Tens of thousands were evacuated after the tsunami and nuclear meltdown in March 2011. Less than a quarter have returned. Some of those who did explain why

On 11 March 2011, one of the biggest earthquakes ever recorded struck Japan’s north-east coast, triggering a tsunami that killed almost 19,000 people. In Fukushima, the waves’ destructive power unleashed another menace – a triple meltdown at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant.

Radiation forced tens of thousands to evacuate, turning towns and villages into no-go zones. Today, neighbourhoods closest to the plant are trapped in time. Homes have fallen into disrepair and weeds and other plants have been left to swallow up pavements, roads and once well-tended gardens, while boar and other wild animals roam the streets.

But a little further out, there are signs of recovery: new shops, restaurants and public buildings catering to the small number of people who have decided to return. Rail services are being restored and roads have reopened. The Japan leg of the torch relay for the Tokyo 2020 Olympics will start at J Village, once the base for the response to the crisis, now restored to its previous role as a football training complex.

But these are modest gains. In areas that have been declared safe for human habitation, many residents have decided to stay away, citing radiation fears, especially for their children, and a lack of medical facilities and other social infrastructure. Only 23% of those living in areas that were declared off-limits after the disaster have returned, according to government figures.

Workers at Fukushima Daiichi are battling with huge quantities of radioactive water, while decommissioning the plant is expected to take at least four decades. Eight years after the world’s second-biggest nuclear disaster (after Chernobyl), the Observer met residents who have decided to resume their lives in areas that were once declared a nuclear no-go zone – to work, study and spend their twilight years in the place they call home.

The landowner



Seimei Sasaki became a local celebrity during the eight years he spent living in temporary housing for evacuees. He was part of a group of residents who built a sense of community through daily early-morning exercise routines. At 93, he is a dedicated driver who can be spotted on the roads in the Odaka district, where his family put down roots almost 500 years ago. The landowner-forester has just moved back into his grand old wooden house. His three sons and their families are near by, but Sasaki insists on fending for himself – a determination he attributes to his samurai ancestors – even if it means spending long periods alone. The neighbourhood was home to 230 people, but only 23 – with an average age of over 70 – have returned, he says, before reeling off their family names. “I can’t imagine what this village’s future looks like. I fear that it’s slowly dying.”

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Seimei Sasaki outside his family home – he fears the village is slowly dying. Photograph: Justin McCurry/The Observer

Sasaki, though, is trying to stay optimistic. “I’m in perfect health and I can use daycare facilities for free because I’m an evacuee, and I keep in touch with my friends from temporary housing.” Then there is the small matter of his beloved car. “My licence expires in December and I don’t know what to do,” he says, conceding that, at his age, it may be time to surrender it. Outside sits a second-hand mobility scooter given to him by a friend. Sasaki hops on, but he is not impressed. “It is so slow … and it doesn’t look very cool.”

The sisters



At Rumiko and Eriko Konno’s school, getting the teacher’s attention is rarely a problem. The sisters are two of only seven pupils attending Namie Sosei primary and middle school two and a half miles from the nuclear power plant. The new school, complete with an all-weather football pitch, was built with government money in an attempt to bring young families back to Namie, where only 900 of the pre-disaster population of 21,000 have returned since the evacuation order was partially lifted in 2017.

“I was conflicted about bringing them back,” says their mother, Mayumi. “But now, a year on, they have settled in, I have found work and I’m sure we did the right thing.” The school will welcome six more pupils when the new academic year starts in April.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Rumiko, left, and Eriko Konno wish they could play team sports. Photograph: Justin McCurry/The Observer

“Over the past year the children have made great progress,” says the principal, Ryuichi Baba. “The most frustrating thing for them is that they can’t play team sports.” Rumiko, 11, and Eriko, eight, say they miss playing dodgeball and hide-and-seek. “I would like more classmates, but that would bring a different kind of pressure,” says Rumiko.

They have studied the tsunami and nuclear accident in class, but find it hard to relate to something they are too young to remember. “It was eight years ago, so I don’t really think about it,” says Rumiko. “I’m more worried about the people who are having to cope with natural disasters today.”

The rice farmer



When Koichi Nemoto first returned to his fields in the Fukushima village of Momouchi three years ago, his dream was to grow enough rice to feed his family. But a ban on rice production forced him to wait. “I grew sample batches and tested them – they were well below the government-set radiation limits,” says Nemoto, “But I had to throw it away, because it was against the law to eat my own rice.”

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Koichi Nemoto says his rice always wins against the weeds. Photograph: Justin McCurry/The Observer

Today the restrictions have been lifted and the 81-year-old, a pioneer in Fukushima’s organic farming industry, is growing rice commercially again, supplying the grain to a nearby sake brewery, supermarkets and restaurants. “I never thought of abandoning my farm,” he says. “There were harmful rumours about Fukushima rice at first, but attitudes are changing. My friends and relatives are more comfortable about eating rice from here than from other prefectures where it isn’t tested.”

It is a far cry from the years he spent as an evacuee, wondering if he would ever grow rice again. Yet, as the only one of eight farmers in Momouchi who decided to revive their business after the evacuation order was lifted, he is an exception. These days, though, he says he worries less about radiation than the weeds that run riot in his paddies. “You have to expect that when you farm organically,” he says. “But my rice always wins in the end.”

The inn owners



When Tomoko and Takenori Kobayashi heard the explosion in one of the reactor buildings, they gathered their valuables and left Futaba-ya, a traditional ryokan inn in the Odaka district that has been in Tomoko’s family for four generations. They were convinced they would be able to return after a few days. “We were in the evacuation centre when we first saw images of the tsunami and the nuclear disaster, and it was only then we realised just how awful it was,” says Tomoko.

The couple didn’t return until June 2016 after the evacuation order was lifted in Odaka. While their neighbourhood was still off limits, Tomoko made repeated short visits to maintain the inn and plant flowers outside the nearby railway station. “We were determined to get back on our feet,” she says. The couple quickly became experts in radiation and food safety. “We’ve been testing food for the local community for seven years, and we know it’s safe,” says Takenori. “That gave us the confidence to come back and start again.” Futaba-ya’s guests include an increasing number of overseas visitors, curious to learn more about Fukushima. “We want people to stay here and go back feeling they know more about the truth of what happened,” says Tomoko. “But we can’t pretend it’s been easy – there have been some extremely tough times.”

The dairy farmer



Eight years ago Tetsuji Sakuma was powerless to prevent the destruction of the dairy farm his grandfather had built just after the second world war. In the days after the nuclear meltdown, some of his 130 cows died while others were sold to a ranch or slaughtered. Thousands of litres of milk had to be thrown away.

But now, Sakuma is back in business after the ban on shipping raw milk from Fukushima was lifted in late 2017. Rigorous testing shows the milk from his cows is safe, but overcoming doubts among potential buyers was a challenge at first.

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Tetsuji Sakuma worked for years to make his dairy farm a success. Photograph: Justin McCurry/The Observer

“I studied radiation and was prepared for any questions that might come up over safety,” says Sakuma, who took over the farm in Katsurao village from his father more than 20 years ago.

Many other local farmers have decided to sell up, fearing that they are too old to revive their businesses, and that their produce will be forever tainted by its association with Fukushima. Just 20% of the village’s pre-disaster population – or about 300 people – have returned. “The longer people spend living elsewhere, the harder it is for them to come back,” Sakuma says. “But we worked hard over the years to make this farm a success. We built the cowsheds ourselves and they are still standing today. As the son of a farming family, I was determined to reopen the farm and show people that, even here, anything is possible.”