10.4324 9781003007180-12 Chapterpdf

12 Envisioning nuclear futures
Shiriagari Kotobuki’s 3/11 manga

from hope to despair
Rachel DiNitto
Japanese artists responded to the 2011 triple disaster known as 3/11 with films,
short stories, novels, poetry, manga, performance art, paintings, and photo-
graphs—a body of work that has only grown in the years following the calamity.1
One of the earliest artistic responses came from manga artist Shiriagari Koto-
buki. He wrote his Ano hi kara no manga: 2011.3.11 (Manga Since That Day:
2011.3.11, 2011) amidst an atmosphere of tremendous confusion and anxiety.
Shiriagari’s work straddles the divide between the competing discourses of
safety and danger, countering the mainstream media’s parroting of government
assessments of safety, and the public mood of “self-restraint” (jishuku) that dis-
couraged citizens from voicing anti-nuclear sentiment.2 Shiriagari spoke out
about the dangers of radiation, and his manga not only evaded criticism, but
earned him the Medal of Honor for Culture (Purple Ribbon) from the Emperor
in 2014 and an NHK special.3
The reception for Shiriagari’s work contrasts sharply with that of Kariya Tetsu,
author of the manga Oishinbo, who suffered public and professional censure for an
episode titled Fukushima no shinjitsu (The Truth about Fukushima, May 2014)
that linked the protagonist’s nosebleed to radiation exposure from a visit to the
damaged nuclear power plant.4 Other manga also drew attention to the controversy
surrounding radiation exposure in the disaster area and at the plant, but not all were
written from a strictly political or anti-nuclear stance. For instance, manga artist
Yamamoto Osamu felt the need to include images of radiation monitoring stations
and data on radiation levels, which highlight the dilemmas faced by residents of
the affected areas in his drawings: Kyō mo ii tenki: Genpatsu jiko hen (Good
Weather Today Too: Volume on the Nuclear Power Plant Accident, 2012) and
issues of his Sobamon series. Tatsuta Kazuto recorded his experience working as a
temporary worker at the damaged plant in Ichiefu: Fukushima Daiichi genshiryoku
hatsudensho rōdōki (Ichi-F: A Record of Working at the Fukushima Daiichi
Nuclear Plant, 2013–2015). Tatsuta overwhelms readers with details about safety
procedures at the plant, but as Ryan Holmberg argues, he downplays dangers and
the industry’s poor labor record to create a manga that is “the kindest response the
nuclear industry can hope for” in the post-accident climate.5
Shiriagari’s manga do not have the documentary feel of Kariya, Yamamoto,
or Tatsuta. He does not tie his manga to specific sites in the disaster area or to
224 Rachel DiNitto
the plant, nor does he fill them with the specialized vocabulary of the nuclear
disaster. But the lack of geographical specificity—a placelessness—allows
him to bring the historical weight of other disasters and tragedies (from World
War Two to Chernobyl) to bear on 3/11, emphasizing the severity of the
Fukushima accident and the ongoing nature of Japan’s radiation problems.
This chapter examines the story manga in Shiriagari’s two collections specifi-
cally tied to the 3/11 disaster, Ano hi kara no manga: 2011.3.11 (hereafter
Manga Since) and Ano hi kara no yūutsu (Despair Since That Day, 2015)
(hereafter Despair Since), as well as in his Gerogero pūsuka: kodomo mirai-
shi (Gerogero pūsuka: Death of the Children’s Future, 2006–2007), a work
written in response to the Chernobyl accident and reprinted with a new after-
word in 2012.6 By tracing his work across the three collections mentioned
above, the reader can see a shift from open representation of the nuclear acci-
dent in 2011 to a despair over the difficulty of representing radiation and its
dangers in manga form in 2015. In this chapter, I detail Shiriagari’s tech-
niques for making the meltdowns and associated problems of radiation visible
and meaningful in a context where the government, nuclear industry, and
many in the affected towns are attempting to shut down such critical dis-
course, and a national amnesia is being hastened by the government’s suc-
cessful attempts to redirect attention away from the disaster toward the
upcoming 2020 Olympics. In drawing attention to not just the Fukushima
accident, but also to its nuclear victims, the hibakusha, Shiriagari brings visi-
bility to the invisible and speakability to the unspeakable.
