スクリプトは事前提出されたものですので、ビデオの音声とは異なる場合があります。

Fukushima

Honda Ayumi (National Institute of Technology, Fukushima College)

On March 11, 2011,　a magnitude 9 earthquake hit the pacific coast of Tohoku.

It triggered powerful tsunami waves, causing the level 7 meltdowns at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant.

It's been over three years since that day.

Today, tourists have returned to Fukushima, and local food sales seem to be recovering too. In the disaster-affected Prefecture, any sign of recovery is praised, and the reconstruction effort is mounting. Indeed, Fukushima seems to be well on its way to recovery.

The truth is, it's not really the case. In fact, many people in Fukushima are still suffering in the aftermath of the 2011 Tohoku earthquake. They are often invisible behind the glorious media coverage of the reconstruction effort.

My sister is one of them.

After the nuclear power plant accident, my mother started to worry about radiation in locally grown food. She told my sister, “Don't eat school lunch. I'll pack a lunch box for you.”

At school, however, her teacher and classmates, they are angry at my sister. They say, “people like you spread bad reputations, and that's what delays reconstruction!” My sister has become a traitor in their eyes.

I recently heard someone say this. “A place where human dignity is violated is a battlefield against humanity.” I thought of Fukushima immediately. Fukushima, my hometown, has become a battlefield, and let me tell you why.

First, we live our lives filled with worry and fear because our hometown is contaminated by radioactive materials. If someone asks me “Do you think enough is being done to ensure residents' health?”, I wouldn't nod my head. Many people are worried if and when they might become ill. No matter how much progress there seems to be, I don't think our fear will ever go away completely.

Second, it's becoming impossible to speak about the issue of radiation or the safety of locally grown food. If we try to raise our concerns with the local government, or local people, we are accused of damaging the image of Fukushima. We are only concerned about our health. And yet, it's taken as an evil act that delays reconstruction.

We are becoming more and more silent everyday.

Finally, Fukushima is a battlefield because of the mounting tension between locals and refugees. Fleeing the disaster zone, tens of thousands of people had to move to different cities within the prefecture, but many of them are facing discrimination. It seems to be the same when refugees settle outside Fukushima.

How could anyone discriminate against people from the same prefecture? Aren't we all victims of this terrible accident? Can't they see that we are in this all together? Discrimination is like a disease. It spreads. And it eats up our heart and soul. I am angry, I am sad, and I can't comprehend why we are fighting against each other.

Today, Fukushima has become a battlefield. And it's like a cage where we are confined with no rights to speak our mind. Some people believe that it's safe to live there, and others don't. Whatever the reason, each one of us is entitled to our own opinion. It's fine for some people to believe that it's perfectly safe to eat local food and breathe the air of Fukushima. But no one has the right to silence others who are concerned about their lives and the future of Fukushima.

We talk about reconstruction everyday. But there can never be a true sense of recovery as long as our right to speak is denied. For reconstruction to move forward, we must dismantle the cage of silence.

I am ready to listen to you. I hope you'll listen to me. We are in it together. Let us all work together.