity. This task required students to identify potential donors, the amount of funding they needed, how much money they should ask for, and how to communicate their ideas effectively to potential donors. The tasks the students accomplished under the teachers’ guidance indicated their achievement of the OECD Key Competencies (KCs), specifically 3B (defining projects, setting goals, and identifying and evaluating the resources to which students have access and the resources they need—here, funding), and 3C (understanding one’s interests and constructing arguments to have needs and rights recognized). In effect, this type of student-driven inquiry in the real world is an example of ikiru chikara, which MEXT had been promoting since 2002.

136  The OECD Tohoku School One of the goals of this fund-raising activity was to promote collaborative relationships among stakeholders from the private and public sectors. This goal was necessary to achieve economic sustainability in the disaster-stricken communities. However, the enormous pressure placed on the teacher demonstrates the paradox of TS. The Tohoku Change Model intended to flatten the relationship between teachers and students. It also attempted to close the gap between public and private sectors. However, similar to what they did when they recruited teachers to TS, TS resorted to the hierarchical structure of command and governance to engage teachers in activities. The quote above affirms that the teacher received an order from headquarters to have her students raise funding for their trip to Paris. Furthermore, the teacher, who was positioned between the headquarters and students, ended up putting external pressure on her students to carry out this mission; in other words, the teacher had to succumb to the hierarchical power of the education system embedded in TS for her own survival. It may be argued that this type of interaction among teachers, students, and individuals from a private company is a form of innovative collaboration between the public sector (school teachers and students) and the private sector, which MEXT had been promoting since the early 2000s. In that sense, MEXT finally succeeded in holding teachers responsible for identifying resources for their students’ education in collaboration with actors from the private sector through TS. It appears that the emergency circumstance of post-disaster communities contingently provided an opportunity for MEXT to finally achieve its goal of having teachers promote their students’ ikiru chikara. While this achievement deserves recognition, we should also acknowledge the critical tone underlying the teachers’ statements about TS. The teachers’ voices warn us that we should know that success of TS depended on teachers’ invisible work. Reviewing the experience of TS from teachers’ point of view highlights two important points about the implementation of the new education model. One is that teachers’ role as public servants carried over to TS, even though TS claimed they were using the Tohoku Change Model (i.e., non-hierarchical relationship among stakeholders); they volunteered to participate in TS at the request of their principals to support the mission being fed down to them from MEXT and OECD. The other point is that teachers’ experience of TS epitomizes how education looks in the age of neoliberalism, where the boundary between private and public is disrupted and economicalization of all aspects of our lives becomes the norm. Furthermore, their experience mirrors the paradox of neoliberalism; it uses public (the nation-state’s) hierarchical power to privatize public affairs and to deconstruct existing hierarchies in our society and schools.

Students’ agencies in TS Students breaking taboos Contrary to the discomfort public-school teachers felt about the curriculum of TS, student participants’ response was relatively favorable. They also demonstrated development of OECD KCs (ikiru chikara) over the two years

The OECD Tohoku School  137 as they engaged in workshops in Japan and hosted an event in Paris in 2014. While guided activities in TS facilitated their success, students’ participation in activities that TS headquarters did not plan became fertile ground for them to develop those skills. For example, TS intentionally excluded the topic of radiation and nuclear energy from the program because they were aware that some participants had experienced displacement, loss of family members, economic damage,7 and discrimination (Slater et al., 2014). They were concerned that topics such as radiation and nuclear energy could elicit strong emotional responses from them. In addition, they were anxious about potential conflict among participants over those sensitive topics. Individuals’ experiences of the disaster were diverse, depending on their particular relationship with Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO) and their proximity to the power plant. Knowing this complex reality, some parents even requested that TS not include these topics in the curriculum (Fukushima University Innovative Learning Lab, 2015). However, contrary to adults’ concerns, these taboo topics emerged in group discussions in workshops in TS as soon as TS began. For example, Yasuka, a student from Okuma, a town where the Fukushima Daiichi Power Plant was located, passionately talked about the nuclear power plant as soon as TS started:8 My father works for F1 [the Fukushima Daiichi Power Plant]. I grew up being proud of my father and TEPCO, which generated all the energy that sustained the cosmopolis of Japan. I also used to dream of working for F1. However, the earthquake, the tsunami, and the meltdown of F1 destroyed everything. Everyone turned around and started to hate TEPCO, the company they said was a world-class corporation until then. People also began hating my father. I and my family left Okuma, my beloved hometown. (Yasuka Endo, as cited in Fukushima University innovative Learning Lab, 2015) The statement of Yasuka is sincere and straightforward. Contrary to adults’ concerns that a statement like this would generate conflicts among participants, her talk provided a new perspective on the nuclear disaster and helped other students think more deeply about it. For example, a participant from Adachi, a city 50 kilometers from the reactor, wrote about how her view of the disaster changed when she heard Yasuka’s story: I heard the story of Yasuka, whose father works for F1 [Daiichi]. I learned what happened when the hydrogen explosion happened. There were things the media didn’t tell us. I felt her grief and pain, things she could hardly express through her words. My grandfather couldn’t grow persimmons because of the nuclear explosion. From farmers’ point of view, the nuclear power plants were the enemies; they took away our means of living. I used to feel: “Why do they do that to us?” However, when I heard

138  The OECD Tohoku School Yasuka’s story, which the media never reported, I began questioning my beliefs. I got confused as I learned about new facts. I still don’t know the answer. But I now understand at least that the disaster has more than one aspect. You can’t judge an event solely based on something you personally experienced and heard. Since that workshop, when I think of the disaster, I try to think of various perspectives other than my own. (Ai Sasaki, as cited in Fukushima University Innovative Learning Lab, 2015, p. 15) To bring up a topic that adults had banned from TS was an act of subversion. Interestingly, this act, which challenged decisions that adults made and attempted to enforce, was an example of the Tohoku Change Model. While administrators and teachers had difficulty in following this model, and stuck to the old hierarchical model of command, student participants deconstructed the traditional model of education instinctively, defying adults’ guidance. More interestingly, by engaging in the discussions about taboo topics, the students also achieved some of the OECD KCs (ikiru chikara) that TS promoted. For example, Ai acknowledged the multiple and contradictory effects of the F1 explosion on individual lives in Fukushima, which put residents in conflict with each other (Takahashi, 2016). She admitted biases inherent in her community’s view of the nuclear disaster, particularly the attribution of the damage caused by the nuclear power plant explosion to people from Okuma. She also became conscious of the role of the mass media in shaping her own perspectives on the disaster. This awareness suggests her attainment of another OECD KC (1B: evaluating the quality and appropriateness of information). While still struggling to make sense of the causes and effects of the disaster, Ai also acknowledged that the disaster had complex dimensions. Further, she realized that she needed to place herself in multiple positions in order to understand the phenomenon holistically. This awareness suggests that she successfully achieved another OECD KC, 2A (demonstrating empathy by taking the role of the other person and imagining the situation from his or her perspective). Though still confused, she was moving toward achieving the next goal, or the “ability to manage and resolve conflicts” (2C) (OECD, 2005, p. 12). Ai and Yasuka came to achieve these competencies because they had difficult ongoing relationships with the nuclear power plant and radiation. These quotes show that students’ agency surpassed adults’ expectations. It also demonstrates the importance of creating scope for students to take initiatives, even though to do so was to break the norms the adults had developed. Transforming TS into a space of mourning In addition to discussing the taboo topics (radiation and F1), students in TS exercised their agency by inventing and practicing a ritual of mourning. In the mind of the OECD, TS was an education project aiming at economic

The OECD Tohoku School  139 development for the future by utilizing a new pedagogy for the twenty-first century. Thus, reflection on the past and mourning for the deceased had no place in the original curriculum of TS. However, students began subverting this future-oriented and economically focused curriculum as early as their first workshop in March 2012. This workshop, whose theme was “branding,” aimed to instill in the students the mindset of economic recovery, and expected them to carry it on throughout the project. Echoing the strong economic focus of this education project, Gad Weil, a world-renowned event producer, was chosen as the instructor of the first workshop on “branding.” Branding Tohoku was to commodify Tohoku and to place it in the global market to make a profit. Through this strategy, students were to encourage consumers in the global market to buy products from Tohoku as well as to bring tourists to the Tohoku region from all parts of the world. As the major platform to showcase their marketing effort, OECD TS asked students to host an event in Paris in 2014. Bringing elements of business into education was an initiative that MEXT had promoted for decades in response to the implementation of neoliberal economic policies in Japan as well as society’s shift to a knowledge-based economy. Teachers generally responded hesitantly to this type of initiative both in their classrooms and in TS. Contrary to the negative reactions among teachers, many student participants went along with the idea of marketing Tohoku. At the same time, they turned this activity to meet their needs to mourn the loss of their friends and families, and to reconnect to their indigenous roots. This subversion, although unconsciously done, was marked by their choice of brand (name of the team), which represented their indigenous roots. The name they chose was wa (環), a character consisting of three components (jewelry, eye, and circle). This character signified the act of people surrounding something or someone in a circle and witnessing it. The jewelry part of the character connotes the nobility of the circle, while the eye signifies the act of witnessing. At Gad Weil’s suggestion, students came up with a ritual that represented the group’s name. In this ritual all participants physically formed a large circle, held hands, and shouted “wa.” According to Akasaka, a Tohoku folklore specialist who gave a lecture on Tohoku’s indigenous culture in one of the TS workshops, wa is an echo of the jomon culture, or the culture of indigenous people who inhabited the Tohoku region from 13 to 3 BCE prior to its conquest by the imperial government of Japan. He also told students that archival stone circles found in the Tohoku region indicate that the jomon people engaged in rituals in circles as they reconnected with the deceased (Fukushima University Innovative Learning Lab, 2015). It was coincidental that TS students collectively recovered this tradition, which had long been forgotten in the modern history of Japan. This ritual awoke students and teachers from their historical amnesia and connected them with their collective past, including their buried ancestral memories as well as their memories of those who had died in the disaster. It also emotionally bonded team members, including teachers and adults from the private

140  The OECD Tohoku School sector. A teacher who participated in the workshop recounted that it was an emotional experience: At the end of the workshop, we formed a big circle, put our arms around each other, and shouted “wa.” It was definitely a defining moment in the program. The moment marked the rebirth of all 90 members; we were reborn as members of this new group. (Miura, 2012, p. 14) The wa ritual, in which the participants engaged repeatedly throughout TS, turned TS into a space of mourning and healing even though it was not a part of the official program. Furthermore, the repeated practice of this ritual turned the wa brand into more than a marketing tool: it became a site for the participants to reconnect with the deceased, including their ancestors and those who had lost their lives through the disaster. By reconnecting them with collective memories of the community, the ritual also solidified the participants’ connections to each other. They even expanded this network of mourning in Paris by inviting audiences to be part of the circle. For many student participants, engaging in this ritual in Paris was the most memorable moment in all of TS. Haruna, a student participant, remembered the moment: When we all got in a circle and shouted wa at the end of the ceremony, someone I didn’t know hugged me and said to me: “Bravo, thank you!” He was crying. I felt happy that we did this project. The places where we live, our environments and cultures are all different, but I felt that we can understand each other. That’s what I learned at that very moment. (Haruna Shiraishi, quoted in Fukushima University innovative Learning Lab, 2015) This ritual effectively mobilized strangers and pulled them into a circle of collective mourning. Akasaka, a folklorist and a guest lecturer at TS, stated that enactment of rituals connect individuals with each other by tapping into collective memories without words (Fukushima University innovative Learning Lab, 2015). How some audiences in Paris responded to this ritual illustrates exactly what Akasaka stated. Even though they were not familiar with the ancient culture in the Tohoku region, nor did they have any direct experience of the disaster, these audiences were drawn into this wa, the circle of death and rebirth students formed. This affective connection formed by audiences (consumers) and students drew them emotionally closer to the Tohoku region, its people, and its memories. Thus, the wa ritual helped students achieve the original goal of TS, which was to brand “Tohoku” and attract consumers in the global market. While students achieved the major goal of TS, which OECD assigned to them, they also succeeded in turning TS into a space of mourning. They did so within the platform TS provided to the students. Their performance demonstrated their subversive utilization of the Tohoku Change Model, non-hierarchical relationships between adults and young people.

The OECD Tohoku School  141 Contributing to economic reconstruction by eliminating fuhyo Radiation had been prevalent in students’ lives in post-disaster Fukushima despite its invisibility and silence. The radiation inflicted damage especially on towns whose major source of income was agricultural. In addition to actual radiation contamination of their agricultural products, the rumors that produce from Fukushima was highly radioactive incited boycotts of produce from Fukushima. As the sales of fruits and vegetables declined drastically, farmers in Date City, which is 60 kilometers away from the F1, suffered economically (Date City Disaster Prevention Office, 2018). Yurina Sato, a student from Date City, explained the socio-economic context of Date City after the disaster, and how she and her team wanted to help her community recover from the damage: Our city was contaminated by radiation from the nuclear power plant explosion. Its effect on agricultural produce was detrimental. People said that Fukushima was over. What we put on our tables drastically changed. We ate fresh produce only from other prefectures. We were told not to eat anything if we had the slightest doubt it might be contaminated. Our team (from Date City) wanted to eliminate fuhyo, or untrustworthy rumors, about produce from Fukushima. So, we decided to market a packaged dessert made from Date persimmons. (Yurina Sato, Fukushima University, 2013a, p. 163) As this narrative shows, farmers in Date suffered drastic declines in sales of produce following the nuclear disaster. Clearly, radiation in the region a few days after the explosion was well above the safety level, reaching 24 mSV/year, or more than 20 times higher than the level deemed safe by the International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) to eradicate the risk of radiation contamination in the produce they export, farmers in Fukushima arduously inspected the radiation level of all agricultural produce since the disaster. Any produce that exceeded the standard set by IAEA, or 100 becquerel per kg, was not sent to market. However, the negative image of Fukushima and its produce was not eradicated (Shoji, 2015). The rumors circulated through social media inflated speculation that food from Fukushima was highly contaminated (Slater et al., 2014). As Yurina expressed in her quote, the fear of radiation and contamination of produce from Fukushima was prevalent even among residents in Fukushima. Residents in the central region of Fukushima, where Date City is located, were caught between fear of radiation contamination and the need to recover their agricultural business (Fujita, January 28, 2012). However, the official discourse in the region, as well as in the TS, leaned toward the recovery of the economy. TS also assigned participants a specific task, which was to advertise the attractiveness of the Tohoku region to global audiences at the event in Paris in 2014 in the interests of their community’s economic recovery. Thus, students’ fear of radiation was pushed aside in the project.

142  The OECD Tohoku School This narrow learning focus did not provide students with the chance to talk about the fear of radiation contamination that some residents continued to have. Putting aside their fear, students from Date City focused on developing a product, packaged fruit jelly, made from fruits grown by local farmers. They also utilized marketing strategies they learned in TS workshops, for example, hosting several PR and fund-raising events around Japan before traveling to Paris. At the Paris event, they advertised their product by distributing free samples (Fukushima University, 2013a). These pieces of evidence suggest that students successfully carried out the OECD’s mission, which was to advertise the attractiveness of their town, utilizing the OECD KCs. They also succeeded in disseminating the Japanese government’s official message that radiation contamination is under control in Fukushima. However, the strict economic focus in the TS activities led a student to wonder about the nature of learning that took place in TS. Communicating with audiences in Paris was very challenging. I already knew that from my experience in Tokyo. I could not communicate about Fukushima and Tohoku in my own words even though I had prepared for it. I said “We came from Fukushima. We made this fruit jelly dessert to help people in Fukushima. Please stop by our stand. I’ll give you free samples.” People stopped by and tasted our desserts, but I’m not really sure if they understood what we were trying to communicate. We experienced a lot of things [due to the disaster]. However, these French people might have simply thought that we were just hosting an event called Tohoku Reconstruction Festival. I felt like we were not able to communicate our pain and hopes. So, I began thinking a lot after I came back from Paris. I began wondering if I had genuinely thought about farmers in Fukushima. I wasn’t sure if I’d been paying enough attention to political and social issues in Fukushima. (Sasaki, as cited in Fukushima University Innovative Learning Lab, 2015, p. 61) His statement, “I felt like we were not able to communicate our pain and hopes,” indicates that important messages about Fukushima were left unexamined throughout this project. Through his reflection, he realized that the messages he communicated were solely about the product they had developed. His reflection implicitly points to the purposes and method of OECD TS. OECD TS had a very succinct, specific purpose—economic development in the Tohoku region through the utilization of the OECD’s KCs— and a well-developed plan and resources to guide students to achieve it. At the same time, a narrow and heavy focus on economic development in TS failed to give participants a chance to examine the very fundamental question of why an education project like this was necessary to begin with and why students from disaster-stricken regions should participate in it. His last statement, “I wasn’t sure if I’d been paying enough attention to political and

The OECD Tohoku School  143 social issues in Fukushima before,” is a critical self-reflection. At the same time, it is a critique of OECD TS, which didn’t direct student’s attention to the political and social factors that led to the nuclear disaster and to the continuing plight of Fukushima people. While his critique shows the limitations of TS, the very fact that he was able to provide a critical evaluation of his experience in TS demonstrates that TS succeeded in providing him with effective evaluation and communication skills.