Images of the nuclear in Manga Since That Day

On March 11, 2011, Japan was struck by a 9.0 earthquake that triggered
tsunami waves of staggering heights (one of the highest recorded was
43 meters or 141 feet). The inundation of the tsunami waters compromised the
reactor cooling systems at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant (NPP),
leading to three meltdowns and the most severe nuclear accident since Cherno-
byl happened twenty-five years earlier. The disaster was one of the worst in
Japan’s post-war history with close to 16,000 dead and over 330,000 displaced.
Although radiation levels have fallen and decontamination work continues,
radiation is still leaking from the damaged nuclear power plant, there is no
long-term solution for the irradiated waste, and some residents may never be
able to return home.
The nuclear accident features in the story manga of Manga Since That Day
that were penned in April–June 2011, and their relevance comes to the fore when
aligned with the unfolding news about the disaster and the public response. In
the earliest of these story manga, “Umibe no mura” (“Village by the Sea,” April
12), the iconic yet crippled Fukushima Daiichi NPP shows up in a double-page
spread as fully defunct (see Figure 12.1a and b).7
The ocean barriers and towers of the plant are overgrown with greenery, and
the main function of the plant has been usurped by the field of wind turbines
Envisioning nuclear futures 225
Figure 12.1a and 12.b “Umibe no mura,” in Kotobuki Shiriagari, Ano hi kara no manga.
Shohan. Beam comix (Tokyo: Entā Burein, 2011).
covering the surrounding landscape. The story is set fifty years in the future, and
this image signals a hopeful end to the menace of nuclear power and the success
of Japan’s green revolution.
Images of the nuclear continue in the second and third installments in this
series “Kibō” (“Hope,” May 12) and “Furueru machi” (“Shaking Town,” June
12), as well as in “Kawakudari futago no oyaji” (“The Twin Old Geezers Go
Downriver,” May 21).8 “Hope,” a manga that imagines radioactive elements as
cartoonish humans trying to get out into the world, ends with a photorealistic
rendering of the damaged Fukushima NPP.9 The lack of words and the extreme
style switch in this final image emphasize the abandoned feelings of the title,
confirming the reality of the radioactive emissions from the plant. In “The
Twin Old Geezers Go Downriver,” the damaged plant appears as a box-shaped
female, who the old men encounter downstream. She laments her position as a
jilted lover, as she leaks toxins into the river spreading her contamination.10
Her jilted status reflects the shift in public opinion regarding nuclear power in
Japan. Post-disaster polls showed a huge reversal in support for nuclear power
from 60 percent in favor in 2009 to 74 percent desiring denuclearization in
June 2011.11
These images of a damaged and decommissioned NPP and the accompanying
anti-nuclear sentiment appeared alongside the real world announcement on April
226 Rachel DiNitto
12, 2011 that the meltdowns were not a Level 6 but a Level 7, meaning the acci-
dent was equal to Chernobyl; admissions by Tokyo Electric Power Company
(TEPCO), the company that owns the plant, that their president instructed offi-
cials to avoid using the word “meltdown” for two months after the disaster,
despite their knowledge otherwise, purposely misrepresenting the situation as a
less serious state of “core damage”; and calls by the then Prime Minister Kan
Naoto to end nuclear power in Japan on July 13, 2011.12
Shiriagari further references the ongoing crisis in his manga “Shaking Town,”
the story of a young, pregnant disaster widow that captures the anxiety and con-
fusion of Tokyo residents and of evacuees in the disaster zone. The manga
indexes the disaster through images of the television news discussing the earth-
quake in Tohoku, the explosion at the plant, and a scene of the protagonist sur-
rounded by tweets such as: “TEPCO is lying,” “It’s another Chernobyl,” “It’s
melting down!!,” “Flee now,” and “Radiation will reach Tokyo” (Figure 12.2).13
Figure 12.2 “Furueru machi,” in Kotobuki Shiriagari, Ano hi kara no manga. Shohan.
Beam comix (Tokyo: Entā Burein, 2011).
Source: © Kadokawa/Shiriagari.
This image represents not only the widow’s confusion, but also the confusion
that descended on the Japanese public in the immediate aftermath of the disaster.
It also represents the distrust for the government and its attempts to assuage
public fears through now iconic pronouncements like that made by Japanese
Chief Cabinet Secretary, Edano Yukio, who reassured the public that there were
“no immediate health risks” (tadachi ni eikyō wa nai) from the radiation spewing
from the damaged Fukushima Daiichi NPP.14 This phrase is represented in a par-
tially obscured tweet that is purposely confusing: “It’s OK. Health effects are …”
(Daijōbu. Mada kenkō ni wa eikyō ga …).15 Many writers reprised Edano’s now
infamous phrase to reveal its true warning: even if danger is not immanent,
victims will suffer health effects in the future.
