The tsunami and ensuing meltdowns at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant forced thousands to flee their homes. A decade later, some locals have returned home, but full recovery remains remote.

Upon returning home after 10 years away, Masumi Kowata found a monkey in her living room. It wasn’t a joyful homecoming. In 2011, she evacuated her home along with 160,000 locals across Japan’s Fukushima prefecture. A cloud of radiation, spewing from three simultaneous meltdowns at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant, rendered swaths of land uninhabitable. Only in 2021 did the government allow she and her husband to return. Even then, it was only safe for them to visit for the day. Clad head to toe in plastic protective gear, she tread cautiously through the wreckage of an earthquake, a tsunami and neglect: a house shaken by earthquake, food left to rot for a decade, overgrown plants vining up the walls. The monkey had helped itself to Kowata’s belongings. It pranced around the room “wearing our clothes like the king of the house.”

Wild animals have overtaken “difficult-to-return” zones, as the government termed them. Such areas encompass 2.4% of Fukushima prefecture and experience 50 times more radiation than what is considered safe. Boars, raccoon dogs and macaques roam the dangerously radioactive neighborhoods oblivious to the damage but unfettered by human life. They can cross streets without fear of speeding cars and feed on the produce of untended gardens, long overgrown. Human beings have returned much more slowly. Currently, the zones remain stuck in time at the moment of disaster. 

Agriculture struggles to recover as a result. Boars descended from the nearby mountains and invaded farms and rice paddies to feast on the crops. Hunters struggle to control the wild boar population. That is to say, they shoot as many as possible. “When I got married and was about to have my first child,” said one elderly boar hunter, “my mother said to me, ‘You’re going to be a father. Stop killing. Is that really the right thing to do?’ I stopped hunting then.” Now, he ventures out each day to beat back nature’s 10-year-long advance on Fukushima’s villages. “My town is abandoned and overrun with radiated boars,” he says. “It is my duty to help.”

The tasks of hunting down boars, tending to radioactive cattle and repopulating deserted towns fall to the few who have returned. Of the 160,000 who were evacuated after the meltdowns, only one-fourth plan to return. Most of them are elderly. The majority of evacuees found it easier to settle down elsewhere than endure a yearslong wait to return home. Young people especially favored big cities filled with jobs over their provincial hometowns, a trend that predated the disaster. In the nine years before the meltdowns, Fukushima’s population declined by 100,000. In the nine years after, it fell by another 180,000.

Local communities feel the absence of locals. As residents begin to plan for the future, they struggle to build a new community amid the ruins of an old one. Ancestral homes sit empty. Classrooms are frozen in time at the moment of the tsunami. Farmers spent generations breeding prized lines of livestock which are now useless. Radiated cattle, horses and pigs—as well as hunted boar—cannot be consumed because of radiated meat. Once famous for its produce, the prefecture’s fruits and vegetables now sell for below the national average. Though radiation tests ensure that the food is safe to eat, the stigma of nuclear disaster keeps customers away. 

Hope Tourism seeks to make these ruins the foundation of the future. The group offers tours through areas that reflect both the devastation wrought by the nuclear disaster and the communal efforts toward reconstruction. Tourists see the abandoned elementary school in Ukedo, roads bent out of line by the tsunami’s rip current and black bags filled with radioactive soil. They can also tour villages trying to revive their local industries and meet community leaders who spread awareness about the dangers of nuclear fallout. 

In the face of hardship, locals still express pride in their roots. Iitate village joined the exclusive club of “most beautiful villages of Japan” in 2010, only to be wrecked by the tsunami and ensuing meltdowns. Ten years later, locals gathered to celebrate the opening of a new community center. It was built from parts of abandoned buildings: windows from old businesses, doors from run-down houses, a chalkboard from a school with no children to attend. An elderly woman in a green kimono sang folk tunes while the crowd enjoyed chestnut-filled rice balls. The Hope Tourism website states the village’s motto is a single word: madei. It means “thoughtfully” or “wholeheartedly” in the local dialect. It refers to the steady, persistent progress toward a revived community. 

The fight against nature’s invasion of Fukushima’s villages still preoccupies recently decontaminated zones. The national government branded the upcoming Olympics as the “Recovery Olympics” to highlight the region’s progress since the disaster. The Olympic torch relay will begin at Fukushima’s J-Village sports complex, which workers used as a base during the crisis in 2011. Japan will need to escape the shadow of the Fukushima disaster if the government is to accomplish key items on its agenda. Prime Minister Yoshihide Suga pledged a carbon neutral Japan by 2050, an unthinkable prospect without nuclear power. 

National priorities rarely concern those repopulating Fukushima, though. They focus on the day-to-day resurrections of ghost towns. Some still search for ghosts. “I often tell people that my daughter would be a very independent and successful adult out in the world,” says one man. He lost his entire family in the tsunami, including his young daughter. “She was the type of girl other people could rely on.” With a shovel, a trowel and his gardening gloves, he digs through the soil for his daughter’s remains. “I’ve found about 20% of her, but 80% is still missing,” he says. “That means she’s definitely still here.”

Radiated livestock are marked with a white symbol that tells farmers the animal was affected by the 2011 meltdowns. There is no such symbol for the psychic wounds that Fukushima’s disaster continues to exact on its people. 

Michael is an undergraduate student at Haverford College, dodging the pandemic by taking a gap year. He writes in a variety of genres, and his time in high school debate renders political writing an inevitable fascination. Writing at Catalyst and the Bi-Co News, a student-run newspaper, provides an outlet for this passion. In the future, he intends to keep writing in mediums both informative and creative.