Conclusion Overall, the TS successfully mobilized participants to achieve their goals. Students advertised the attractiveness of the Tohoku region utilizing their newly mastered ikiru chikara/OECD KCs at the event in Paris in 2014. The success of this event contributed to the revitalization of Tohoku (Iguchi, 2014). They also achieved another important goal, collaboration among stakeholders from private and public sectors, including corporations, universities, public schools, and governmental and intergovernmental organizations. TS also succeeded in testing the Tohoku Change Model, a non-hierarchical model of communication and interaction between youths and adults. Teachers and students who participated in TS exhibited different responses to the program. The majority of the teachers were perturbed by this new education model because it made them transform the existing school culture in a top-down manner. Despite the TS’s expectations for teachers to be active allies of this education model, most teachers remained passive. Some teachers, both those who participated in TS and their school colleagues, even expressed animosity toward the program’s focus on economic recovery and the promotion of collaboration between teachers and those who are from private sectors (e.g., private corporations). In contrast to the hesitant approach of teachers, students were active participants in the TS. They mastered the OECD KCs and used them to achieve the major goal of the TS, which was to advertise the attractiveness of the Tohoku region to recover its economy. While students were adhering to the TS’s mission, they also exercised their agencies to transform TS for their own advantage. For example, they created a space for collective mourning and healing by sharing their pain and by practicing a ritual of mourning, which they named “wa.” In doing so, they did not challenge or plead with the leadership team. Instead, they created the ritual of mourning as a part of a “branding” workshop. This tactical transformation of the nature of the activity from marketing to mourning shows the agency of students. Some students also exercised their agency by openly talking about their view of nuclear energy and their experience of nuclear disaster, even though the TS leadership team had banned these topics from the program. Contrary to adults’ concern that controversial topics like nuclear energy would cause divisions within the group, honest conversations about nuclear energy, based on their own experiences, taught students new perspectives about nuclear energy, as well as the complicated nature of this topic. These

144  The OECD Tohoku School examples show that students internalized and acted on the Tohoku Change Model of non-hierarchical relationships between adults and students. They also developed ikiru chikara/OECD KCs, such as exercising autonomy, collaboration, and problem solving. Interestingly, students demonstrated their agencies in areas that the adults did not expect them to. This reality shows that in an education that aims to develop ikiru chikara, we cannot have a precise plan of teaching. Sometimes students unconsciously bring in certain ideas (e.g., rituals of wa) or share difficult topics (e.g., nuclear energy) unexpectedly to classes. Thus, educators have to be responsive, attentive, and flexible. Instead of moving students to the goals that are pre-set, teachers should heed students’ voices and observe their behaviors to identify their interests and needs. Teachers can use the information to create a physical and social environment where students can gain the exact “experience” that they need to engage in inquiry driven by their needs and interests (Dewey, 1938). This type of inquiry, driven by students’ interests and stemming from their real-life experience, would be interdisciplinary, as students’ lives, their interests, social context, and knowledge are organically interconnected (Motani, 2005). TS could have done more to promote ikiru chikara, building on students’ needs and interests. For example, tapping into students’ desire for collective mourning, TS could spend more hours exploring their ancesters’ rituals of mourning practiced in the Tohoku region and compare how their “wa” ritual resembles those ancient rituals. They could also explore how meanings of symbols used in the rituals are tied to the community’s history and its natural environment. In addition, students could learn about medical and spiritual effects of the mourning rituals. Exploration of this topic would not only help students develop academic skills but also contribute to healing their pain. As the number of residents suffering from PTSD remained high in disaster-stricken regions (Tsujiuchi as cited in Matsno, 2018), an inquiry like this, which contributes to the psychological recovery of the community’s members, could genuinely increase students’ ikiru chikara. Making economic development the goal of education programs has been a common practice since the beginning of the twentieth century. Disaster-stricken communities have had extra pressure for economic development as they recover from the disaster. Thus, OECD TS, which had specific economic-oriented goals, seemed to have met the education needs of the disaster-stricken communities. However, as one participant pointed out, excessive focus on economic recovery in education to the detriment of the social, political, historical, and psychological aspects of the community’s lives was not sufficient. Although students in TS successfully hosted the Tohoku Reconstruction Festival in Paris in 2014, the experience they gained through the TS may not contribute to holistic recovery of the community in the long term. Nor will their experience necessarily contribute to the genuine development of students’ ikiru chikara, ability to survive in their communities, which require more than the ability to develop products, brand, and make a profit.

The OECD Tohoku School  145 If TS were to genuinely seek education that promotes ikiru chikara and reconstruct the disaster-stricken communities, it is mandatory for educators to listen to the pain of students who experienced the loss of loved ones, and their desire to reconnect with them. They also need to recognize some students’ wish to speak about the explosion of the power plant and the fear surrounding radiation. Bringing out those topics could lead to fundamental questions about the community’s history, including why their community hosted nuclear power plants; why adults turned their back on the nuclear power plant; why their community had erased memories of indigenous knowledge; and why they were pursuing fast-paced economic recovery. Exploring these questions would be uncertain, controversial, and may even bring up emotional challenges. However, the accomplishments of TS students indicate that students are ready for this type of learning. It is time for adults, especially classroom teachers, to accept this change in education.

Notes 1 In Japanese, the term “school” (sukulu) is often used to refer to an educational program taking place outside public-school education independently from the official national curriculum. 2 These were Iwate, Miyagi, and Fukushima. 3 This new curriculum with reduced content was named yutori (relaxed) curriculum. 4 An assessment tool developed by the OECD to measure 15-year-old students’ mastery of key competences. 5 This national standardized test parallels the format of PISA, which measures OECD key competences (equivalent to ikiru chikara), consisting of Part A: Students’ basic knowledge, and Part B: Application of that knowledge (MEXT, 2006). 6 The members of SCAP were the UK, the Soviet Union, the Republic of China, and the United States. General Douglas MacArthur took charge of the SCAP. 7 Fukushima faced an estimated 2.85 trillion-yen loss over three years in tourism and agricultural sales due to negative rumors about radiation contamination of its soil and agricultural produce (Nohara & Narukawa, 2015). 8 Her story is not documented in workshop records. This quote is taken from the narrative she submitted to the final report on TS.

References Bjork, C., & Tsuneyoshi, R. (2005). Education reform in Japan: Competing visions for the future. Phi Delta Kappan, 86(8), 619–626. doi: 10.1177/003172170508600812 Cave, P. (2001). Educational reform in Japan in the 1990s: Individuality and other uncertainties. Comparative Education, 37(2), 173–191. doi: 10.1080/ 03050060120043402 Cave, P. (2014). Education after the “Lost Decade(s)”: Stability or Stagnation? In S. Kawano, G. S. Roberts, & S. O. Long (Eds.), Capturing Contemporary Japan: Differentiation and Uncertainty (pp. 271–299). University of Hawaii Press. Date City Disaster Prevention Office. (2018). Higashi Nihon daishinsai genpatsu jiko san nen no kiroku [The great east Japan earthquake nuclear power plant a ­ ccident: Three year record of Date city]. https://www.city.fukushima-date.lg.jp/soshiki/9/ 7146.html

146  The OECD Tohoku School Dewey, J. (1938). Experience and Education. New York, NY: Simon & Schuster. Fujita, M. (2012, January 28). 60 kiro kengai made ingenia to: Jibun no kotoba de shinsai taiken wo kataru [We must run out of the 60 km zone: Writing in one’s own words]. Japan Teachers‘ Union 61st National Conference on Education Research Jan 28, 2012, Toyama, Japan. Fukushima University. (2013a). Higashi nikon daishin sai no fukkou kyouiku to OECD tohoku school [Education for the reconstruction from the Great Eastern Japan earthquake and OECD Tohoku school]. Fukushima City. Fukushima University Innovative Learning Lab. (2015). OECD Tohoku sukuru repoto 2011–2014 [OECD Tohoku school report, 2011–2014]. Fukushima University. (2013b). Higashi nikon daishin sai no fukkou kyouiku to OECD Took School[ Education for the reconstruction from the Great East Japan earthquake and OECD Tohoku school]. (p. 147). Fukushima University. Halász, G. (2014). OECD Tohoku school project: A case of educational change and innovation in Japan. Retrieved from: http://halaszg.ofi.hu/download/Tohoku_report.pdf Henry, M., Lingard, B., Rizvi, F., & Taylor, S. (Eds). (2001). The OECD, globalisation and education policy. Bingley, UK: Emerald Group Publishing Limited. Iguchi, N. (2014). OECD tohoku sukuru ni sanka shite: Enpawamento to shite no fukko kyoiku [Attending the OECD Tohoku School: Reconstruction education as empowerment]. Developing Curriculum for Citizenship Education, 5, 10–22. Kariya, T. (2008). Kyoiku saisei no meiso [Straying from the education reconstruction]. Tokyo: Chikuma Shobo. Katsuta, M. (2018). Sogotekina gakushu no jikan no koremade no seikato kongo no kauai: Shogakkou ni okeru sogotekina gakushu no jikan wo chushin nishi te [The achievement and goals of the period of integrative studies: Case analysis at elementary levels]. Collection of Child Studies, 10, 95–104. Komikawa, K. (2002, August 2). Shinjiyu shugi kyoiku kaikaku to ningen zo [Neoliberal education reform and the model of citizen]. 61st National Conference on Japanese Education Research Association. Symposium II: Inquiring the Model of Citizen  : Education Reform and Reconstruction of Public Education, Fukuoka Education University. Lincicome, M. (1993). Nationalism, internationalization, and the dilemma of educational reform in Japan. Comparative Education Review, 37(2), 123–151. doi: 10.2307/2659400 Matsno, T. (2018, March 12). 3.11 hisaisha no PTSD ga nananen me ni fueta riyu [The reason why the PTSD cases among 3.11 victims increased in the seventh year]. Daiyamondo Online. http://diamond.jp/articles/-/162869 MEXT. (1996). Monkasho shingikai daiichiji toshin: 21 seiki wo tenboshita wagakuni no kyoikuno arikata ni tsuite [First report on the MEXT Reviewing Committee: Directions for our nation’s education in the 21st century]. Tokyo: NCER. MEXT. (1998). Gakushu shidoyoryo [Curriculum guidelines]. December, Chapter 1. Retrieved from: http://www.mext.go.jp/a_menu/shotou/cs/1319944.html MEXT. (2006). Reforming of Japan’s Science and Technology System. White Paper on Science and Technology 2006. http://www.mext.go.jp/english/whitepaper/ 1302736.htm Miura, H. (2012). Higashi nihon daishin sai to wakamono tachi no manabi [The Great Eastern Japan earthquake and learning from young people: The challenge]. Tohoku Hokkaido Common Secondary and Post-secondary Education Research Group. Retrieved from: http://www.lib.fukushima-u.ac.jp/repo/repository/ fukuro/R000004514/40-1-1.pdf

The OECD Tohoku School  147 Motani, Y. (2005). Hopes and challenges for progressive educators in Japan: Assessment of the progressive turn in the 2002 educational reform. Comparative Education, 41(3), 309–327. Nohara, K., & Narukawa, M. (2015). Measuring lost recreational benefits in Fukushima due to harmful rumors using a Poisson-inverse Gaussian regression. Paper presented at the European Regional Science Association (ERSA) conference. Retrieved from: http://econpapers.repec.org/paper/wiwwiwrsa/ersa15p344.htm OECD. (2005). The definition and selection of key competencies: Executive Summary. Retrieved from: http://www.oecd.org/pisa/35070367.pdf OECD. (2014). Mr. Angel Gurría, secretary-general of the OECD, in Japan, 6–10 April 2014. https://www.oecd.org/about/secretary-general/oecd-secretarygeneral-in-japan-6-10-april-2014.htm Shoji, N. (2015). Kome no hoshasen kensa kekka [Result of radiation inspection on rice]. Date City Recuperation and Reconstruction News, No. 22. Fukushima: Date City Radiation Safety Office. Retrieved from https://www.city.fukushima-date. lg.jp/uploaded/attachment/16650.pdf Slater, D. H., Morioka, R., & Danzuka, H. (2014). Micro-politics of radiation. Critical Asian Studies, 46(3), 485–508. doi: 10.1080/14672715.2014.935138 Takahashi, W. (2016). Divided fates of victims after the Fukushima nuclear power plant accident. In Y. Kaneko, K. Matsuoka, & T. Toyoda (Eds.), Asian lawin disasters: Toward a human-centered recovery (pp. 213–222). London: Routledge. Takayama, K. (2010). Politics of externalization in reflexive times: Reinventing Japanese education reform discourses through Finnish PISA success. Comparative Education Review, 54(1), 51–75. doi: 10.1086/644838 Takayama, K. (2013). OECD, key competencies, and the new challenges of educational inequality. Journal of Curriculum Studies, 45(1), 67–80. doi: 10.1080/00220272.2012.755711 Tokunaga, T. (2012). Kindai no nihon ni okeru kyouiku kaikaku no doko [Trends in educational reform in modern Japan]. Tokyo University Policy Vision and Research Center. Retrieved from: http://pari.u-tokyo.ac.jp/policy/working_ paper/WP121116_tokunaga.pdf Watanabe, O., Suda, H., Kajita, E., & Horio, T. (2000). Shinjiyushugi kaikaku no ikkan toshiteno kyouiku kaikaku [Education reform as a part of neoliberal reform]. Presented at the Annual Meeting of the Japanese Education Research Association, Tokyo Yamamoto, M. (2015). Shushin kyoiku no jitsuzo to sono mondai [Real image of moral education and its problem] (Yamamoto Seminar joint research report) [Joint Research Report of 2014]. Keio University. http://web.flet.keio.ac.jp/~syosin/ 2014collabo.pdf

8 Love for genpatsu1, and forming new relationships

Mirai miru sonotame ichido kako wo miru: To see the future, we must revisit the past. (A college student, personal communication, 2015) In July 2019, eight years after the nuclear power plant’s accident, TEPCO decided to close all nuclear reactors including the ones in F2. Ten nuclear reactors in Fukushima will all be closed. (TEPCO, July 31, 2019)

The community’s memories of genpatsu and TEPCO The explosion of the nuclear power plant on March 11, 2011 destroyed communities with over 1,700 years of history in an instant (Namie Town Hall, May 12, 2017). With the damage of 49,000 homes, the catastrophe also displaced as many as 100,000 residents in Fukushima (Fukushima Prefectural Government Office, 2011). The local governments invested fully in efforts to restore the communities through systematic decontamination. They lifted the evacuation orders as early as April 20172, while radiation levels in those towns remained much higher than they were before the accident. Despite the towns’ hope to bring back their residents home, contentious presence of radiation in these towns radiation could not prevent depopulation (Figure 8.1). Witnessing the disaster victims’ pain, the major media, especially those sympathetic to the anti-nuclear position, accused the “nuclear village” of having used and abandoned the residents in the coastal region of Fukushima. While such stories have some truth to them, we must also consider the other side of the story. For example, history of genpatsu (nuclear energy) reveals that communities which hosted the genpatsu had been in a dependent relationship with genpatsu and the members of the nuclear village for over 40 years. As Gramsci (1971) points out, hegemony, a system of exploitation, emerges and persists due to the existence of citizens who automatically comply with the system even though doing so works against their own interest. We can say that hegemony had been present in Fukushima since the 1960s, when the construction of the first genpatsu began. DOI: 10.4324/9781003090083-8

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2014

Figure 8.1  Population decrease in Fukushima, with reference to Nenrei betsuni mita shakaizougensu no suii [Trends in population increase and decrease by age]. Fukushima Prefectural Government (2015). https://www.pref.fukushima.lg.jp/site/portal/ jinko-01.html.

What sustained this interdependent relationship between genpatsu and the residents was subsidies from the government allowed by Dengen Sampo, the Three Laws for Power Development (Hikosaka Behling et al., 2019). Starting from 1971 when Fukushima Daiichi Plant (F1) began operation, Fukushima Prefecture received 270 billion yen, equivalent to US$ 2.6 billion, from the Japanese government (Akasaka, 2014). The annual subsidies not only alleviated the towns’ chronic economic depression and depopulation, but dramatically elevated their standards of living (Hasegawa, 2012). Villages and towns that hosted the plants built new community centers, sports facilities, and school buildings fully equipped with central heating, air conditioning, and elevators (Onuki, Interview, July 4, 2016). These are luxuries other towns within Fukushima Prefecture could not afford. For the community members, Genpatsu was not merely a means of economic development. Members of the community developed an affinity for genpatsu and even turned it into a cultural symbol of their towns. For example, some store owners named their store and products atomu (atom) like Atom Sushi, Atom Real Estate Agency, and Atom Manju (a type of Japanese cake). As more members of the community began to embrace the genpatsu and TEPCO workers, community members who had originally expressed fear and skepticism toward the nuclear power plant began lowering their guard. Some residents even transformed their fear into joy, and came to feel proud of their genpatsu. Their conversion from anti-nuclear to pro-nuclear mirrors the national trend of nuclear energy, which had shifted toward pro-nuclear since Eisenhower’s “Atom for Peace” speech in 1953 (Kainuma, 2012). Since the construction of F1, the residents in towns that hosted the nuclear power plants had been in a harmonious relation with TEPCO. There was a sense of mutual trust and an agreement that nuclear power plants benefit communities, TEPCO, and consumers. However, the explosion of the genpatsu destroyed this 40-year-old bond between the community ­members

150  Lingering Love for genpatsu and TEPCO instantly. As the public witnessed the explosion of Fukushima Daiichi Power Plant (F1) at first hand, they became enmeshed in various inexplicable motions surrounding TEPCO, genpatsu, its workers, and members of the “nuclear village.” Some residents were shocked as they became conscious for the first time of the unequal and treacherous relations between themselves and TEPCO (Takahashi, 2016). Others, who were devastated by the accident, silently left their towns and began their new lives far away from home. Others returned home after the evacuation order was lifted, yet remained silent about their ambivalence about nuclear power plants. Many felt the pressure to repress negative thoughts about the past and to participate actively in the dominant national discourses of reconstruction and kizuna (love for community). The reconstruction discourse expanded very rapidly as the communities recovered from the shock of the disaster. Powerful actors, including national and local government, universities, and private companies, sought to seize the moment of opportunity created by the disaster; they quickly channeled their energy into creating a “new technology child” that could replace genpatsu. In this initiative, renewable energy and robots (including drones) became the focus of renovation and reconstruction in post-disaster communities. As part of this initiative, Minami Soma City, located within 20 to 30 kilometers of Fukushima Daiichi Genpatsu (F1), opened the Fukushima Robot Test Field, a large publicly funded research center on drones supported by government subsidies (Suzuki, September 19, 2019). This quick shift in the industries, under the influence of national discourses that promoted hope and love in disaster-stricken regions, compelled residents to direct their gaze toward a bright future and leave behind complicated memories of genpatsu. Some also pushed back the reality that broken nuclear reactors remain unstable and thousands of workers were still risking their lives by engaging in dangerous work at the plant every day. However, amidst this celebratory atmosphere, as towns reopened one after another, some residents, especially the younger generations, began to critically reflect on the past. They addressed the importance of reconfiguring past relationships between actors involved in the nuclear energy business before they could imagine a new future. They firmly believed that the future should not be a mere restoration of the past; rather, they envisioned a future that was fundamentally different from the past. In this chapter, I discuss two community-based organizations established in Fukushima after the disaster, Appreciation for Fukushima Workers (AFW) and RefLab, which embraced the vision of community reconstruction based on critical reflection of the past. These organizations created learning spaces for disaster victims and their allies where they examined their past relationship with TEPCO and genpatsu. In addition, they provided opportunities for the general public to learn about genpatsu and its workers’ conditions by organizing workshops and field trips to Fukushima Daini Genpatsu (F2), where participants directly observed restoration work within the plant and interacted with TEPCO employees.

