Around the Fukushima plant, a world left behind

Before the nuclear accident, Yoshizawa worked at the M Ranch, a 30-hectare farm with the curvature of a salad bowl. From the corral where Yoshizawa kept his cattle, one could see the towerlike stacks of Fukushima Daiichi, just nine miles away.

Yoshizawa and his fellow ranchers raised the cows for their prized Wagyu beef, selling them to wholesalers for $13,000 per head. Then, in a five-day span of meltdowns and explosions, cesium and other radioactive isotopes were swept across the countryside; the cattle were worthless, and the farm’s president, Jun Murata, lost $6.5 million in assets. On March 18, Murata told his employees that this was the end. He went to the corral and unlatched the gate. Some 230 cows wandered into the open.

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The Washington Post's Chico Harlan visits the Japanese town of Namie deep inside the zone abandoned eight months ago after an earthquake and tsunami caused one of the worst nuclear accidents since Chernobyl.

The Washington Post's Chico Harlan visits the Japanese town of Namie deep inside the zone abandoned eight months ago after an earthquake and tsunami caused one of the worst nuclear accidents since Chernobyl.

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Radiation poisoned a swath of Japan in March during the disaster at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant.
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Radiation poisoned a swath of Japan in March during the disaster at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant.

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Most of the employees never returned. But Yoshizawa, with no wife and children, spent the next week thinking about his livelihood. He identified in new ways with the animals he once sold for their beef — he felt as if his own worth, too, was verging on zero.

So he clung to the ranch. He obtained a permit from a friend at the local mayor’s office, allowing him unfettered access to the no-go zone. He bought a dosimeter, clipping it to the front window of his car. He — and often Murata as well — made daily trips to the ranch, feeding the cattle with contaminated hay. A few of the animals turned feral, but most just stuck around.

Still, there’s a question now about how best to treat the creatures inside the 20-kilometer zone. A few animal rights groups have made quick trips to save dogs and cats — but not livestock. Scientific groups say the animals represent the best chance for research on the effects of radiation. But in May, the Japanese government recommended that farmers euthanize their animals. It also banned farmers from bringing feed into the no-entry zone.

“If the livestock have nothing to feed on, they will languish and eventually die,” then-government spokesman Yukio Edano said. “I understand we are forcing the farmers to make a very tough decision, but we also do not want the farmers to go inside the no-entry zone, because it’s not safe.”

Yoshizawa says he’ll defy the order to euthanize his cattle, but he also understands the government’s logic — self-preservation in a disaster. It’s the same logic that forced the Tochimotos to leave in such a rush. Yoshizawa knew the Tochimotos. They were his neighbors. And on his recent trip into the no-go zone, Yoshizawa stopped by their house — where the people lived on the second floor, the animals on the first.

Persimmons rotted on the driveway. Near the front door, weeds rose knee-high. A Mazda Titan truck was speckled white and black by birds. The cows, who died without being milked, no longer even smelled, their flesh pulled off by other animals.

“They were dead within 10 or 12 days,” Yoshizawa said.

He said he had talked to the Tochimotos just once since the disaster. “They have been having nightmares about cows,” he said. “They can’t even think to come back here and see. But you can’t blame them. They made the right choice.’’

Special correspondent Ayako Mie contributed to this report.

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