Originally conceived as an immersive project to compliment Unknown Spring The Invisible Season was the inspiration for the film of the same name which can be viewed on Amazon Prime.
Immersive Project: While Fukushima is primarily known as a site of disaster, it is much more than that. The media, which only arrived to cover the destruction and left once the story faded, missed the full scope of the region. Created over the course of a decade, The Invisible Season offers an in-depth examination of Fukushima in all its breadth. The nuclear meltdown not only devastated the land but also uprooted the identity of its people. A province with millennia of history and traditions, Fukushima was thrust into the global spotlight as a symbol of disaster, its proud heritage reduced to a post-crisis narrative. The Invisible Season delves deep into this neglected culture, offering a window into the region’s rich past and the irreversible loss suffered by its people
Recovery through art
Four days after the earthquake, Keisyu Wada made the difficult decision to leave his home atop Ogaya Mountain, a remote area that had been subjected to extremely high levels of black rain—radiation-tainted rainfall. Fleeing with his wife and four dogs, they sought refuge in a dormitory in southern Japan. After a month away from what he called his “dream home,” Wada decided to return, despite the dangerously high radiation levels. He believed that living away from the place he loved was not truly living. He accepted the risk, choosing a shorter life at home over a longer one in exile.
Upon returning, Wada began creating art on a tablet to express his frustration. He felt betrayed by both the government and TEPCO, the company that owned the nuclear facility. His artwork, characterized by harsh lines and non-gradated colors, was both a critique of the situation and a lament for what had been lost. It would take years before he could begin expressing himself through watercolors, using softer lines and gentle color transitions. He noted that it was only then, through this medium, that he could truly begin to heal.
When the power plant melted down, the government imposed a 20 km exclusion zone, which ultimately proved ineffective. Radiation doesn’t move in neat circles; it spreads depending on the wind. As a result, some areas outside the zone, like Wada-san’s home, remained open but highly irradiated, while other locations, such as Odaka town, were closed. As radiation levels became better understood, Odaka was allowed to reopen, but only for brief periods in the afternoon.
Tomoko Kobayashi was one of its residents. Her family had run a ryokan, a traditional family inn, for at least 300 years. She was one of the first to return. When she found her main street overgrown with weeds and debris, she began planting flowers, hoping to bring back the brightness of her childhood memories. She continued to plant seeds in the desolation, hoping that one day she would be able to reopen her ryokan. In 2015, the town did reopen, and thanks to the seeds she had planted, others began to return as well.
From the editors of Voices From Japan where these poems were collected: Since the Great Eastern Japan Earthquake & Tsunami on 3/11 in 2011, and the subsequent nuclear disasters, many affected people in Tohoku and other concerned Japanese started writing poems.
Many painful but beautiful tanka, a traditional poetic form of only 31 syllables, have been published every week in newspapers in Japan. Why do the Japanese write poems during a time of crisis? Voices from Japan are usually not very audible in the world. But when Japanese voices are composed as tanka, amazingly, one can hear them as a common world language.—Isao & Kyoko Tsujimoto