Lingering Love for genpatsu  151

Agents for change: AFW and RefLab RefLab is an organization which was originally founded by three students at Fukushima University and one student from Tokyo in 2016. The mission of the organization was to create space for young people to engage in dialog about the Fukushima nuclear accident. They also aim to continue monitoring the broken nuclear plant (both F1 and F2) as the decommissioning of plants proceeds over the next 40 years (RefLab, n.d.). RefLab also promotes young citizens’ active participation in the reconstruction of disaster-stricken communities. Another community-based organization that shares a common vision with RefLab is Appreciation for Fukushima Workers (AFW). Yoshikawa, the founder of AFW, is an alumnus of Tokyo Electricity High School3, and worked for TEPCO in Fukushima as an engineer for 14 years from 1998 to 2012. As the name of this organization indicates, the organization recognizes the frontline plant workers as the key actors for successful community reconstruction4. Shedding light on the workers and placing them at the center of their community reconstruction activity is a subversive attempt. It is especially so when we consider that many of the plant workers had been “shadow workers” whose identities and working conditions had been concealed from the public for decades (Broinowski, 2017; Kainuma, 2012; NHK, 2018). Yoshikawa asserted that the precarious and hidden status of plant workers was one of the causes of the genpatsu accident. He further believes that the workers’ marginal status obstructs the democratic process in the reconstruction of communities. Based on these common threads of beliefs, AFW and RefLab have collaborated with each other to reduce the distance between plant workers and citizens. The organizations further promote a culture of appreciation for plant workers; they believe that such a culture is indispensable for successful community reconstruction. In sum, both AFW and RefLab posit the recovery and reconstruction of the community as a long-term bottom-up project. They also believe that genuine community recovery will not take place until the community witness the successful closure of the plants, which will likely to happen 40 years from now. (AFW, n.d.; Kimura, Interview, December 11, 2015). Based on this belief, they aim at reconfiguring relationships among community members, the TEPCO administration, scholars in nuclear physics, engineers, contract workers, and private companies who are involved in the genpatsu business. They further stress the importance of including plant workers and civilians from the communities in discussions and decision making related to the move toward decommissioning of the genpatsu.

Reflective nostalgia Yoshikawa’s memory of genpatsu Reconfiguration among actors surrounding genpatsu will not take place unless all actors have a chance to be in direct contact with each other. On that note, RefLab and AFW both aim to reduce the physical and social distance

152  Lingering Love for genpatsu

Figure 8.2  Reflab Field Trip Poster.

between actors, especially between community members and genpatsu workers, who had been separated from each other. As a way of achieving this goal, they have been organizing field trips where participants from all over the world can view inside F2 where clean-up and reconstruction work had been taking place (Figure 8.2). The undercurrent of their initiative is reflective nostalgia, a mixture of positive memories of genpatsu and critical reflection about them (Boym, 2001). This type of nostalgia is qualitatively different from the popular discourse of kizuna (love for community), which simply highlights romantic memories of the lost communities and projects them onto the future without critical reflection. Both Yoshikawa, the founder of AFW, and Kimura, one of the founders of RefLab, lived in a community that hosted genpatsu for many years. Thus, they personally had close relationships with genpatsu prior to the accident. Yoshikawa remembers the first time he visited F1 as an 18-year-old

Lingering Love for genpatsu  153 student at the Tokyo Electric Power Company High School. The encounter with the plant impacted his career plans and changed his life course in a fundamental way. Remembering his first visit to F1, he recalled: When I was 18 years old, I visited F1 as our school field trip. I was stunned when I saw the plant. At that time, my plan was to work for a thermal power plant. So, I participated in the trip without thinking much. But F1 was huge. I saw a big turbine, ten meters tall or maybe higher, spinning with a big noise in the building. Then we went to the central operation room. They told me that only ten people are controlling the entire plant. I was like “wow,” the electricity that’s generated here is supporting people’s lives in Tokyo. All those lights in Tokyo and the electricity I’ve been using was coming from this turbine. I felt a sense of pride. I thought nuclear power was cool. I recognized that these plant workers were supporting our society. I wanted to be part of that. So, I canceled my plan to work for a thermal power plant after graduation and switch it to a nuclear power plant. I wanted to work for F1. (Yoshikawa, cited in Ishido, 2016, July 5) Yoshikawa’s comment reveals his fascination with F1 at first sight. He was immediately moved by it. The quote indicates that the affective connections between Yoshikawa and the nuclear power plant emerged immediately, and this emotional move led him to change his career path. Over the next 14 years, Yoshikawa, who became an engineer for TEPCO, never relinquished the sense of excitement and pride he felt during his first visit to the plant. This work experience not only maintained his love for genpatsu but also instilled a sense of responsibility and pride in taking care of the plant. Kimura’s memories of genpatsu Kimura, who was born and grew up in Naraha, where Fukushima Daini Plant (F2) is located, also had nostalgic memories of genpatsu, albeit somewhat different from those of Yoshikawa. Kimura shared his cherished memory of genpatsu: KIMURA:  I had a close relationship with genpatsu while growing up. We went

to genpatsu as our school trip. We went inside the plant. They took us to the nuclear reactor. In F2, we stood on top of the pools where they cooled fueling rods. It was like a glass floor and we could see the pools. We could even see the fuel rods at the bottom of the pool. MIYAZAWA:  Wow, you went that close? KIMURA:  Yes, that was the good old days. The power plant was close to us. It was good because we could touch it. But, genpatsu became distant after the disaster. We have to get close to genpatsu again; we need to reduce the distance. (Kimura, Interview, December 11, 2015)

154  Lingering Love for genpatsu Kimura’s statement that he could “touch”5 the plant communicates his intimate connection to genpatsu. It is an example of TEPCO’s successful development of trusting relationships between residents and TEPCO. We need to be aware, however, that this trust did not naturally emerge in the community; rather, it developed through long-term dedicated effort on TEPCO’s part. When the idea of constructing F1 in the community was first introduced in the 1950s, the majority of community members were skeptical about it. Building on international and national campaigns to promote nuclear power at the time, TEPCO succeeded in instilling a positive image of nuclear power in the minds of community members. They also employed creative strategies to lower the general public’s guard against nuclear energy and to instead excited them about it. For example, as a part of its safety campaign, TEPCO built Enerugi Kan (Energy Center), an education center in the town of Tomioka, in 1988. Young visitors to Enerugi Kan from across Japan learned about nuclear power plant operations by watching films, engaging in fun hands-on activities, and playing interactive games (Fukushima Prefecture Association of Nuclear Power Promotion, 2008). Those activities got children excited about nuclear power. It was also customary for local students to visit Enerugi Kan as part of their field trip. Local students even had an exclusive privilege to tour the inside of the nuclear reactor, as Kimura experienced. Seeing the highly technological facilities and learning that genpatsu supported the extravagant lifestyles of Tokyo, the nation’s capital, also developed a sense of pride (Kainuma, 2012). Direct contact with nuclear power plants through field trips and hands-on activities at the learning center contributed to lowering anxiety about nuclear power. Repeated affirmation of the plant’s safety further reinforced the sense of security among community members. Ishizaki, who had been the general manager of F2, reflectively commented: “I had always assured community members…that our nuclear power plant was absolutely safe. There would never be an accident. If there was an earthquake, you should run to F2.” (Takahashi, 2016). This quote indicates TEPCO’s absolute confidence in the safety of nuclear power plant. Over a few decades, community members came to embrace genpatsu and to consider the interdependent relationship between TEPCO and community members normal. Genpatsu money The employment opportunities and government subsidiaries enabled by Dengen Sampo, the Three Laws for Power Development, also forged an affinity between TEPCO and community members. At least a quarter of the population in local communities worked for TEPCO. Local businesses ranging from restaurants to insurance companies were all benefiting from the genpatsu business. They could not survive without each other. This interdependence could be seen in local business owners’ choice of “atom” as part of their business names, such as “atom sushi,” “atom tourist agency,” and “atom manju” (a type of Japanese cake) (Kainuma, 2012).

Lingering Love for genpatsu  155 Direct interactions at social events also forged relationships between community members and TEPCO employees. These social relations were even multicultural, which was rare for residents in this region. For example, engineers from General Electronics and their families from the US lived in the village in the 1970s to assist with the construction of F1. The families hosted Christmas and Halloween parties for members of the local community. The community members also experienced exceptional treatment when TEPCO donated J Village, a first-class athletics training center in Naraha, a town that hosted Fukushima Daini Genpatsu (F2), in 1997. In response to the influx of professional soccer fans, TEPCO also sponsored Mareeze, a professional female soccer team in Naraha. Local residents embraced this team as the “Treasure of Fukushima and pride of our hometown” (Kainuma, 2012). Cheering for Mareeze and watching them practice at J Village became part of daily life in the community. In addition, local people, especially the young, made use of this athletics facility. These examples are evidence that the majority of community members had not regarded the nuclear plants and TEPCO negatively or critically since the 1970s. Yoshikawa, a TEPCO engineer, remembers the “good old times” when the community embraced genpatsu: We used to have festivals at F1. It wasn’t just for employees and their families; community members also came to the festival, and it was really fun. There were many employees who could do balloon art, including myself. We interacted with children from the community. It’s such a fun memory. I still remember that. (Yoshikawa, cited in Ishido, 2016, July 5) This quote shows that TEPCO and community members had fun together at social events held at TEPCO (Hirokawa, 2011). While those social interactions may have suggested the semblance of harmonious relations between TEPCO and community members, they did not fundamentally eliminate the clear divide and hierarchy between these actors. Under the guise of friendly interactions, TEPCO always held the balance of power over community members, as the community had to depend on subsidies from TEPCO with the support of Dengen Sampo, the three laws related to nuclear power plants enacted in 1974. The subsidies seemed to have solved the chronic financial issues in local government and raised the standard of living in the region. However, it also systematically led the towns to become addicted to genpatsu money (Akasaka, 2014; Kainuma, 2012). This financial dependence on TEPCO naturally forced them to take a passive and subordinate stance in their relationship with TEPCO. Members of the community remained distant and uncritical about genpatsu, knowing that it had direct implications for the region’s environment and their own wellbeing (Koide & Sataka, 2011). This new culture of genpatsu also led residents to avoid talking about risk of genpatsu in their communities. Except for a small group of residents who were sympathetic to the anti-nuclear movement, most residents did not

156  Lingering Love for genpatsu talk about it at home or in school even when there were increasing cases of leukemia in the region in the 1970s (Hirokawa, 2011). Mourning for dying genpatsu The modern era has witnessed a series of inhumane and irresponsible reactions to man-made catastrophes that have occurred when the products of science and technology lost control. The beginning of nuclear catastrophes was marked by Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945. Unfortunately, this tragedy was followed by hydrogen bomb testing in Bikini Atoll, the nuclear power plant accident at Three Mile Island in 1979, and Chernobyl in 1986. The majority of nuclear scientists and engineers, who once preached the safety of nuclear power, remained silent in the face of these tragedies or simply attributed the accident to human error (Hamblin, 2012). Immediately after the Fukushima disaster, pro-nuclear organizations in Japan took down information about nuclear safety from their websites. However, they evaded taking responsibility for having provided false information about nuclear safety to the public for decades. On the other hand, anti-nuclear organizations gained a new platform to condemn the culpability of the “nuclear village” which had caused this catastrophe by downplaying the risk of nuclear power (Hasegawa, 2012). Amidst the spread of negative sentiments about genpatsu, some individuals who had been members of the nuclear village came to admit their complicity in creating this huge malign object and sustaining it (Watanabe, as cited in Fukushima High School Teachers’ Union Women’s Division, 2013). Residents who had once celebrated the nuclear power plant as the product of science and technology also had to reflect on their relationship with genpatsu and their part in the accident. As much as they were victims of the disaster, they were also enablers of this catastrophe. The sudden revelation of the complicated political relationship between themselves, the nuclear power plant, and the members of the nuclear village left some residents feeling guilty and confused. So, they simply turned their backs on these topics. Others treated the broken power plant as an object of fear, a monster that had got out of control. They even erased the memories of the positive emotional relationship they had before (Endo, as cited in Fukushima University, 2015). Such action is comparable to abandoning a child in a family system: “It is as if we decided that we were unable to follow through with the education of our children. We just gave up” (Latour, 2012). Such an act is a sin. Genpatsu was a taboo topic among people who evacuated from their town and did not return. However, those who returned to their homes after the evacuation order was lifted held a different stance. For decades, they had literally accepted TEPCO’s repeated assertion that genpatsu was safe. However, they could no longer afford to do that. They had to live with immanent fear toward the genpatsu. Under these circumstances, some citizens looked back critically at their memories of genpatsu and at its current fragile state. In particular, they problematized their reliance on scientific experts, TEPCO, and

Lingering Love for genpatsu  157 the Japanese government to develop an understanding of the risk of nuclear energy. This awareness further led them to question official statements about the condition of genpatsu, including Prime Minister Noda’s declaration that genpatsu was under control on December 16, 2011. Farmers and fishermen whose trade directly depended on the natural environment were especially wary of the radioactive substances that continued to be released from the broken plant and into the ocean (Saito et al., 2014). They were also alert to the ongoing conditions of genpatsu as there was no guarantee that those broken nuclear reactors would not explode again6. Living under these vulnerable circumstances, Kimura, a founding member of RefLab, expressed his commitment to living with the plant instead of running away. Kimura expressed his stance toward the plant now and in years to come: I am twenty years old and I have been living with the power plant since I was born. They say it’s going to take 30 to 40 years until they close the plant. That means I am going to be 50 or 60 years old then. We have to live with the plant until then… Of course, I’m scared of genpatsu. I live so close to it. I’m more scared than anyone else. But once you decide to have a nuclear plant in your town, you can never run away from it. We talk about closing the plant, but the community still has to deal with it because we can’t move the plant. So, we need to know what’s happening right now inside the plant. Then we need to come up with a plan on what to do. It will be too late to think about the plant and the community’s fate 40 years from now. We are just going to panic if we don’t plan ahead. I want to stand firmly in the present and then look at the future. Looking at the present is important. (Kimura, Interview, December 11, 2015) RefLab’s mission to live with the broken plant for the next 40 years exemplifies their ethical responsibility. Instead of leaving behind the broken plant, once the proud symbol of their community, they chose to stand next to it until its death despite the risk. This is another example of how people can live with a technological invention that has turned into a monster. Their response did not fall into the dichotomy of pro-nuclear or anti-nuclear organizations, both of which are entrenched in their own political agenda. Both AFW and RefLab disrupted citizens’ overemphasis on negative sentiments toward genpatsu and TEPCO. While they continued to fear genpatsu, they also shed light on the reminiscences of genpatsu that remained silent in some community members’ minds. Further, without denying or pathologizing romantic memories of genpatsu, they redirected their gaze to the broken genpatsu as they moved toward phasing it out over the next several decades. This is an ethical way of mourning. They acknowledge the loss of the “good old days” with the plant while embracing their pain and fear as they continue to live with the broken plant. To introduce a mixture of pain, joy, and love that accompanies the lost object/person, is to give up fetishism, wihch is a type of mourning (Ahmed,

158  Lingering Love for genpatsu 2014). Fetishism simply replaces a lost object of attachment with something else. Unfortunately, fetishism was a common way of mourning in post-disaster Fukushima. Many turned their back on the genpatsu. Optimistic plans for constructing innovative research centers for renewable energy and robots (including drones) in disaster-stricken communities predominated among business and political leaders in Fukushima. Although this type of mourning gives a sense of hope for the community’s recovery, we cannot expect the genuine recovery of the communities without proper mourning. In that sense, the work of AFW and RefLab is significant for the community’s recovery.

Reconfiguring relationships surrounding genpatsu Reconfiguring relationships with TEPCO Mourning over the accident and dying genpatsu accompanied the critical reflection of community members over its relationship with genpatsu and genshiryoku mura (the “nuclear village”).7 AFW and RefLab aimed for genuine reconstruction of the disaster-stricken communities. In pursuing this endeavor, they were aware that translating their critical reflection into action was mandatory. In particular, they aspired to reconfigure community members’ relationship with the elites from TEPCO and its frontline workers, including temporary contract workers. As is clear from the organization’s name, AFW, Appreciation for Fukushima Workers, Yoshikawa, a founder of AFW, believed developing a relationship that supports plant workers is the key to the successful decommissioning of the broken plant and reconstruction of the communities. Yoshikawa felt that there has been little understanding, attention, and appreciation for plant workers in the history of genpatsu. Although there had been a celebratory representation of genpatsu workers as heroes in the major media right after the accident, even that ceased as soon as then Prime Minister Noda proclaimed the safety of the plant in 2012 (Yoshino, 2012). Contrary to the public’s perception that genpatsu was under control, as many as 7,000 workers were engaged in dangerous decontamination work every day at the plant even five years after the accident (Ishido, 2016, July 6). Lack of attention to frontline plant workers in the media had been a chronic and systemic problem. TEPCO concealed plant workers’ identities, lives, and details of their work from the public in order to sustain the clean and safe image of the nuclear energy business. Reflecting the company’s stance, the distance between temporary workers on the front line of the plant and community members had remained wide since the opening of the Fukushima Daiichi power plant. For example, for every regular inspection of the plants, TEPCO hired over 1,000 workers for between one and two months. These workers stayed in temporary housing and had minimal contact with the community members (Kainuma, 2012). The public were also aware of the delicate boundary between TEPCO workers and themselves:

Lingering Love for genpatsu  159 they treated these temporary workers as guests, but did not get close enough to know who they were, where they came from, why, and what exactly they were doing at the plant. In addition to structurally designed distance between temporary frontline workers and community members, another reason for the neglect of frontline workers at the plant is the hierarchy within the nuclear business. TEPCO had (and still has) a rigid hierarchy of positions, the managerial track being at the top, non-career engineers and clerical workers in the middle, and contract and subcontract workers below them. In addition to these visible workers at the plant, there are invisible yet highly influential actors, namely members of the “nuclear village,” including upper-level TEPCO administrators, conservative politicians, and scientists in charge of large manufacturing and construction corporations. These executives, who are graduates of top universities, made decisions about plant operations remotely in their offices in metropolitan areas. In other words, the members of the “nuclear village” benefited financially from the nuclear business in safe places far away from the plants while putting contract workers and engineers in non-career tracks on the frontline of risky work with limited compensation (Kainuma, 2012). This hidden structure within the plant suggests that a non-meritocratic structure from pre-modern Japan persists. Alliances between merchants and nobles, which resulted in exploitation of those in the primary sector (farming and fishing), was the model adopted by both pre-modern and imperial Japan (Zunz, 1995). This structure did not cease completely and re-emerged in a new form in the post-WWII Japan. The structure at the nuclear power plants epitomized this remnant of feudalism in Japan. Ironically the idea of meritocracy was used to justify this hierarchical system. The workers in the managerial track were graduates of top national universities such as Tokyo and Kyoto. Workers in the non-career track, engineers, and clerical workers were high-school graduates, many of them from local communities (Fukushima High School Teachers’ Union Women’s Division, 2013). Subcontract workers, who worked on the frontline and engaged in the riskiest jobs, came from contracting companies both within and outside the communities. Some of them were even brought in from abroad (Kainuma, 2012). As is clear from the relationship between local community subcontract workers (most of whom were not college graduates) and elite TEPCO employees (college graduates) from the center, the gap in cultural and social capital contributed to the gap in academic achievement and subsequent occupational and income status. Despite this structural inequality, these actors, who were placed in different positions in the hierarchy of power and risk, never brought up their concerns. Furthermore, community members and TEPCO sustained this system by forming a consensus on distribution of employment opportunities and subsidies (Akasaka, 2014). For many years, the majority of community members were complicit with this arrangement. Yoshikawa noticed that such a hierarchical relationship continued even after the accident. In fact, employment opportunities and working conditions for

160  Lingering Love for genpatsu local residents got worse as evacuees returned to their hometown. Residents found out that the companies that had contracts with TEPCO had been shut down and replaced by large general construction companies from Tokyo. Onuki, who taught at a technical high school in Minami Soma, expressed the challenges of her former students: Many of my former students [from Odaka Technical High] evacuated to outside Fukushima and worked for a company there, but the majority ended up coming back here. They don’t like living in places they don’t know at all. There are no jobs here other than decontaminating the streets and power plant. They get jobs as subcontractors, sometimes as subcontractors of subcontractors. So, what they get is like 7,000 yen per day. (Onuki, Interview, July 4, 2015) The working conditions for residents in the post-disaster community are not the same as prior to the disaster. Even though there was an asymmetrical relationship between TEPCO and local subcontracting companies, the relationship was at least stable and they had enjoyed privileges over other contract workers, who were brought in from outside Fukushima. However, the accident took away those privileges. Being cut off from the pipeline that had funneled jobs and cash to their communities, residents who returned home after evacuation were absorbed into the lower layers of the nuclear village’s hierarchy. Ironically the reason why these local workers took such precarious jobs, despite being let down by TEPCO, was their love for their hometown, kizuna. It is the same love that once led them to host genpatsu despite the risk. In other words, love for their community (kizuna) has been locking them into a cycle of exploitation. Having lived in this community over 15 years, Yoshikawa stood strongly as an insider of the community. He questioned this historical asymmetrical relationship between residents and TEPCO, which had allowed TEPCO to continuously exploit the residents and frontline power plant workers. This meant not only that the colonial relationship between Fukushima and the center had never ceased, but it actually became amplified in a new form. The asymmetrical relationship between TEPCO, its frontline workers, and community members represents Fukushima’s state as the internal colony of Japan, a state the region had been in for centuries (Akasaka & Goto, 2013). Even after the disaster, residents were subsumed into the economic development of the nation by providing cheap labor in an unsafe environment with precarious employment conditions. As they worked to reconstruct their towns, residents had to think about decolonizing them and building a new relationship with the center. Yoshikawa believed that such an initiative should start by fundamentally changing the relationships among stakeholders, including local community members, local and national governments, TEPCO, members of genshiryoku mura (the nuclear village), and frontline workers.

