TOKYO — Veteran fish seller Yoshito Shimada is under siege. At a grocery store in Tokyo’s Shibuya district, mothers pushing strollers demand proof that the daily catch is not from the waters off the stricken Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant.
“I tell them the government checks the fish for radiation, but they don’t trust elected officials or anyone,” said Shimada, his blue shirt stained with fish blood. “A year after the disaster, Japan is still afraid of its own food.”
Even in Tokyo, more than 200 miles from the northeastern region devastated by earthquake and tsunami that struck a year ago today, causing radiation to spew from the nuclear plant, residents fear that schoolyards are laced with dangerous isotopes.
Citizen collectives wander streets with dosimeters to make sure their neighborhoods remain radiation-free, conducting spot checks on fish and produce.
A year after the worst natural disaster in their country’s history, residents of Japan are still struggling to cope with the staggering toll of a catastrophe that left nearly 20,000 dead or missing. But a more insidious legacy may be a shaken trust in their government, in their source of energy, and even in the food that sustains them.
“Many Japanese feel they’ve been lied to by their government,” said Mitsuhiro Fukao, an economics professor at Keio University in Tokyo who has written about the public loss of trust. “In a time of disaster, people wanted the government to help them, not lie to them. And many wonder whether it could happen again.”
Even though the tsunami had knocked out the cooling system at Fukushima, leading to meltdowns in three reactors, officials insisted that all was well at the seaside plant. Recently released reports show that was far from the case.
Seeking to avoid a public panic, then-Prime Minister Naoto Kan and his advisers buried a worst-case assessment by the Japan Atomic Energy Commission.
A new report on Fukushima for the American Nuclear Society says the long-term health risks of the radioactive fallout will probably be minimal. But some Japanese are not convinced.
Suspicious of data provided by the government and news media, many people conduct their own radiation research. They surf the Internet and seek out podcasts that offer alternative perspectives on the dangers and what to do about them. They flock to the Twitter accounts of nuclear scientists.
In what’s being called the “measurement movement,” people rushed to buy their own Geiger counters and dosimeters to check for radiation exposure. At a Tokyo electronics store, one salesman said he was amazed at how knowledgeable customers had become about the sophisticated equipment, with many asking numerous technical questions as if they were shopping for high-end stereo systems.
Some of the public’s fears are well researched, others less so. Sociologists report a “social stigmatization” of evacuees from the area around the Fukushima plant.
Evacuees in Tokyo and elsewhere have been looked on with suspicion as potentially exposing their new neighbors to radiation. Apartment dwellers have complained of cooking smells or noises that were unusual only in that they were produced by former Fukushima residents.
Even the trash left in the tsunami’s wake is a source of fear.
The landscape of northeastern Japan remains littered with 25 million tons of clothing, computers, stoves and car parts, shoved aside into huge unsightly mountains.
In many areas, the debris, known as gareki, equals what residents would normally create in 20 years. Only 5 percent of what the tsunami created has been removed. Fearing high levels of radioactive cesium, residents across Japan don’t want the debris buried or incinerated near their homes.
The government is offering to pay communities to accept the rubble, but there are few takers.
“The unseen enemy has aroused concerns that are more a matter of psychology than of science,” Yuriko Koike, a former defense minister, wrote in a recent editorial. “As the world’s only victim of a nuclear attack, Japan’s allergy to radiation is stronger than anywhere else.”
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