Lingering Love for genpatsu  161 Getting close to genpatsu and workers Both AFW and RefLab believed that lack of citizens’ knowledge about genpatsu and lack of opportunity to be involved in making decisions about what happened inside the plant were the cause of the accident. These problems are fundamentally attributed to the asymmetrical and distant relationship between members of the nuclear village (e.g., TEPCO, construction companies, and government) and the rest, including community members and plant workers. AFW and RefLab raised concerns that continuation of such relationships could lead to another tragedy. To prevent another accident, Kimura, one of the founding members of RefLab, believed that community members, especially the younger generations like him, must take the initiative to learn about the ongoing state of the nuclear power plant and reconfigure relationships with TEPCO. He also advocated for developing an open network of various actors that transcended the occupational and social boundaries that had structurally separated them from each other in the past. Based on this belief, RefLab promoted interactions among TEPCO administrators, plant contract workers, local and national government, scholars, the media, and citizens from both within and outside Fukushima. He also did not forget that genpatsu was the major actor in this network. He was concerned that the residents had lost their proximity to genpatsu since the disaster. The distance was something TEPCO implemented as a safety measure, to protect citizens from the harm that damaged nuclear reactors could do. However, in keeping citizens away from genpatsu while not being fully transparent about the ongoing state of the plant, TEPCO generated anxieties among residents. Kimura thought that getting physically close to the genpatsu, which was once the pride of the community, and witnessing what was going on there, was necessary to restore the relationship between the community members and TEPCO. He succeeded in putting his idea into practice by organizing field trips to Fukushima Daini Power Plant (F2) in collaboration with AFW and TEPCO. The fieldtrip to F2 provided participants with a way of getting closer to genpatsu and the workers there, physically, socially, and emotionally. Direct interaction with them forged affective connections between visitors, genpatsu, the TEPCO administration, and plant workers. This method of learning through hands-on experience is powerful and it cannot be substituted by other types of knowing that involve the major media (e.g., TV, newspapers). Hashimoto, another founding member of RefLab, articulated that RefLab functioned as the media; it informed audiences about Fukushima and genpatsu by connecting them directly with each other and with genpatsu. Hashimoto, who grew up in the Aizu region of Fukushima, which is over 100 kilometers from the power plant, had limited knowledge about the power plant until he visited there for the first time. He commented how his first visit to genpatsu had fundamentally turned around his view of genpatsu and plant workers: I learned how difficult it is to work at genpatsu. You have to wear layers of clothes like two socks and three gloves. I tried them out and I

162  Lingering Love for genpatsu couldn’t move. It wasn’t the hottest day but I sweated a lot. I can’t imagine how hard it would be if you have to work inside the plant with that gear in summer. I was able to put myself in the condition that was similar to workers. Then, I thought this is what we need to pay more attention to. The workers are still protecting us. The disaster is not over. I think we are turning our eyes away from it. (Hashimoto, Interview, December 11, 2015) Yasuhara, another member of RefLab, stated: I used to think we can’t live without nuclear power. We have a renewable energy option, but right now it can produce only 0.01% of the energy we use. That’s not enough. So, I used to think that nuclear power was a necessity, maybe. But when I went to the plant and saw the workers, I started to feel guilty for letting them work like that. I felt scared just by watching them. They must have felt even more scared. They had to wear all that protective gear and stay inside vehicles when they traveled inside the plant. That’s not normal. I was shocked to see something that wasn’t normal, to be honest. I’m not sure if I am on the side of the anti-nuclear camp or not, but I began to feel that maybe we shouldn’t build more nuclear power plants. (Yasuhara, Interview, January 19, 2016) Both quotes indicate their emerging affective connections with the plant workers. Such connections emerged as they came into contact with the plant and workers in proximity. During the tour of F2, they saw plant workers with tyvek suits and gas masks walking in front of them as real people, not as a generalized abstract category of genpatsu workers. Comments such as “I can’t imagine how hard it would be if you have to work in summer” and “They must feel even more scared” show that they felt their pain and fear as they put themselves in the position of the workers. This act of moving toward someone or something that does not belong to oneself is an act of empathy (Ahmed, 2014). This type of emotional connection may appear similar to kizuna, mandatory love for community, on the surface, but it is fundamentally different. The kizuna sugarcoats the reality of genpatsu and conceals the plight of workers and residents with romantic language, directing attention away from the social and political factors that caused the accident, and from the unequal distribution of risk that the nuclear energy business brings to the life of ordinary people. Seeing the truth of the plant workers’ conditions also pointed out to them the privileges they had. Yasuhara realized she was on the bus (a protected space) when workers were outside, directly exposed to radiation. Hashimoto experienced genpatsu workers’ tasks during their field trip, but he was aware that what he did was only a small part of what plant workers had to do. Acknowledging these concrete gaps instilled in them a sense of guilt. They both understood viscerally that the nuclear energy business could not sustain itself without the sacrifice of plant workers. Similarly, Yoshikawa,

Lingering Love for genpatsu  163 who had worked at the nuclear plant as a TEPCO engineer, stressed that increasing safety at work and providing appropriate compensation for frontline workers were essential to ensure safety of the power plant. Safety at the plant is tied directly to the safety of community members who had returned to their homes after evacuation. Even though the government decontaminated towns and lifted the evacuation order, the residents still had to live with the risk of radiation and another explosion. Thus, they have to take the initiative in ensuring their own safety in their community as the dangerous work of decontamination and decommissioning of the plant proceeds in the next few decades. Critically reflecting on the complacent relationship between community members, members of the nuclear village, and plant workers, AFW and RefLab urged citizens to take responsibility for securing safety in their lives by keeping themselves up to date about the ongoing condition of the plant and its workers. This grassroots movement to visit the nuclear power plant and show appreciation for plant workers who had been marginalized and hidden from the public in the past, was the very act Fukushima needs for its reconstruction.

Citizen scientists Citizens becoming scientists AFW and RefLab reduced the distance between plant workers and ordinary citizens through fieldtrips to F2. Learning about the plant’s current status and workers’ conditions through physical presence at the plant also made scientific knowledge about nuclear power meaningful to citizens. Approximation of the distance between citizens and science, and disruption of the hierarchy between citizens and the community of “experts” in nuclear science was an innovative endeavor. Throughout the history of modern Japan, the nation depended on “experts” in science to progress society and to maintain its security. This trend was apparent in the nuclear business. Since the nation’s shift to a pro-nuclear policy in the 1950s, Japan had been recruiting highly talented young people and training them to become “experts” in nuclear physics and nuclear engineering in top universities. As many senior nuclear scientists today recall, nuclear physics was one of the most popular and competitive courses to study in the 1960s and 1970s (Koide & Sataka, 2011). In this milieu, it had been taken for granted that “experts” have more valuable and accurate knowledge about nuclear power plants than ordinary citizens, including those who work on the front line of the nuclear power plant. Such an implicit belief has automatically given experts the exclusive rights to make decisions about the plant in consultation exclusively with the members of the nuclear village (government, TEPCO administrations, production and construction companies). In addition to this privileged social position, the experts’ physical locations—the fact that they were in labs secluded from communities where ordinary people live—reinforced their special status. The existence of a closed, hierarchical system within the nuclear business did not

164  Lingering Love for genpatsu protect citizens, but it only benefited those who belonged to this closed system, namely members of the nuclear village (Negri, 2014). For example, there had been a discussion about the impact of earthquake and tsunami on the power plant prior to 2011. However, TEPCO undermined the risk to save costs (NHK, 2021, March). Even after the disaster, experts, along with members of the nuclear village, avoided taking responsibility for mistakes they made. In addition, citizens had limited opportunities to speak directly with the “experts” who gave advice to TEPCO on design and operation of nuclear power plants. AFW and RefLab problematized this distance and disconnection between “experts” and ordinary citizens. Even in the process of decontamination and decommissioning, “experts” had been providing technical advice to TEPCO without taking into consideration the everyday lives of members of the community. In addition, calculating risks using scientific models that citizens were not familiar with was causing constant confusion and conflict. Yoshikawa described this issue: You have to pay attention to how residents feel. For example, TEPCO was releasing waste water that contains tritium, but the risk from the perspective of the engineers is minimal. However, citizens don’t feel comfortable about that. They don’t feel safe. There’s a gap between the actual danger and how they feel about it. The way engineers perceive risk and the way residents feel about risk are different. What seems safe from the perspective of engineers doesn’t seem safe for the residents. It’s not a matter of who’s right or wrong. What’s important for engineers is to take residents’ views seriously, to know about their opinions. Residents will understand and feel more confident if their voices are heard and they can influence the decision-making related to the plant. (Yoshikawa, as cited in Ishido, 2016, July 6) Yoshikawa believed that to complete the decontamination and decommissioning of the plant safely, it was essential to heed the residents, which scientific experts had not done before. Residents, whose perspectives are different from the scientists’, might bring up issues that “experts” confined within labs and plants are blind to. Thus, the incorporation of community members’ voices could lead to decisions that are more in harmony with the community’s social and natural environment. Valuing the unique perspectives of residents and those of experts in decision making at the plant echoes Harding’s “standpoint strategy” approach. This seeks to initiate dialog and inquiry from participants (local community members’ perspectives) rather than using established frameworks of experts brought in to inquire about various issues (Harding, 2008). Another challenge for TEPCO in relation to their community members was communication. Presenting facts about the plant in highly technical language without connecting them to the day-to-day life of the community was a source of confusion and distrust. Thus, using language that is accessible

Lingering Love for genpatsu  165 to community members is crucial. In particular, information that relates to radiation risk requires extra sensitivity. In that regard, Yoshikawa believed that we needed a “mediator” between residents and experts to facilitate the communication. He aspired to play this role. TEPCO has been sharing a great amount of information, but I have to make sure it’s communicated correctly to the residents. We have to assist residents in unpacking the information so that they can judge whether the information is correct or not. At the same time, there are journalists, who critique TEPCO harshly. We also need to question that. I thought I could become a mediator….That kind of communication is necessary in order to restore trust. (Yoshikawa, as cited in Ishido, 2016, July 6) Echoing this view, Kimura from RefLab also sees the role of RefLab as the mediator. I think the major media send messages to audiences nationally. They are doing a good job, but it’s not enough. We should not solely depend on the major media. Instead, we should create a space where each of us can send messages directly to each other personally. It means that we are going to be the media. That is important from now on. (Kimura, Interview, December 11, 2015) As these comments indicate, AFW and RefLab envision creating a space for dialog where actors positioned at various levels in the hierarchy of the genpatsu business come to the table to discuss the future of the plant and the community. It means that “experts” will communicate directly with non-experts who have not had formal training in nuclear science. Such an opportunity requires a change of attitude on the part of citizens; they can no longer depend on “experts” or simply criticize the members of nuclear village. Instead, they must function as democratic citizens, who actively ask questions and seek information to make decisions for their community. Kimura viewed RefLab as a space where citizens could develop such this approach through practical experience. Kimura stated: If there is any information related to the safety and risk of our field trip to the plant, I’m not going to say whether the information is right or wrong. There are different opinions. I’m not in a position to say whether it’s right or wrong. I don’t believe in doing that. Everyone has his or her own personal history, and when they hear new information, they interpret it based on that history. So, I’m not going to give an answer. Instead, I want to propose something like: “Let’s think about this” so we can all think about options. I experienced the disaster and came to realize that my happiness is not the same as someone else’s happiness. Since the disaster, I have seen people trying to impose their own version

166  Lingering Love for genpatsu of happiness onto others. But that made them unhappy in return. So, I want to respect individuals’ choices and liberty. (Kimura, Interview, December 11, 2015) Through his own experience of displacement since the disaster, Kimura came to embrace the value of liberalism; he respected individuals’ choices for their own version of happiness. He also assumed that this disposition should be translated into action. Kimura warned community members not to get pulled into the two divided discourses, pro-nuclear or anti-nuclear, completely. Pro-nuclear groups highlighted their commitment to secure the safety of nuclear power plants as the plants move forward with decommissioning. On the other hand, anti-nuclear groups loudly warned community members that they should stay away from the broken power plant. They also attempted to galvanize them to fight for the elimination of nuclear energy. What was more important, from the perspective of Kimura, was to face the reality that one had no choice but to live with the broken plants for the next 30 to 40 years until they are completely decommissioned, if one chose to stay in the community. No one would be able to evade the impact of the decommissioning process on their lives and their natural environment. Ensuring their safety in their lives with the broken plants requires close communication with “experts.” Residents need to know, for example, about the design of the power plant, the decommissioning procedure, and the radiation risk in order to gain a comprehensive understanding of the ongoing condition of the plant and its impact on their lives. This meant residents must gain technical knowledge as well as learning the way scientists think and communicate their thoughts. Thus, to obtain their own version of happiness in their community, they must become “scientists.” Scientists becoming citizens As much as citizens must understand “experts’” ways of knowing and their understanding, “experts” also have to change their work, approaches, and communications styles. Scientists normally observe materials using unique tools that ordinary citizens are not familiar with. They also communicate their findings, which they claim as “unbiased truth” to the public (Arendt, 2007). However, the nuclear accidents of 2011 revealed to the public that the truths “scientists” uncover are biased and may harm people’s lives if they are not careful with how they apply the knowledge to real life. That is why they need to be in constant dialog with citizens in their community when making decisions about the application of their knowledge; they have a responsibility to ensure that the knowledge is used for the wellbeing of the people and natural environment we live in. In communicating with citizens and incorporating their perspectives when examining the application of their knowledge, scientists should remember the “human” side of themselves. We tend to forget this simple reality, but scientists are also humans who have to live in the real world along with

Lingering Love for genpatsu  167 ordinary citizens when they are not engaged in professional work (Arendt, 2007). Thus, for scientists to view objects with their tools and communicate their discoveries to others in specialized language is to leave a part of them, a humane part like that of their fellow citizens, behind. To do so is to dehumanize themselves and to disable themselves from the power of understanding this world as humans. Scientists must regain their humanity by reconnecting their humane part without sacrificing their work identity. To do so is to establish a new identity as citizen scientists. Citizen scientists should consciously place themselves outside the lab and increase the time they spend in close contact with citizens in communities where the scientific knowledge they are dealing with is used. To do so is to restore the natural connection scientists have between their professional life and life outside the professional community. This work of re-connection is much needed in a risk society, where scientific inventions are increasingly becoming major causes of catastrophes, including nuclear accidents.

Conclusion The community members who hosted the plant and TEPCO were in a harmonious relationship with each other for decades until March, 2011. The nuclear power plant, which utilizes the most advanced technologies, had brought resources to the community and provided a sense of pride to its members. Yet the emotional and financial bond between community members and TEPCO fell apart instantly when the accident at F1 took place. The accident unexpectedly revealed an unequal relationship among actors in terms of risk, which had been disguised by subsidies and a selective presentation of what was happening inside the plants. Community members came to realize that the risky business of nuclear power production had been sustaining itself by drawing a clear boundary between those who benefit from it (i.e., members of the nuclear village) and recipients of the risk, namely residents and plant workers, and residents of communities that hosted power plants. The relationship among these actors emulates post-colonial relations, or the new form of feudalism, the exploitation of the commons which we can observe ubiquitously in the current world (Harding, 2008; Negri, 2014). It is common to condemn those who are in positions of power (e.g., members of the nuclear village) as villains and demand they take responsibility for tragedies like nuclear disaster. However, we also need to be aware that ordinary citizens supported this system of exploitation for decades. The majority of the citizens not only in Fukushima but throughout Japan had been complicit with the Japanese government’s pro-nuclear policy since the 1950s despite the hideous experience of atomic bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the continuing suffering of the hibakusha, survivors of the atomic bomb. By turning their eyes away from the plight that atomic energy caused as well as the risk that such a catastrophe could be repeated, consumers in the Tokyo area used electricity that the nuclear plants in Fukushima generated for decades. Towns that hosted the nuclear power plants also failed to scrutinize

168  Lingering Love for genpatsu the risk of nuclear energy that they were vulnerable to in return for receiving immense amounts of government subsidies (Takahashi, 2012). This complicity of ordinary citizens, both in Fukushima and outside, echoes Arendt’s (1956) notion of the “banality of evil,” the tendency of individuals to function as a cog within an inhumane system. With this insight, Arendt claimed all individuals are responsible for catastrophes such as the Holocaust and nuclear disaster. She further urged us to look at our own involvement in the tragedy instead of being an outsider or mere victim. Her voice echoes keenly in the minds of citizens around the world in the wake of Fukushima disaster. The work of AFW and RefLab also emulates Arendt’s voice. Instead of simply criticizing those who are in power (i.e., TEPCO and other members of the nuclear village) and demanding they find solutions, AFW and RefLab invest in bringing awareness among citizens about how we have all been a part of the risky business of nuclear energy since the 1950s. They poignantly point out that the major cause of complicity was the disconnect between ordinary citizens and members of the nuclear village (a coalition of scientists, government, energy companies, and construction and manufacturing companies). They also question the hierarchical structure within the nuclear power plant where the “experts” (nuclear scientists and engineers who design the plant) and the administrators were at the top and the contract workers, who engaged in the most dangerous activities, were at the bottom. Through his work at AFW, Yoshikawa aspired to mend these disconnects and flatten these hierarchical relations among actors. AFW and RefLab have advocated in particular for recognizing the arduous work of plant workers and created a network of support for them. They also call for transparent communication between “experts” who work for TEPCO and ordinary citizens, especially community members whose lives were directly impacted by every decision TEPCO makes about the broken plants. To achieve these ambitious goals, AFW and RefLab came up with the practical idea of inviting citizens to visit the F2, where the decontamination and decommissioning work were taking place. Another method of achieving their goals was for them to become mediators and facilitate communication between “experts” and citizens, and educate citizens about nuclear energy and the nuclear power plant, which had previously been the domain of “experts.” Their initiative provides emerging evidence of citizen scientists, individuals who develop and use scientific knowledge to contribute to the wellbeing of citizens in communities, and take responsibility for securing safety in our lives. In a society where increasingly advanced scientific knowledge and technology are being applied, the distinction between experts in science and citizens need to be blurred. To avoid catastrophes like the Fukushima disaster, we must all take responsibility for knowing about nuclear energy and what is happening inside nuclear power plants, whether we are experts in nuclear physics or not. As Koide, a nuclear physicist and anti-nuclear activist states, “If you don’t want to be deceived, you have to study. You can’t say ‘I don’t know because I am not an expert.’” (Koide & Sataka, 2011). To denounce one’s right to know threatens democracy and the pursuit of happiness. With

Lingering Love for genpatsu  169 scientific knowledge and technology playing a large role in driving our risk society, to become democratic citizens is synonymous with all of us becoming citizen scientists.

Notes 1 Genpatsu is an acronym of genshiryoku hatsu den in Japanese. It means nuclear power plant in English. 2 Parts of Okuma Futaba, Tomioka, and Naomie still have a section of their municipality under evacuation orders (Fukushima Prefectural Government, 2015). 3 A technical high school was founded and is operated by TEPCO. The goal is to train students to become engineers who will work in one of TEPCO’s hydrogen, thermal, or nuclear plants after graduation. It is a tuition-free boarding school. 4 On average, there were about 6,000 workers, including TEPCO employees and subcontracted workers, working inside the plant in 2016 5 TEPCO also built an Energy Center, where the company displayed materials, showed films, and engaged students and citizens in learning about how nuclear power is generated as well as its safety 6 Radioactively contaminated water was released from the nuclear reactors in F1 and F2. Engineers had to come up with counter-measures, such as removing radioactive substances, except for tritium, keeping them in tanks, and freezing the soil and using it as a block to prevent contaminated water from draining into the ocean through the soil. 7 Genshiryoku mura (the nuclear village) refers to close-knit circle of stake holders, who benefited from the nuclear business. They include Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO), manufacturing and construction companies, local and national governments, and researchers in the field of nuclear physics and engineering.

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9 Conclusion

Emotions as productive entity Swirling emotions in Fukushima Emotion is a delicate yet powerful entity. Emotions run through and between human bodies and materials, and move some bodies toward other bodies and materials, sticking them together. At other times, they move bodies away from them (Ahmed, 2014). The effects of emotions are often visceral and subconscious, yet being vulnerable to any type of emotions certainly impacts one’s relationships with others, how one thinks and behaves at school, home, and in the community. It is not an exaggeration to say that emotions were influential in shaping Fukushima students’ everyday lives. In particular, the fear of radiation, which was dominant in post-disaster Fukushima, pushed some residents to leave Fukushima. At the same time, fear of radiation instilled another feeling, “disgust,” in the bodies of those who lived outside Fukushima. The fuhyo (groundless negative rumors) that people and materials from Fukushima are radioactive spread throughout the nation. In addition, the assumption that being in direct contact with persons and materials that had received radiation could contaminate them inflated others’ sense of disgust toward Fukushima people. Unfortunately, this widespread disgust resulted in increased bullying of evacuees from Fukushima and drastic drops in sales of produce from Fukushima (Nohara & Narukawa, 2015). Students in the central region of Fukushima experienced the effects of this nationally spread disgust directly as many of their parents were farmers whose main source of income was sales of produce in the market in the Tokyo area. The discrimination and economic hardship, which was brought into their lives unexpectedly, made students angry and distressed at the same time. Meanwhile, the government’s kizuna (love for community) campaign promoted love for disaster-stricken communities and hope for their reconstruction (Samuels, 2013). Following this government-led discourse, schools in Fukushima positioned love and hope as the “right” feelings and mobilized students to invest in reconstructing communities. Students and teachers generally welcomed these positive emotions as they counteracted the negative emotions of fear and disgust affecting residents’ lives. Kizuna and hope helped teachers and DOI: 10.4324/9781003090083-9

Conclusion  173 students to bring normality back to school and focus on academic achievement. At the same time, extra-curricular programs sponsored by MEXT in collaboration with large inter-governmental organizations such as OECD and U ­ NESCO imbued love and hope through their programs, attempting to replace the negative feelings of fear, disgust, and anger. These programs succeeded in mobilizing students to achieve this goal: they effectively communicated about the safety of Fukushima and its produce to citizens outside Fukushima by actively referencing scientific data. Students also gained support from their audiences in their effort to increase the sales of produce from Fukushima. Despite schools’ concerted efforts to bring back normality in schools, and students’ rigorous engagement in extra-curricular programs for Fukushima reconstruction, fear of radiation among students never diminished. However, they rarely expressed fear in school because fear was contrary to the dominant ethos in school, which celebrated love and hope. To express negative feelings in this milieu was to risk being labeled unpatriotic. Pain was another emotion that silently permeated Fukushima. The unprecedented scale of the earthquake and tsunami followed by the explosion at the Fukushima Daiichi Power Plant (F1) traumatized Fukushima people, especially those who lived in coastal towns where the nuclear power plants were located. Due to the evacuation orders that were enforced in March 2011, they suffered from the loss of not only their loved ones but also their communities. The enormous level of pain left the victims with no words to describe their experience (Miyaji, 2011). Teachers and students who hosted these evacuee students realized limits of understanding their pain. Accepting those limits was also painful (Sato, 2015). However, despite these intersections of silence and pain, some teachers and students gotten close to their pain, and even brought it into the public realm. Their success in witnessing the pain of disaster collectively provided genuine hope for healing. There was another form of mourning and healing that took place in community-based education programs. For example, leaders of Appreciation for Fukushima Workers (AFW) and RefLab, which former and current residents of coastal towns found, experienced pain from the loss of their community life, which had embraced genpatsu. While they indulged in romantic memories of the nuclear power plant, they were also committed to critically examining these romantic feelings and memories (Boym, 2001). To do so was to assume ethical responsibility for the plant that community members had adored for decades. They firmly believed that their community would not be able to heal and reconstruct itself without assuming this responsibility. Lastly, there was High School Peace Seminars (HPS), an education program which aimed for genuine community reconstruction and healing by embracing the pain of hibakusha, victims of nuclear disaster and atomic bombs. HPS participants directly interacted with hibakusha from around the world. As they empathized with the victims’ pain, they directed their gaze to the source of the pain, the existence of nuclear energy. They called for the elimination of nuclear energy to avoid another catastrophe that would exacerbate the existing pain of hibakusha.

174  Conclusion These examples show that students and teachers in Fukushima were vulnerable to various emotions in their everyday life at school and in the community. These emotions moved their bodies toward or away from other bodies. This movement also had a creative and intellectual capacity as it led individuals to reflect on their own actions, and to form new relationships with others. Emotions contain political and cultural aspects (Ahmed, 2014). Just as emotions influence people’s behaviors, institutions shape individuals’ emotions. Institutional control of emotions is a common technology of governance that modern nation-states have adopted. By allowing the expression of certain emotions to be present in the public space, the state can control what becomes legitimized (normal) knowledge in the public space (Foucault, 1980). The promotion of love and hope, and the discouragement of the expression of fear of radiation or pain of displacement in schools in Fukushima show that this technology of governance was operating fully in Fukushima. At the same time, other practices such as the creation of a collective space of mourning where participants expressed and witnessed their pain, fear, and empathy such as in OECD Tohoku School and drama club in Onuma High School indicate that education spaces in post-disaster Fukushima were also spaces of subversion and transformation of such modern methods of governance. Material agency and emotion Another unique finding of this study is agency of non-human actors, including natural ones such as the ocean (tsunami), the Earth, air, and plants, and artificial ones such as nuclear power and radiation. The nuclear disaster, which was triggered by the earthquake and tsunami, revealed the hubris of human beings and potency of the natural world that humans had neglected in the age of modernity. The disaster showed to citizens who resides in the highly technological world that, at the end of the day, humans cannot manipulate or control nature despite the advancement of science and technology (Akasaka & Goto, 2013). The destructive nature of the Earth, ocean, and nuclear power plants demonstrated in March 2011 woke many of us up from amnesia. It even stirred memories of primitive times and left people in awe of these non-human beings. Further, this awareness was strengthened by the surge of various kinds of emotions that circulated among people and materials. Investigating effects of the nuclear disaster with a significant focus on the productive nature of emotion revealed that materials functioned as a conduit and mediator of emotions as much as humans did. For example, the tsunami left a long-term pain in the lives of disaster survivors by destroying their communities and taking away the lives of their family members and friends in an instant. This difficult feeling circulated among the evacuees silently for years. The pain has resulted in continuously high suicide rates in Fukushima (Jiji.com, 2021, February 24).1 Fear was another strong feeling circulating between human bodies and radioactive objects, based on the scientific fact that radiation could cause genetic mutations of human cells for

Conclusion  175 generations as it enters human bodies through air, food, and water. People’s fear of radiation impacted every minute decision they made in their lives, ranging from whether or not to drink tap water, wear masks, do sports outdoors, open windows during class, or eat vegetables grown in Fukushima. Differing opinions about the risk of radiation also caused insoluble conflicts among people in communities, schools, and at home (Hart, 2013; Slater et al., 2014; Yamaguchi & Muto, 2012). These social phenomena suggest the enormous agency radiation, an invisible and silent material, had.

Manifestation of risk society in Fukushima The Fukushima disaster also revealed that we are living in a risk society. Typically, in a risk society, citizens become susceptible to contested definitions of risk and the uncertainty of scientific knowledge. We also become cognizant that the nation-state and science, which protected citizens from risks during the first stage of modernity, are no longer capable of doing so (Beck, 1992). These major characteristics of a risk society were vividly present in post-disaster Fukushima. This study has provided concrete examples from lives of Fukushima people to show how such a society came into being. Among the characteristics of risk society, uncertainty of scientific knowledge was most noticeable in Fukushima. Modern society assumed that scientific knowledge would always produce the truth, protect us from any risks and lead us to create a utopia in this world (Popkewitz, 2008). Especially our reliance on science to advance society by inventing products, systems, and services was dominant during the first stage of modernity. The Fukushima disaster dismantled this premise. In the wake of the plant’s explosion, we learned that science and technology could become a source of catastrophe instead of protecting us from risks. Nuclear disaster in Fukushima also revealed to us that all individuals around the world, regardless of their background, are vulnerable to these risks. Those who lived close to the power plant had to face this harsh truth more acutely than anyone in March 2011. Despite their years of trusting relationship with TEPCO and the nuclear power plant, as many as 57,087 people had to evacuate after the explosion of Fukushima Daiichi Power Plant (F1) (Sakamoto, 2012). Although the government lifted the forced evacuation order, these towns did not achieve complete restoration, with only one-third of the original population returning there. And those who returned to their homes would not completely resume the lives they had prior to the disaster, as they must live with the risk of radiation and the unstable condition of broken nuclear reactors. The pain that victims of the nuclear disaster in Fukushima continue to bear urges us to critically ­re-examine the modern notion of development, and our heavy reliance on science and technology to promote it. Our society had long believed that science would provide absolute answers to the problems it faced, putting an end to conflicts among citizens and leading them to work together to achieve societal progress. The disaster in Fukushima clearly revealed that this assumption about science was fallacious.

176  Conclusion Heated debate among residents and experts over the risk of radiation in Fukushima also exemplifies that science was the source of emotional tumultuousness, rather than resolution, in Fukushima. Instead of providing clearcut answers to whether Fukushima was safe or not, contested definitions of radiation risk scientific experts provided exacerbated divisions and confusion within its communities (Slater, Morioka & Danzuka, 2014). Similar to the case of Chernobyl in 1989, the media played a central role in generating and exacerbating the contested definitions of risk in Fukushima after 2011. However, the types of media and the way they operated this time were different from 30 years ago. Compared to the 1980s, the media had become more diversified with the spread of social media. This allowed more actors from diverse social backgrounds to disseminate and receive information about nuclear energy and radiation contamination in Fukushima. The media also allowed a great many people to participate in discussion about the disaster using online platforms. Citizens used Twitter, Facebook, blogs, and videos instead of solely depending on the major news and broadcasting networks to access information about Fukushima (Hasegawa, 2014). The diversification and increased accessibility of these media allowed actors who did not side with the government’s view of nuclear power and radiation risk to justify their voices and disseminate them. In his account of risk society in the 1990s, Beck (1992) did not account for how the unique nature of radiation went hand in hand with the role of the media and emotion in shaping people’s perception of risk. Focusing on emotions in unpacking citizens’ response to radiation (particularly their contested perception of risk) in this book has revealed how the invisible nature of radiation allowed the media to inflate or deflate the residents’ fear of radiation. Radiation’s lack of smell, shape, or sound required representation through numbers, language, and visual images. Therefore, what triggered and justified people’s fear was not the actual presence of radiation but rather the media’s presentation of it. In other words, fear was fabricated discursively. Sometimes, the level of fear residents felt and expressed did not even correlate with actual contamination levels. For example, residents in central areas of Fukushima did not fear radiation on March 12 after the nuclear reactors’ explosion in F1. They even spent time outdoors in the rain as they did not have access to information that the radioactive fall-out was contaminating the region. However, the fear surged later as citizens learned about high radiation levels in Fukushima on March 12 from social media. Although the media, especially the social media, enabled a variety of views about risk of radiation in Fukushima, information about radiation contamination can be categorized into two dominant groups: pro-nuclear and anti-nuclear. Those who aligned themselves with the pro-nuclear groups took the view that nuclear power plants are under control and the radiation contamination level in Fukushima was not serious. In making this claim, they relied on radiation safety guidelines developed by a pro-nuclear international organization, the International Commission on Radiation Protection (ICRP). Their guidelines asserted that a radiation level of 20 mSV/

Conclusion  177 year, which is 20 times higher than the normal level, was safe. This standard is what the Japanese government adopted and preached through risk communicators and official booklets. On the other hand, those who aligned themselves with the anti-nuclear groups adopted the Linear Non-Threshold (LNT) model, which claims that exposure to radiation, even if the level is minimal, is harmful to human bodies. Anti-nuclear activists who relied on the LNT model discredited the government’s view of radiation safety, arguing that the government was using selective scientific data to downplay the radiation risk in Fukushima (Hamblin, 2012; Kingston, 2012). On the other hand, the majority of citizens who decided to remain in Fukushima accepted the ICRP’s stance, and accused those who publicly expressed their concerns of radiation phobia (Slater et al., 2014). What is unique about this phenomenon is that experts from both ends of the spectrum (pro-nuclear or anti-nuclear) used scientific data to claim their own version of the truth. The more versions of truth residents heard, the more confused and uncertain they became. This uncertainty was also common among teachers and students in public schools in Fukushima. However, despite the heated debates over safety standards and protocols in schools, discussion of radiation was suppressed among students (Kobayashi, Interview, December 21, 2015). Students did not feel comfortable bringing the topic of radiation to class as they were afraid that their view was different from those of others. Fear that their peers might ridicule them for fretting over radiation was another reason for their silence. In addition, most teachers who were compelled to participate in the reconstruction discourse did not find time to talk about students’ feelings about radiation in class. However, there were some conscientious teachers, who created spaces to share their disaster experiences and feelings in class and extra-curricular activities.

Reflection on modernization in Japan and its consequences The Western anthropocentric model of development is founded on the premise that continuous expansion of production using science and technology leads to happiness. This model of development also positions non-Western cultures as left behind and expects “under-developed” communities to simply follow the path Western nations have laid down for them (Tsurumi, 1977). As happened in many colonized countries, this model attached shame to animistic worldviews and erased animistic ways of living throughout the world. Japan was no exception. Since the Meiji restoration in 1868, Japan had sidelined its traditional values and lifestyles rooted in animism to promote industrialization following the Western model of development. Animism assumes the presence of divine power (kami) in all beings, human or non-human, and spiritual connection among them. It recognizes the agency of natural beings, and rejects the hierarchy of humans and non-humans created by human beings in their desire to control nature (Tsurumi, 1998). Instead, it teaches that all beings (human or non-human) should

178  Conclusion live in harmony with each other spiritually and physically. As Westernization became the normalized goal in modern Japan in the nineteenth century, animism became an object of embarrassment, and the government strategically extinguished it. The modern government replaced the original Shinto with state Shinto, in which the emperor was positioned as the god and the creator of the nation (Tsurumi, 1977). Denying this world view and replacing it with the “modern” way of living inflated the human ego in modern Japan. We falsely led ourselves to believe that humans could control all other beings with the power of rationality, science, and technology. This anthropocentric worldview and over-reliance on science as the tool for development further separated humans from animals, and scientific knowledge from religious or spiritual knowledge. Further, humans’ exacerbated hubris affirmed humans’ belief that they are enlightened beings and thus able to progress their society by utilizing rationality (Harding, 2008; Yoneyama, 2013). The Fukushima disaster harshly revealed that this modern premise was in fact wrong. The earthquake and tsunami proved that science could not always progress the world, nor can it protect people from risk. The accident and the agency of non-human materials (e.g., ocean waves, nuclear power plant, and radiation) woke us up to our indulgence toward a metaphysical world in modern society. The tragedy also showed the public that animism had never left this world; humans never had the upper hand over nature. Although it appeared that we had been successful in separating ourselves from the spirit of nature in modern society, this never truly happened. In fact, there has never been such separation at the ontological level; we had never been modern (Latour, 1993). When materials such as radioactive substances released from the power plant entered the biosphere and were transferred to animals, plants, and human bodies, they taught us without language that we were evidently wrong. We also learned that these silent materials can pose a threat to the existence of human beings, who are connected to all other beings, whether we admit it or not. This raw reality bluntly demands that we acknowledge the connectedness of all beings in this universe. Ignoring those connections and arrogantly believing in our ability to control others with our intellect can result in unspeakable tragedies such as nuclear disaster, as Fukushima people recently experienced. Admitting the limitations of science while humbly accepting the existence of the animistic world can end our obsession with development. Perhaps it is time for us to shed light on the animistic world that has been pushed into the background of our modern lives, and revive it.

Curriculum and teaching in post-disaster Fukushima Incessant drive for development Despite the revelation of material agency and the uncertain nature of scientific knowledge in a risk society, the public’s mentality does not seem to have changed in a fundamental way. The dominant ethos in the disaster-stricken

Conclusion  179 communities is economy focused. In other words, they are still seeking the “development” which dominated pre-disaster society. Reflecting a familiar modern belief that education is the major tool for (re)constructing society, it was the initiative to rebuild the economy in Fukushima that shaped education policy and practices in public schools in Fukushima immediately after the disaster (Fukushima Prefectural Government 2012; Zunz, 1995). Despite the trauma of the disaster and ongoing concerns about radiation, teachers and students concentrated on academic achievement and entrance examinations. This ethos did not leave them space to reflect on their disaster experience or examine the causes and effects of the disaster (Kobayashi, 2013). The normalization in schools indicated Japanese leaders’ persistent interest in using education to shape citizens’ minds and bodies in ways that aligned with the state’s interests. In Japan, public schools have worked in tandem with naive complicities over nuclear energy policy in the postWWII regime (Koyasu & Shinozaki, 2013; Kudomi et al., 2014). With the policy makers’ initiative to take up the reconstruction and pro-nuclear discourse in their classrooms, teachers found it challenging to introduce topics that were so fundamental to their students’ lives, such as radiation risk, causes of the nuclear disaster and its ongoing effects (Fujita, Interview, December 14, 2015). In addition to the restoration of normality in public schools, the government’s desire for continuous economic development through education also manifested itself in an education project, OECD Tohoku School (TS). The program stressed the economic recovery and development of the disaster-stricken region by promoting twenty-first-century skills (ikiru chikara) in collaboration with the OECD and other actors from the private and public sectors (Halász, 2014). This program was completely future and economy oriented. Consequently, it avoided critical examinations of the causes of the nuclear disaster and its impacts on people and the natural environment. Another program in which students in Fukushima participated, UNESCO’s Education for Sustainable Development (ESD), was somewhat different from the OECD TS. ESD took into consideration sustainable relationships between the human desire for economic development and the natural environment (UNESCO ASPnet, 2014). However, it still shared the same limitations as the OECD TS; given its development focus, the program did not guide students to engage in critical inquiry about the modern notion of development and its consequences for students’ lives. Overall, these education trends indicate educators’ lack of acknowledgment of the risk society and our interdependent connection with non-human actors, whether natural or artificial. Forming new connections through listening and seeing Despite the strong movement toward normalization in schools in post-­ disaster Fukushima, there were some classroom teachers who questioned this trend. They especially condemned the skewed emphasis on normalization in

180  Conclusion education for the reconstruction of disaster-stricken communities. Amidst tight schedules, they carved out time and created space for students to express their disaster experiences and emotions, including difficult ones such as fear and pain. For example, Fujita and Shiraki, who had been trained in seikatsu tsuzurikata pedagogy2 (life experience writing) had students talk and write about their disaster experience in their Japanese language classes. Through writing, some students expressed their fear of radiation, which they had been repressing. These teachers also shared their students’ voices with their colleagues and parents through newsletters. Other teachers chose afterschool programs as the site to share authentic voices and feelings related to the disaster. For example, Sato, a high-school teacher and an advisor to the drama club in the Aizu region of Fukushima, guided students to share and present their disaster experiences through theatrical performance. By interweaving their pain and fear in their performance, these students succeeded in bringing taboo topics including death, displacement, nuclear energy, and radiation into the public realm (Sato, 2015). Although these teachers succeeded in having students share their voices, the temporal and spatial constraints at their school continued to hinder their practice; the rigid schedule and curriculum in school did not allow time for students to investigate the social, political, and historical context that led to the disaster. Nor was there time in the curriculum to have students think how they could re-appropriate their behaviors to create a new future that would not be a simple restoration of the old pre-disaster society. Thus, this type of critical inquiry for community reconstruction had to be taken to an out-of-school environment where there were no curriculum restrictions. Community-based organizations AFW and RefLab were two examples of education programs that engaged participants in critical inquiry. The leaders of these organizations, who were from the communities that hosted the nuclear power plants, reflected on the social and physical distance maintained between citizens and the nuclear power plant and its workers before the accident. They also acknowledged that lack of citizen participation in the decision-making process related to the construction and operation of the nuclear power plant was one of the factors that led to the accident. Based on this reflection, these organizations were committed to preventing another tragedy by encouraging citizens to actively educate themselves on the updated state of the nuclear power plant and of frontline plant workers. Their method was to connect citizens with the plant and plant workers through field trips to the Fukushima Daini Power Plant (F2). Through the trip, the participants could directly see the reality of the nuclear power plant after the disaster and interact with TEPCO workers (AFW, n.d.; RefLab, n.d.). Another out-of-school program that provided opportunities for students to examine their relationship with nuclear energy was the High School Peace Seminar (HPS). Influenced by the mission of its parent organization (Japan Council against Atomic and Hydrogen Bombs (Gensuikyo), the HPS has an anti-nuclear orientation. Thus, in examining our relation to nuclear energy, they concentrated on learning perspectives about nuclear energy

Conclusion  181 from hibakusha, victims of nuclear energy (i.e., victims of nuclear disaster and atomic bomb survivors). By hearing stories from hibakusha from various places around the world, students recognized how nuclear power destroys humanity and the harmonious connection between the human and the natural worlds. Approximating the physical, social, and emotional distance from the plant, plant workers, and hibakusha (including disaster victims and plant workers), and through listening to and seeing them directly, students came to form new relationships with them. Such relations further led them to recognize the interconnectedness of human and non-human actors. Such knowing becomes a basis for embracing animism.

Implications for society New animism and endogenous development for healing While animistic views of the world had been marginalized in the minds of many people in modern Japan, a catastrophe like the Fukushima disaster woke us up from our amnesia. It generated a silent yet strong sense of awe among individuals (Umehara, cited in Samuels, 2013). Speaking to teachers and students in Fukushima, I learned that many of them seem to be operating on the animistic world paradigm. They accepted the uncontrollability of nature and the product of their scientific inventions, including the nuclear power plant and radioactive substances. In contrast to anti-nuclear activists, who in outrage held TEPCO and the Japanese government culpable, residents I talked to were deliberating on why they had ended up having a nuclear power plant in Fukushima, and how they could continue to live in their community with the broken plant, radiation, and TEPCO. Their reaction is animistic; their view does not divide perpetrators from victims, or non-human from human, but sees how each human or non-human actor contributes to the emergence of an event like nuclear disaster. Such a view chimes with that of Ogata, an activist and survivor of mercury pollution in Minamata City in Kumamoto, Japan. He asserted that we cannot just focus on “humans” in identifying the causes of a man-made catastrophe and try to heal from it (Yoneyama, 2013). Instead, we must re-examine and restore our relationship to the natural environment. The voices of victims from Minamata and Fukushima urge us to bring back the animistic paradigm to our current society, which is facing increasing numbers of man-made catastrophes. However, doing so requires caution. Simply discarding our contemporary way of living and replacing it with animism could bring about discord and possibly more chaos in our world. Thus, instead of restoring traditional animism, I suggest we develop the practice of new animism. Similar to traditional animism, new animism supposes all actors, human or non-human, are organically connected with each other. Unlike old animism, which focused on our connection to the natural world, new animism assumes materials that are products of science and technology are just as important elements of our lives as are natural materials.

182  Conclusion Based on this belief, new animism promotes harmonious relations between humans, technology, the products of technology, and nature (Jensen & Block, 2013). Interestingly, AFW and RefLab materialized the tenets of new animism to post-disaster Fukushima, even though they did not refer to this concept as such. These organizations have been advocating restoration and development of harmonious relationships among actors specific to their local community, including human beings (e.g., plant workers, farmers and fisherman in the community, TEPCO administrators, scientists, and local politicians), products of science and technology (e.g., the broken power plant and radioactive substances like plutonium and uranium), and natural materials (e.g., ocean, fish, animals, soil, mountains). The application of new animism in current society calls for endogenous development, a new type of development to replace the anthropocentric development that dominated the first stage of modernity. Unlike anthropocentric development, which lays excessive emphasis on economics and the wellbeing of humans, endogenous development encourages harmonious changes of individual actors (e.g., human beings, animals, trees, river, radiation, power plant) and their relations through organic interactions. It is important to remember that endogenous development does not necessarily demand a return to the “primitive.” For example, in the case of energy, endogenous development would not completely deny the use of fossil fuels in our lives and go back to the ancient way of living. However, if we are to use fossil fuels, we must use them following the laws of nature. It means we must think carefully, and assess how much energy we need and how we should produce and use it in order to sustain harmony with all beings (Tsurumi, 2002). In doing so, we must move away from our individual greed and think of how we can maintain harmony with others (Yanagida, as cited in Tsurumi, 1977). When we think in this way, we are likely to choose low-­ energy living (Tsurumi, 1989). This paradigm should also apply to the future of nuclear energy. We must examine the harm that nuclear energy has brought to the natural environment and members of the community since the accident. At the same time, we should remember that there was a harmonious relationship between plant, TEPCO, and the community for almost four decades before the accident in 2011. Based on this history and the insights we have regained from animism, it is possible for individuals from both TEPCO and the community to explore ways to live harmoniously with the nuclear power plant again. The solution could be further advancement of nuclear science and engineering to prevent accidents. Or, as AFW and RefLab noted, the solution could be expansion of transparency about nuclear power plants’ structure and operations to citizens. It is also important to include citizens in making decisions about the plants. Based on the community’s history with TEPCO and the ongoing economic reliance on the plant business, TEPCO and community members together should decide how their relationship with each other and the plants (the broken ones and those that have been restored) should change, taking into consideration the sustainability of the natural environment in the community.

Conclusion  183 We must begin this discussion by critically reflecting on our use of science and technology in the past. The greed that drove our use of scientific knowledge and technology in the past resulted in exploitative and even egregious acts. Our hubris also prevented us from foreseeing the possibility that nature has the power to destroy the plants. We must humbly admit that our greed and arrogance have brought unspeakable levels of harm to both humans and the natural environment (Akasaka, 2014b; Tsurumi, 2002). The long list of catastrophes ranging from deforestation, rising sea levels, wild fires, air and water pollution, and nuclear disasters to the recent COVID-19 global pandemic are all consequences of anthropocentric development enabled by over-reliance on science and technology and underestimation of nature. Glocalization and cosmopolitanization Promotion of endogenous development automatically requires changes in how society governs individuals. This is because endogenous development asks actors (e.g., humans, animals, plants, and products of technologies) to be in symbiotic relationship with each other in a specific place. This form of governance is organic and bottom up. It is different from the centralized system of governance that the Japanese government used in the modern era when the nation was seeking speedy linear industrial development to catch up with the West. Although the government has promoted local autonomy and decentralization as a part of neoliberal policy in the twenty-first century, the centralized system of governance still remains strong in Japanese society. In the centralized system of governance, the national government manages its citizens by determining what they can and cannot do in their everyday lives, and monitors whether they are following the protocols. Areas of government control even encompass personal aspects of life, such as physical and mental health, education, family systems and sexuality, criminal justice, and welfare (Foucault et al., 1991). In addition to the regulation of citizens, modern nation-states also control the nation’s natural environment. This type of governance, which promotes anthropocentric development, needs to cease in today’s society. We must shift the power of governance to the local level. Doing so would allow various human actors to listen to the voices (including non-verbal ones) of other actors, whether human or non-human, in their communities. Careful listening in each local context is indispensable to social change while maintaining spiritual and organic connections among humans, nature, and technology. Emphasis on local control suggests that we should move away from the national and global word and remain secluded in small independent communities as we did in the primitive era. However, local autonomy does not need to reject the formation of global alliances (Tsurumi, 1977). On the contrary, endogenous development encourages the formation of alliances among local communities across the world. As non-human actors such as ocean, seeds, wind, chemicals, and viruses travel across national borders, so are communities inevitably impacted by what happens in other communities

184  Conclusion located beyond their national border. When the Fukushima disaster took place, contamination of air and water affected not only people in Fukushima but also fish in the Pacific Ocean and people and animals connected to the fish through the food chain. The COVID-19 global pandemic, which we are still battling with in 2021, may have started in Wuhan, China, but it spread to every corner of the world within a few months. First-hand experience of COVID-19 has taught many of us that risk impacts citizens across national borders. This means that sustainability of one local community in one location on the globe cannot be separated from the sustainability of other communities in other locations. Thus, collaboration among world citizens is necessary in order to completely mitigate risks. Such global collaboration is different from the old cosmopolitan values that expected those in privileged positions to engage in acts of charity to save others citizens who are facing challenges in their lives. In today’s society, collaboration among local communities is a mandate, a necessary act for the survival of all beings in the age of risk society (Beck, 2006, 2011; Beck & Levy 2013). Beck calls this type of mandatory collaboration “cosmopolitanization.” Some may argue that large inter-governmental organizations such as UNESCO and the OECD can provide platforms for this type of coalition among citizens from various nations to deal with risks. While these organizations can help communities deal with risks that they are facing, excessive centralized leadership of these organizations poses a threat to endogenous (animistic) development. Economic and political leaders in the post-Cold War regime can replicate the cosmopolitan mentality and colonization. In other words, relations among nations determined in colonial times, such as first, second, and third worlds, may be reinforced (Butler, 2004). In addition, organizations consisting of “developed” nations, who are still relying on the old anthropocentric model of development, may continue to produce risks instead of mitigating them. Thus, we should avoid relying heavily on these organizations. Instead, we should focus on developing innovative alliances between local communities in risk society, where we seek endogenous development.

Education implications Endogenous development and education In the first stage of modernity, we promoted anthropocentric development using a centralized system of governance. Public-school education in Japan, which replicated the education systems of Prussia and the US, had functioned as the major tool to craft and control citizens since the nineteenth century (Yamamoto, 2014). In schools, teachers actively inculcated the moral values of state Shinto (i.e., the Shinto that the Meiji government crafted for its young from 1890 to 1945 while repudiating local Shinto, such as animism). By doing so the nation developed patriotic citizens who fought in world wars and invested in economic and industrial development.

Conclusion  185 A shift from an anthropocentric model of development to endogenous development automatically requires changes to curriculum content. In the centralized system of schooling, knowledge grounded in local communities’ culture, history, and natural environment has been crowded out of the curriculum. Instead, schools taught crafted and selective memories of the nation and standardized culture and language. Thus, education in the age of endogenous development must begin with subverting this top-down curriculum. Instead, we should encourage teachers and students to bring local knowledge that has immediate relevance to students’ lives into the curriculum. MEXT’s new stance on local empowerment in education as a part of neoliberalism resonates with this idea. In fact, MEXT has been promoting development by teachers of their own curriculum in collaboration with local actors and the inclusion of furusato gakushu (Hometown Study) as a part of Integrative Studies (sogo gakush) for decades (MEXT, 2013). This type of learning, which allows students to gain access to knowledge related to their community’s natural environment, history, culture, and spiritual practices, would be a great platform on which to start education for endogenous development. Unfortunately, MEXT has been struggling to implement this new form of education in the past few decades. One of the major reasons for failure is teachers’ reluctance. As was observed in the OECD TS, the topdown approach to implementation, the gap between the culture of existing schools and the new curriculum, and lack of training on how and why we should change our curriculum and methods have been obstructions. On that note, I recommend MEXT to communicate with teachers and community teachers, giving extensive explanations on why change is necessary and how the change would benefit their communities economically and socially. Reconnecting ourselves to ancestral knowledge Learning about endogenous development often results in recognizing primitiveness within ourselves (Tsurumi, 1977). This type of learning will help students acknowledge their connection to all beings, human or non-human, as well as to our ancestral knowledge. Reconnection to our primitive self could be done both in school and out-of-school contexts. An example of such practice came up in the OECD Tohoku School (TS). As part of a branding project, students created a ritual of wa. In this ritual, participants stood in a circle holding hands and shouted wa (circle). Through this ritual, students not only reinforced their bond with each other, but they also reconnected themselves with the deceased and their ancestors. Repeated participation in this ritual healed them by easing the pain of their tragic losses. They were also able to think of rebirth collectively. Although these students improvised this ritual at the workshop and had no knowledge of its origin, archeological evidence suggests that it was a replication of mourning rituals practiced by jomon people, who inhabited the Tohoku region from 13 to 3 BCE (Fukushima University Innovative Learning Lab, 2015). This example suggests that open-ended student-led projects with the theme of local

186  Conclusion community can promote the type of learning through which students can tap into local ancestral knowledge. One of the reasons why ancestral knowledge has been excluded from the official curriculum is that it is not always recorded in written form. In pre-modern Japan, it was common for people to preserve such knowledge in the form of rituals or art such as dance, theater, and music (Kaketa, 2015). Rituals and dance were performed at festivals at shrines, and temples in communities in Japan are examples of those (Akasaka, as cited in Fukushima University, 2013; Tsurumi, 1977). Interestingly, the revival of traditional folk art has grown as disaster-stricken communities attempt to restore connections among community members and their relationship to local places and memories. These activities are often conducted outside school in community-based organizations as extra-curricular or leisure activities. However, in OECD TS, this type of learning took place more formally. Workshops encouraging students to explore their local history inspired some students to excavate more history on their own. Some even conducted interviews with elderly people about the meaning of festivals, and made a documentary film based on that. We should promote this type of experiential learning situated in specific local communities in public-school classrooms as we craft new types of education based on an endogenous model of development. Locally grounded student-led curriculum Animism is rooted in the local natural environment and in the culture based in that environment. It also reflects the ancestral knowledge that has been accumulated over thousands of years. Thus, animism is a very local thing as each community has its own practices of animism (Yoneyama, 2019). This nature of animism transfers into new animism. New animism recognizes technology and science as important actors of local communities. Endogenous development, which is based on the notion of new animism, acknowledges organic connection and change among all actors—human and non-human—in a specific local context. Thus, education that promotes endogenous development cannot take the form of the top-down centralized curriculum that was implemented during the first stage of modernity. Instead, connections between school knowledge and everyday life grounded in the community’s natural environment, history, and current social issues should be central. Teachers in public schools in post-disaster Fukushima have demonstrated some examples of education based on endogenous development. For example, students in the drama club in Onuma High School explored their struggles of displacement and loss, and how to represent them in the public space ethically. After a series of heart-to-heart talks between themselves and community members, they successfully performed their autobiographical play (Sato, 2017). In the Education for Sustainable Development (ESD), students in Adachi High School investigated how fishermen and farmers were monitoring radiation levels in fish and produce. They shared their findings with audiences at national and international conferences. Through their presentations they

Conclusion  187 attempted to mitigate discrimination against Fukushima people based on the rumor that people and commodities from Fukushima are highly radioactive (Sugiuchi, 2013). These examples of locally based education projects respond to authentic challenges students face in their everyday lives. Teaching this type of curriculum requires teachers to have dispositions and skills that are different from traditional curricula in which curriculum content is fixed. Teachers are encouraged to become curriculum developers by inducting students into the network of actors (human and non-human) and ancestral knowledge they share. Doing so does not automatically exclude knowledge produced and accumulated in academia or in the formal school curriculum. Teachers who have expertise in specific content knowledge and methods of constructing such knowledge can help their students to form questions grounded in their local context and find answers to them by providing specific content knowledge. This type of teaching aligns with the wider international movement of education led by the OECD, which aims to promote a set of competencies, named ikiru chikara (zest for living) by Japanese policy makers; they include flexibility, autonomy, critical thinking, and problem solving (Fukushima University Innovative Learning Lab, 2015; OECD, 2005). Unfortunately, schools in Fukushima struggled to develop these competencies among their students. One of the reasons for failure is that the pressure felt by both students and teachers to demonstrate increases in their students’ test scores. An enourmous amout of external pressure created anxieties among teachers, causing them to depend on the prescribed curriculum instead of promoting students’ ability to inquiry into their community’s issues in post-disaster Fukushima. Seeing some successful examples of practice from OECD TS, I recommend educators to incorporate more experiential learning in which students are rooted in their community. It is particularly important to repair the disconnect between school knowledge and practical knowledge tied to the daily lives of students. This disconnect is the exact problem that Dewey (2001) pointed out over 100 years ago, yet Japan seems to be still grappling with this issue. Making global connections through education Education for endogenous development requires a curriculum rooted in the individual community’s history, culture, and natural environment. Thus, local actors, including students who are well versed in their communities, must take a lead in the development of the curriculum. Some might express a concern that such an exclusive focus on local issues would separate schools from each other both at the national and the global scale. This concern is needless. On the contrary, education for endogenous development enhances collaboration among individual schools across the nation and the globe. A few examples of education from post-disaster Fukushima suggest that international organizations such as UNESCO ESD can serve as mediators in developing a global network of learners to promote

188  Conclusion endogenous development. For example, in the UNESCO ESD program, Adachi High School students explored the issue of radiation contamination and discrimination against Fukushima people. They presented how radiation risk is monitored in Fukushima at an ESD conference in Okayama and gained support from their peers to eliminate rumors that Fukushima people are radioactive. Another student who attended the international ESD conference engaged in discussions about whether or not we should continue to use nuclear energy in our society. These examples demonstrate that locally grounded issues in the curriculum do not necessarily disconnect them from the global world. Furthermore, global agencies like UNESCO can support individual schools and students who are exploring common sustainability issues in the world. At the same time, for several reasons I am reluctant to position international organizations such as the OECD and UNESCO at the center of education for endogenous development if we are to move away from the anthropocentric development model. One reason is that educational practices framed by these powerful international organizations cannot ensure bottom-up initiatives in curriculum development. For example, in OECD TS, students integrated knowledge about their local community by marketing locally grown fruits or making documentaries about local festivals (Fukushima University, 2013). However, because the ultimate goal of OECD TS was economic development, the project did not provide scope or guidance for students to pay attention to the natural environment or their ancestors and students’ relationship to them. These are essential aspects of a curriculum for endogenous development. Simply learning about local history in a superficial way and sharing information with others at the global scale, as occurred in OECD TS, is fundamentally different from education for endogenous development. Pursuing economic recovery by gaining support from global actors is a legitimate goal in a disaster-stricken region. Implementing a project to achieve this goal through education programs is also appropriate. However, if we are to pursue endogenous development, local actors need to be in charge of developing relationships with other schools across the world. Collaborative relations that they develop should be based on the idea of cosmopolitanization, alliances based on their recognition of common challenges in a risk society across borders (Beck & Levy, 2013). Only such organic connections based on individual actors’ commitment to mitigate risks and restore our world can do so. In forming such alliances, educators can learn from the examples of hibakusha, as HPS students did. Students from Fukushima formed alliances with victims of atomic bombs and nuclear disasters from Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Semipalatinsk, the Marshall Islands, and Fukushima. Hibakusha in these locations experienced the effects of nuclear disaster in a unique way, reflecting their own communities’ political, economic, cultural, and environmental context. However, they also identified common challenges as hibakusha regardless of where, when, and how they became victims of radiation (Saito et al., 2014). The recognition of common challenges

Conclusion  189 and the desire to eliminate nuclear risk served as a solid basis for members to connect with each other across the globe. Nuclear is only one of the many risks that citizens face in today’s society. An inquiry into world risks including radiation, pandemics, or global warming will illuminate the interconnectedness and interdependence of all beings in the natural and social world we live in. Because the impact of those risks manifests differently in each community with its specific history, landscapes, and biodiversity, students in each community must explore how that community is experiencing risks. At the same time, hearing various manifestations of the same risks (e.g., global warming) and analyzing them would lead members from various local communities to recognize risks that all citizens across the globe are experiencing. Such an awareness will help individual students and teachers recognize connections not only with other citizens who happen to be directly affected by the risks in a catastrophic way, but also with our planet and other beings (e.g., animals, plants, chemicals, Earth) who live with us. Decentering language in the curriculum Education for endogenous development will not only change the curriculum content, and the networks students and teachers develop through learning, but also the role of language in education. In modern schooling, language has always played a central role. It is not an exaggeration to say that education has been equated with the ability to read and write using symbols. Many of us even come to equate linguistic ability with intelligence and academic achievement. This unique association between language and intelligence has resulted in the exclusion of “ancestral” knowledge in non-Western communities and the marginalization of people who do not use written language in modern society (Akasaka, 2014a; Tsurumi, 1977). However, as we embrace an animistic view of the world, we have to move away from modern notions of language, knowledge construction, and learning. The focus of education based on endogenous development recognizes one’s spiritual and material connection to other beings, both human and non-human. In the risk society, these organic connections are damaged, due to human egos seeking to control nature. Thus, to heal our world, we must humbly start recovering our connections with other human and non-human actors. The first step in doing so is to attentively listen to all actors, including animals, plants, air, water, and soil, that do not use human language (Gill & Tsurumi, 2014; Yoneyama, 2013, 2019). It is especially important to understand the pain and suffering of silent actors (nature and products of science and technology) through attentive listening. This type of listening will require non-verbal communication, including touching, feeling, smelling, seeing, listening, and imagining. In other words, it will require more direct experience in local natural places where students live. For example, students should spend time in natural environments where they can have direct interaction with non-human actors. Through these interactions,

190  Conclusion students can learn to recognize spiritual, social, and physical connections between them and other actors in specific local places. This type of learning will require more time away from traditional classrooms, where students’ bodies are confined within artificial walls. The new vision of education is likely to change the landscape of schools. Certain actors, including materials such as desks, books, computers, notebooks, tablets, pens, whiteboards, and licensed teachers, which have been regular features of modern schools over the past two centuries, may not disappear completely but should take on new roles and positions in schools. On the other hand, other actors that were previously outside the realm of formal education, including animals, plants, and residents from the communities, could become important actors in learning. How students represent what they learn also requires less use of language in the endogenous development model of education. While (verbal) symbols will be necessary for students in the process of representation, forms of representation should become more diverse. In place of written language, students could present their understanding of certain materials in an art form or through real-life projects such as building homes, decontaminating water, or taking care of animals. Ideally those presentations of students’ learning could become part of the network of learning and serve as a tool for enhancing the wellbeing of all actors, human or non-human, in specific local communities. Some examples of emerging practices along these lines were present in the Education for Sustainable Development (ESD) program. For example, students in Adachi High School measured radiation on their campus and created a hazard map. Teachers later used this map to decontaminate hotspots on campus to create a safe environment for their students. Some students who participated in OECD TS also conducted a practical project through which they demonstrated OECD KCs (ikiru chikara): they made packaged fruit jellies, using locally grown fruits, and sold them in domestic and international markets. Another example of authentic presentation of learning was Onuma High School students’ theater performance. Through the play, students shared their personal stories of displacement. By doing so they succeeded in sharing their unspeakable pain in the public space. These are great examples from which teachers, both from disaster and non-disaster communities across the globe, can learn. Integrating emotions into the curriculum Decentering language from learning, and recognizing one’s ontological, affective, and spiritual connection with other actors in animistic education, also compels us to pay more attention to students’ emotions in learning. Experiences of students and teachers in post-disaster classrooms indicate that emotions, even when hidden and subconscious, had strong agency. Emotions constituted a fundamental driving force for learning and induced cognitive, behavioral, and interpersonal change in classrooms in Fukushima. Emotions had the power to direct students to other actors at certain times and to pull them away from those at other times. As the act of knowing is inseparable

Conclusion  191 from one’s relationship with the objects of knowing, emotions lie at the very foundations of what we want to know, what we can know, how, and why (Miyazawa, 2018). In a curriculum whose focus is to recognize connections with all kinds of human and non-human actors (some of which do not use language), we need to start our learning by embracing all emotions circulating between learners and actors. Yanagita, a Japanese folklorist who advocates an animistic way of living, also argued that we should pay attention to emotions rather than to rationality in our lives (Tsurumi, 1977). This means that we should move away from current modes of education, which focus mainly on rationality (cognition). The exclusion of emotions for the sake of constructing ideal citizens with strong rationality—those who use verbal language and scientific knowledge—has been the trend in modern schools. That trend even persisted in classrooms in post-disaster Fukushima, where students were suffering from the trauma of the disaster and from fear of ongoing radiation contamination. Education that undermines the power of emotion and overemphasizes cognition simply perpetuates anthropocentric development and generates more risks. The negative consequences of the risk society Fukushima people have experienced urges us to pay more attention to emotions in our lives and education. I strongly recommend educators to accept emotions as significant drivers of learning in schools. In preparation for emotional teaching, teachers are encouraged to be more familiar with basic knowledge about types of emotions and their functions. For example, they should be able to identify what emotions they and their students are feeling, how intense they are, and how those emotions “move” them to take or not take ceartain actions. Teachers should also assist their students in representing recognition of their emotions in classrooms. In order to prepare teachers for this type of teaching, teacher training programs need to be reinvented. Programs should incorporate theories and practices related to social and emotional learning. In that regard, I recommend closer collaboration between teachers and counselors and psychologists, especially those who specialize in trauma and recovery. Bringing science into community life Education based on endogenous development also changes the role of science in our communities and schools. In a modern society, science and technology have been the major forces for industrialization and economic development. The power science and technology have had to transform the way we live since the industrial revolution led modern citizens to treat them almost as divinities. At the same time, the sense of awe people developed toward science pushed back the power of nature and gods that had been at the center of pre-modern societies. Citizens in the first stage of modernity believed firmly that science and technology could protect us from risks and that scientific inventions could allow the continuous advancement of our economy, which would lead to happiness. Reflecting this reality, the emphasis on STEM education to identify and nurture talented future scientific

192  Conclusion experts remains at the heart of education reform in Japan in the twenty-first century (MEXT, 1996; Watanabe et al., 2000). However, through the Fukushima disaster, we have experienced the consequences of relying exclusively on science and technology. As Beck (1999) argued, in a risk society it becomes more apparent that science fails to protect citizens’ lives. Furthermore, we have witnessed how science can cause catastrophes such as the nuclear disaster in Fukushima. Reflecting on the nature of science the disaster revealed, we must rethink the role of science and our relationship with it in our society and in education in a new era. If we seek education for the creation and implementation of a sustainable society, we must reform education to incorporate the animistic view of the world. Accordingly, we must reconsider the position of scientists and scientific knowledge in science education. The first thing we need to reconsider is scientists’ special status, enabled by the belief that they produce unbiased truth (Arendt, 2007). Another question we need to pose is the distance between scientists and ordinary everyday lives, which consist of “non-experts” and the natural environment. As was made clear by the nuclear power business, scientific experts developed the idea of nuclear energy and reactors in labs away from the communities where nuclear power plants were constructed. Due to this distance, scientists seldom or never had direct contact with plant workers who operated and maintained the plant. Neither did they have a close relationship with community members who lived in close proximity to the plants. Even though some scientific experts lived in the local community, their work at the plant and their lives in the community were separate. We can argue that the development of scientific knowledge in a secluded environment is quasi-colonial (Harding, 1992). From an animistic point of view, such a forceful and one-way style of producing and using knowledge has limitations. This is because it does not take into consideration the balance with other actors in biospheres and communities; thus, it could disrupt the harmony between all beings (Tsurumi, 1977). Furthermore, continuing such relationships between science and others in communities contain risks of allowing catastrophes. In fact, actors, especially silent ones (radiation, nuclear plants) taught this important lesson without words through the nuclear disaster in Fukushima. The disconnect between scientists and others was also manifest in the area of risk communication in Fukushima. Scientific experts from both sides of the argument—pro-nuclear and anti-nuclear groups—preached contradictory definitions of radiation risk. However, they were similar in the sense that they both arrogantly assumed that citizens could not fully understand scientific knowledge. Based on the deficit perception of ordinary people they adopted a top-down and simplified form of communication to explain radiation risk in Fukushima, but unfortunately this exacerbated confusion and conflict in Fukushima. Despite the disconnect between scientists and citizens we witnessed in Fukushima, we need to remind ourselves that scientists are also citizens, and

Conclusion  193 they lead their lives in ordinary communities (Arendt, 2007). This means that they have connections to actors in this society other than in their professional communities. All actors, including scientists, need to recognize such connections and reinforce them in order to integrate science into a democratic and harmonious way of living. In an animistic world, science has to become a part of a network of actors (humans and non-humans) within a community. As part of a heterogeneous network situated in their communities, scientists can develop and utilize scientific knowledge rooted in the local community’s history, natural environment, and people. In the case of Fukushima, we know that scientists need to communicate directly with various actors, including farmers, fishermen, mothers, students, contract workers, engineers, politicians, and construction companies, when making decisions about decontamination and decommissioning of the nuclear reactors. Each of these actors have their own lives, interests, and perspectives on nuclear power. Thus, negotiations among them will be challenging. Discussions may require scientific texts to be read and work to be done in the lab, but it also includes being in contact with people, the natural environment, and the plant (product of science and technology). This means that “experts” who tend to withdrew themsleves in labs will have to be in communities where the ideas that they invent in labs will be implemented. As much as scientists need to get close to citizens and communities, an effort to bring citizens to the network of scientists and nuclear power plants, where highly specialized and advanced scientific knowledge and technologies are applied, is necessary. As the activities of AFW and RefLab demonstrated, organizing field trips to nuclear power plants and having discussions about the future of power plants, the process of decommissioning, and plant workers’ conditions, are highly effective in forging relationships among actors who had historically been separated. Another example that connects scientific knowledge with students’ lives is ESD in Adachi High School. Students explored radiation contamination in their lives and its potentially harmful effects on their health. In the process, they learned to measure radiation levels in the air, food, and water. They also examined various international safety standards for radiation and judged whether Fukushima was safe or not without being perturbed by the contested information put out by the mass media. Some may argue that ordinary citizens will not understand scientific language. However, post-disaster Fukushima demonstrated clearly that they can. Radiation contamination and citizens’ concern to protect their own health following the disaster turned them into citizen scientists. Technical terms such as μSV, α and β waves, and Geiger counter, which had been confined to experts prior to the disaster, became everyday language in post-disaster Fukushima. This is because radiation and radioactive substances became a part of ordinary people’s lives. If we look around, many commodities, energy, services, and tools we use in our everyday lives are products of scientific inventions. However, many of us do not think of what scientific knowledge is used to produce and operate them. Nor do we always pay attention to the

194  Conclusion negative impact of the products and services we take for granted, until we witness the harm they cause to other humans. The explosion of the nuclear power plant was an example of that. This stance on science and science education, which is based on endogenous development, should be used to reconstruct disaster-stricken communities and to create sustainable societies. Instead of simply finding a replacement for nuclear power for local economic sustainability, actors should come up with ways to revitalize local natural power and use technology to enhance it (Tsurumi, 1977). Developing such practical ideas requires collaborative effort on the part of citizen scientists who are well versed in the knowledge both of science and of their community’s biodiversity, history, culture, and society. In this type of science education, students should also be encouraged to develop and share ideas and engage in actions to protect themselves and their environment to sustain their community. Doing so will require schools to take a more interdisciplinary approach and place students’ lives and interests at the center of the curriculum. This idea of connecting disciplinary knowledge to students’ lives was at the very heart of progressive education (Dewey, 1907). Educators can revisit Dewey’s basic epistemologies and methodologies of progressive education and adopt them to develop a curriculum that aligns with students’ lives in particular communities today.

Conclusion The unexpected explosion of the power plant in Fukushima in 2011 subverted the dominant modern paradigm. Major basic premises that undergirded the project of “development” during the first stage of modernity—the omnipotence of science and human rationality, national governments’ ability to protect their citizens, and our ability to pursue permanent economic development by controlling nature—all collapsed instantly as we witnessed the explosion of the nuclear power plant. This catastrophe and its aftermath also revealed that we were never truly living in the “modern world,” as we believed. What this catastrophe revealed was the truth that pervaded in Japanese communities in the pre-modern period. Objects in the natural environment as well as products of science and technology, to which we had assigned a humble status, are connected with human beings in an intricate way. Living with broken genpatsu (power plant), radiation, and contaminated water and plants since the disaster has also taught Fukushima residents that all actors are interconnected. Through this first-hand experience, they have learned that harm in one part of the network has negative effects on other parts, directly or indirectly. Although such awareness was not verbalized much in Fukushima, people demonstrated their understanding of the power of non-human actors and our interdependent relationship with them emotionally in the form of fear, pain, anger, and disgust. Other actors were conscious of this fact and used this understanding as the foundation for reconstructing communities in an innovative way, as we saw from the examples of AFW and RefLab.

Conclusion  195 Becoming aware of the myopic and anthropocentric notion of development that dominated the modern era suggests that we revisit and embrace the “primitive” within us and our lives in the modern way. In addition, we need to seek new types of endogenous development that value harmony with all actors (i.e., humans, living creatures and materials in nature, and products of science and technology) in specific local communities. It is also important for local communities to form alliances beyond national borders. Just as COVID-19 and global warming are bringing challenges to all communities across the globe, managing risks and eradicating their causes requires alliances among communities across the globe. While national governments and international inter-governmental organizations such as UN, OECD, and WHO can help communities deal with risks, I suggest that communities should not rely solely on these organizations but instead form direct relations with other communities who share their challenges. This type of bottom-up alliance allows local communities to support each other by exchanging resources and engaging in dialog for each other’s sustainability. This type of network is what Beck and Levy (2013) call “cosmopolitanization,” or alliances of necessities in a risk society. In a society where everyone, regardless of geopolitical location, is vulnerable to risk (e.g., global warming, pandemics, nuclear disasters, etc.), the expansion of this type of alliance is urgently needed. The changing notion of development and alliances in risk society also make us commend a drastic reconceptualization of education. The major purpose of education in the first stage of modernity was to build up economically and militarily strong and united nations. This model of education, which was initially developed in the West, became common in non-Western communities that were deemed “behind” and “primitive.” Unfortunately, this caused deculturalization of minority communities and their assimilation to the European style of thinking and living. Education for economic development also allocated resources to developing human rationality, especially by teaching science and technology. This kind of education meant cutting ties with ancestors and actors in the local biosphere, including trees, water, birds, plants, and air. This anthropocentric paradigm of education still remains dominant in the global curriculum reform initiated by Eurocentric organizations such as the OECD. There is no doubt that science and technology constitute an important component of our daily lives in the twenty-first century. Education for endogenous development does not deny the use of science. What we need to do, however, is to approximate the distance between science and other actors in local communities. In education, this requires scientists to come to communities and schools and interact with residents and children, and vice versa. They should discuss the development and application of scientific knowledge to enhance the wellbeing of all, human or non-human, and to maintain harmony with each other. This type of education also requires educators to show the connection between scientific knowledge and students’ everyday lives. Students need to be aware of what scientific knowledge is

196  Conclusion used in our everyday lives, how it was developed, and what consequences the utilization of this knowledge has for the local natural, social, and cultural environment. Only by understanding such pragmatic and social aspects of science will students be able to judge the current use of particular scientific knowledge, and invent new technologies and scientific knowledge that contribute to the sustainability of our societies. In addition to scientific education, this study has revealed the agency of emotions (Miyazawa, 2018). Various emotions circulated among various bodies (human and non-human) and shaped individuals’ perceptions of themselves, their relationships with others, and the actions they took in their everyday lives. Some emotions pulled certain actors close to others (as in residents being emotionally pulled into genpatsu), while other emotions pulled them away from each other (as radiation pulled people away from what they perceived to be radioactive). There were also emotions such as pain from trauma, which fossilized individuals in the past and disconnected them from others in the present. This visceral power of emotions demonstrates that rationality and language, to which we have given an almost exclusive role in modern education, constitute only part of knowing. Given the recognition that human beings are in interconnected relationships with materials which do not use language, education also needs to integrate emotions and non-verbal ways of knowing and communication into our curriculum. We also need to learn to listen attentively to other human and non-human actors using various senses including smell, touch, and feeling. I gained these insights by looking at post-disaster communities in Fukushima. However, these negative effects of the Western model of development are not limited to contemporary Japanese society. The wide implementation of Western anthropocentric notions of development across the world during the first stage of modernity has drastically increased risk in our lives. It has also resulted in unspeakable catastrophes worldwide including deforestation, wildfires, floods, water and air pollution, and pandemics, which further threaten the habitats of animals, plants, and human communities. These challenges show us that we are at a turning point in our civilization; we must leave behind the modern desire for creating utopia in this world, which is based on myopic human hubris. Conducting empirical studies on risk society and education today is particularly important as the world lives in fear of the spread of an invisible virus (COVID-19) and there is grief over the unprecedented death toll in every community around the world. We are reminded again that we should not undermine the agency of invisible small objects and materials. As we witness the enormous power of non-human actors including tsunami, radioactive materials, and viruses, we are acutely reminded that our belief in the omnipotence of scientific knowledge and the nation-state’s power to protect citizens from risk, which dominated the first stage of modernity, was illusory (Beck, 1999). Facing these harsh realities, we must re-examine the type of economic development the world has obsessively pursued in past centuries. We also need to remember that education played an important role in

Conclusion  197 instilling modern values such as the omnipotence of science in the minds of modern citizens. We are at a crucial moment in our history; we must move away from anthropocentric development and envision a new world where all actors operate in harmony with each other. To do this, we have to listen to the voices of both human and non-human actors (plants, animals, and products of technological inventions). We must humbly proceed along this path by keeping in mind what these non-human actors, which we had relegated to a lower status, taught us without words through the Fukushima disaster. Listening to the voiceless voices of actors is the primary step in reconciliation, healing, and new development. I hope that networks of locally rooted education programs and schools around the globe become sites for genuine listening and healing.

Notes 1 A total of 118 cases of suicide from Fukushima have been officially reported by 2021. 2 A grassroots critical pedagogy in Japan, which has flourished in the Tohoku region since the early 1900s.

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Index

Page numbers in bold indicate tables, page numbers in italic indicate figures and page numbers followed by n indicate notes. ABCC see Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission (ABCC) Abe, Shinzo 28 Abe administration 3 Adachi High School 116–117, 119– 121, 123 AFW see Appreciation for Fukushima Workers (AFW) airborne radiation 69 Aizu region 84, 180 ALARA model see As Low As Reasonably Achievable (ALARA) model ALARA radiation safety model 87 Animism, in Japan 23–25, 35, 40n2, 181–183, 186 anthropocentric development model 182, 185, 188 anti-nuclear movement: activism 12, 105, 177; discourse 27–28; groups 104, 192; organizations 156, 166 Appreciation for Fukushima Workers (AFW) 150, 151, 157, 158, 161, 163, 164, 168, 173, 180, 182, 193 Arendt, H. 168 As Low As Reasonably Achievable (ALARA) model 70–72, 71, 77–78, 79n4, 92, 125n2 “atom for peace” (Eisenhower) 25–26, 31, 34, 65, 108, 149 Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission (ABCC) 13, 50, 57, 109 atomic energy 106 Beck, U. 11, 28, 176, 192, 195 Bikini Atoll 156 Boshin War (1868–1869) 29, 48

catastrophe 27, 111 caught in the middle 74–75 Chernobyl 5, 11, 22, 66, 73–74, 91, 100n4, 109, 118, 176 Chugoku Shimbun 26 civilization movement 24 college entrance examination pressure 85–88 community-based education programs 17, 150, 151 community-based organizations 180 community memories, of genpatsu and TEPCO 148–150, 149 cosmopolitanism/cosmopolitanization 26, 114, 183–184, 188, 195 COVID-19 184 curriculum and teaching, in postdisaster Fukushima 178–181 cutting-edge technology 2, 65 data analysis 14–15 data collection 12–14, 16; agencies and decolonizing research 56–57; ethnography, native researchers decolonization of 45–47; Hiroshima, memories of and skepticism 50–51; implications 57–58; IRB protocols 49–50; multiple communities and fluid boundaries 55–56; nostalgia 48–50; research in 47–48; trauma community 51–54 data-driven accountability method 89 Decade of Education for Sustainable Development 115 decolonization, of ethnography 45–47 Dengen Sampo 31, 32, 149, 154 Dewey, J. 187, 194

202  Index Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders 51 disaster-stricken communities 18, 129, 144, 178–179 discrimination, against hibakusha see hibakusha disgust 104–105, 107, 172–173 Earth Child 73 earthquake 178 economic revitalization 84 Education for Sustainable Development (ESD) 17, 110, 125, 179, 186–188, 190; in Adachi High School 116–117; competencies 126n10; fuhyo and discrimination 117–119; global issues and cosmopolitan empathy 119–121; history of 115–116 educational implications: curriculum, decentering language in 189–190; endogenous development and 184–185; global connections through 187–189; integrating emotions, into curriculum 190–191; reconnecting ourselves to ancestral knowledge 185–186; science into community life 191–194; student-led curriculum 186–187 education reform, in Japan 130–132 education visions 7 emotion 18; in Fukushima 172–174; material agency and 174–175; nature of 8–10 empathy: developing with evacuee students 95–96; with global hibakusha 113–114 endogenous development 182, 184–185, 195; education for 189; for healing 181–183 Enshrinement Order (1906) 24 ESD  see Education for Sustainable Development (ESD) ethnography, native researchers and decolonization of 45–47 Federation of Economic Organizations 3 Fetishism 158 fluid boundaries 55–56 fuhyo 17, 117–119, 121–123, 141–143, 172 Fukushima Board of Education 85 Fukushima Daiichi power plant 1, 13, 32, 64, 68, 77, 83, 118, 149, 150, 158, 162, 173, 175

Fukushima disaster 100 Fukushima Prefecture 1, 18n1, 86, 100n6, 105 Fukushima Prefecture Board of Education 7, 71, 99 Fukushima Prefecture Department of Education 88 Fukushima Reconstruction Plan for Education 85, 90 Fukushima Reconstruction Vision 85 Fukushima Robot Test Field 150 Fukushima schools, before and after explosion 38–39 Fundamental Law of Education (FLE) 7 fund-raising activity 133–136 furusato gakushu 185 Futaba county, map of 33 Gambarou Posters, in School 84 Ganbare Fukushima 3, 89 genpatsu: Appreciation for Fukushima Workers 151; citizen scientists 163–167; community memories of 148–150, 149; construction of 31–32; before construction of 28–31, 30; Kimura’s memories of 153–154; money 154–156; mourning for dying 156–158; reconfiguring relationships, with TEPCO 158–160; RefLab 151; and workers 161–163; Yoshikawa’s memory of 151–153, 152 genshi (nuclear) 65 genshiryoku mura 160, 169n7 glocalization 183–184 Gramsci, A. 148 Guidebook on Radiation Education 71 Gunew, S. 58 harmonious communities, development of 40n1 hibakusha 17, 25, 50, 57, 60n3, 167, 173, 181, 188; cosmopolitanization 114; disgust 104–105, 107; Education for Sustainable Development 115–121; empathy and forming alliances with 113–114; High School Peace Seminar 110–111; high-school programs in 109–110; history of 105–106; people in 107–109; radiation contamination 104–105; recognizing common pain as 111–113; responsibility 121–123 hierarchical model, Tohoku Change Model vs 132–133

Index  203 High School Peace Seminar (HPS) 110–113, 124, 125, 173, 180 high-school programs 109–110 Hiroshima, memories of 50–51 Hiroshima and Nagasaki 13, 25, 27, 64–65 Holocaust survivors 54 HPS see High School Peace Seminar (HPS) human and non-human actors 10–11 human capital model, of education 86 IAEA see International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) Ibaraki Prefecture 5 ICRP see International Commission on Radiological Protection (ICRP) ikiru chikara 37–38, 130–133, 144, 187 Imperial Rescript on Education (1890) 35 industrialization strategy 37 institutional control, of emotions 174 integrated studies 126n12 Integrative Studies (IS) 131 International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) 79n5, 141 International Commission on Radiological Protection (ICRP) 12, 70, 87, 91, 109, 125n2, 176–177 International Traumatic Stress Studies Practice Guidelines 59 IRB protocols 49–50 IS see Integrative Studies (IS) Ischinger, Barbara 133 Iwakura Missions 34 Japan 15–16; animism 23–25; antinuclear discourse 27–28; desire to become west 22–23; development and education in 4–7; education reform in 130–132; Fukushima schools, before and after explosion 38–39; genpatsu 28–32, 30; modernization in 177–178; nineteenth-century education structure 36; nuclear energy, history of 25–27; Nuclear Fuel Conversion Company 19n4; post-WWII regime in 3; pro-nuclear organizations in 156; public-school education in 34–36, 184; twenty-first century, education reform for 37–38; before WWII 22 Japan Agricultural Cooperatives 118

Japan Council against Atomic and Hydrogen Bombs 25, 110 Japanese feudalism 36 Japanese government safety campaign 106 Japan Nuclear Fuel Conversion Office (JCO) 5, 109 kaku (atom) 65 Kansai and Kanto regions 29 KCs see Key Competencies (KCs) Keidanren 3, 28 Keizai Doyukai 28 Key Competencies (KCs) 37, 135–138 Kimura, S. 31, 165–166; memories of genpatsu 153–154 kizuna 3, 84, 84, 89–91, 160, 162, 172–173 knowledge-based economy 135 Kobayashi 86–87 Koide, H. 168 Laub, D. 54 Levy, D 195 Liberal Democratic Party’s (LDP) 28 Linear Non-Threshold (LNT) model 73–74, 77–78, 79n4, 177 local autonomy 183 local economic system 32 Lucky Dragon Five 110, 112 Makeruna Fukushima 89 manifestation, of risk society 175–177 material agency 174–175 Meiji government 4, 23, 24, 26, 34, 35 Meiji restoration (1868) 177 memorization-based education 131, 132 MEXT see Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology (MEXT) Mighty Atom 26–27 Ministry of Economy, Trade, and Industry (METI) 28 Ministry of Education 35, 37, 66 Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science, and Technology (MEXT) 6, 8, 85, 87, 89, 129–132, 185 Ministry of Education Culture and Science Japan (2008) 66 Ministry of Education Science, Culture, and Technology (MEXT) 37, 64, 67, 68, 70, 71, 74, 79n3 Misaki, Suzumu 112

204  Index Miyazawa, K. 60n1 multiple communities 55–56 national academic achievement test 87–89 National Council on Educational Reform (NCER) 130 neo-colonial relationship, with TEPCO 32–34 new education model 135–136 Noda cabinet 27 normalization, in schools 179 nostalgia 48–50 nuclear catastrophe 7 Nuclear Day (October 26) 67 nuclear disaster 1–4, 8, 120, 174, 175, 189 nuclear energy 64–65; history of 25–27 Nuclear Fuel Conversion Company 19n4 nuclear power, cutting-edge invention 2 nuclear village 63, 122, 148, 150, 156, 159 OECD’s Tohoku School (OECD TS) 17, 174, 179, 185–187, 190; description of 129–130, 130; economic reconstruction, by eliminating fuhyo 141–143; education reform, in Japan 130–132; public schools vs. 132–136; students breaking taboos 136–138; transforming into space of mourning 138–140 OECD TS see OECD’s Tohoku School (OECD TS) Ogata, Y. 113 Onuma High School 174 Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD) 5, 37, 184; Key Competencies 135–138, 190; Tohoku School see OECD’s Tohoku School (OECD TS) Oushuu alliances 29, 30 out-of-school program 180 PDCA model see Plan, Do, Check, and Act (PDCA) model “Peaceful Use of Nuclear Power,” 26 PISA see Program for International Student Assessment (PISA) Plan, Do, Check, and Act (PDCA) model 38, 88–89

plutonium 25 post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) 52, 83 post-WWII Japan 3, 26, 36, 131; public-school education in 65 Program for International Student Assessment (PISA) 132, 145n5 pro-nuclear organizations, in Japan 26, 28, 156, 192 PTSD see post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) public-school education 6, 65, 134; function and purpose of 130; in Japan 34–36, 38, 184 public schools vs. Tohoku School: fund raising 133–135; new model of education 135–136; Tohoku Change Model vs. hierarchical model 132–133 Radiation Effect and Research Foundation (RERF) 50, 109 radiation risks 1, 16; atomic bombs 65–66; caught in the middle 74–75; delayed announcement about 68–70, 69; Linear Non-Threshold model 73–74; As Low As Reasonably Achievable model 70–72, 71; nuclear energy 64–65; nuclear power 65–67; radiation risks, delayed announcement about 68–74, 69; scientists 75–78; Waku Waku 66–67 reconstruction, of Fukushima 16, 83–85, 84; college entrance examination pressure 85–88; developing empathy, with evacuee students 95–96; fear 91–95; love 89–95; national academic achievement test 88–89; sharing pain, in public 98–99; trauma through art 96–98 “Reconstruction by Collective Power of All People Who Love Fukushima,” 90 RefLab 150, 151, 157, 158, 162–164, 168, 173, 180, 182, 193; field trip poster 152 “refugees,” 47 RERF see Radiation Effect and Research Foundation (RERF) risk society 11–12, 28 satellite school 39 school-age children, evacuation of 19n3 scientific education 196–197

Index  205 seikatsu tsuzurikata 93–94, 180 self-care 59 skepticism 13, 64; toward researchers/ outsiders 50–51, 57–59 Spivak, G. C. 58 standardized testing 36 Starr, M. 126n9 students’ agencies, in Tohoku School: breaking taboos 136–138; economic reconstruction, by eliminating fuhyo 141–143; transforming into space of mourning 138–140 Supreme Command of Allied Powers’ (SCAP) 134, 145n6 System for Prediction of Environment Emergency Dose Information (SPEEDI) 68, 79n2 TEPCO see Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO) Three Laws for Power Development 31, 149, 154 Three Mile Island (TMI) 5, 66, 79n2, 109, 156 Tohoku Change Model 17, 129, 136; vs. hierarchical model 132–133 Tohoku earthquake, Japan 2 Tohoku Gaku 47 Tohoku region 40, 40n4, 47–48; genpatsu 28–32, 30 Tokugawa shogunate 22 Tokyo Electric Power Company (TEPCO) 17, 28, 30–32, 48, 63, 137, 154, 169n3, 169n5; citizen scientists 164; and community members 155, 167, 182; community memories of 148–150, 149; neocolonial relationship with 32–34, 33; reconfiguring relationships with 158–160

trauma community: being drawn to 52–53; co-witnesses to 58–59; encountering 51–52; supported by insiders in 54 traumatic event 96–98 tsunami 178 twenty-first century education, in Japan 37–38 Tylor, E. B. 35 under-developed communities 177 United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) 5, 184; Associated School Network 115; Education for Sustainable Development 179, 187–188 United Nations Human Rights Council 73 United Nations Scientific Commission on the Effects of Atomic Radiation (UNSCEAR) 79n5 United States Information Agency 26 US Department of Energy 70 US education model 36 US government organization 125n5 US hydrogen bomb testing 110 Waku Waku 66–67 Waku Waku Genshiryoku Rando 66, 67 Weil, Gad 139 Western anthropocentric model 177 World Health Organization (WHO) 79n5 Yomiuri newspaper 26 Yoshikawa 159, 160, 162–163; memory of genpatsu 151–153, 152