The widow in “Shaking Town” decides to flee to Tohoku because in her mind it
is the one place in Japan that is least likely to have earthquakes in the future. This
decision is curious, since rather than running from the radiation, she is likely headed
straight for it and the very danger she feared would affect her unborn child. But,
many evacuees did flee to areas of higher radiation because of the lack of accurate
information about radiation dispersal when the Japanese government decided to
delay the release of the SPEEDI (System for Prediction of Environmental Dose
Information) data that would have predicted the movement of this toxic cloud.16 The
protagonist in “Shaking Town” can be seen as representative of those who unknow-
ingly evacuated and fled to areas of higher radiation, or those who fled to areas they
thought were safe. In 2016, the magnitude 6.2 earthquake on Japan’s southern
island of Kyūshū threatened the Sendai Nuclear Power Plant (NPP), 75 miles to the
northwest, forcing those who had fled the Fukushima accident to question their
decision to move there. This was the only NPP in Japan that remained in operation
after the mass shutdowns f ollowing the Fukushima accident.
In the early days after the disaster, Shiriagari was part of a small group of
artists who responded with anti-nuclear criticism that ranged from openly con-
frontational to subtle. The guerrilla artist group known as Chim↑Pom created a
video performance titled “Real Times” in which they entered the no-go zone at
the Fukushima Daiichi NPP to stand atop a lookout on the grounds of the plant.17
With the damaged NPP in the background, they painted a white flag to look like
the Japanese flag and then transformed that into the radiation symbol. Fiction
writers Kawakami Hiromi and Furukawa Hideo published literary works within
a few months of the disaster that addressed the nuclear threat, at a time that
many authors were writing about the earthquake and tsunami.18 Musicians
uploaded anti-nuclear songs to the Internet, like “It was Always a Lie,” albeit
anonymously so as to avoid censorship.19 Early voices like Shiriagari’s chal-
lenged mainstream media perceptions that sought to downplay the damage,
contain the confusion and collective response of public horror, and silence anti-
nuclear sentiment. These artists worked against media representations that func-
tioned “like euphemisms to obstruct seeing, saying, and understanding.”20
Within a year, however, Shiriagari was lamenting the difficulty of making
radiation visible and, four years later, he titled his follow-up volume Despair
Since That Day, indicating a shift away from the hopeful mood for political
228 Rachel DiNitto
change that had characterized the early post-disaster months. Below I examine
Shiriagari’s techniques for making the meltdowns and associated problems of
radiation visible. As mentioned above, Kariya’s issue of Oishinbo became the
object of public controversy, sparking criticism from the local disaster com-
munities and the government, as well as censorship from the publisher.21 The
music industry restricted artists by censoring lyrics, and nuclear power com-
panies used advertising dollars to silence anti-nuclear artists by blacklisting them
and pressuring media companies to exclude them.22 Fiction writer Henmi Yō
compared the climate of censorship to wartime Japan, blaming individual
citizens as well as the government and nuclear industry for this “twenty-first
century Japanese-style fascism.”23 It is amidst this climate that I consider how
the problem of representation is tied to issues of censorship and forgetting,
making the nuclear accident and its victims unspeakable and invisible.
Making radiation visible

Writing over a year after the disaster, Shiriagari expressed his frustration in a
manga titled “Hōshanō kashika keikaku” (“Proposal to Make Radiation Visible,”
July 2012) from the Despair Since collection. The tongue-in-cheek bureaucratic
title belies a serious problem. In the manga, Shiriagari’s alter ego manga artist
laments his inability to depict radiation despite the symbolic expressions of the
genre (manpu) that can effectively capture the invisible, such as conventions
used to represent sound waves and atmospheric disturbances.24 Yet, there are no
standard conventions in manga to represent radiation. “Proposal to Make Radi-
ation Visible” shows him drawing a scene in which his characters talk about
radiation, but the manga artist is unable to give it visual form in the back-
ground.25 He attempts to find a solution through crowdsourcing but gives up,
realizing that he cannot reduce radiation to any one symbol. The consequence of
multiple representational means is that his manpu for radiation risk being misun-
derstood or missed altogether by readers. But if he does not attempt to represent
the radiation, the problem remains invisible.
Looking across his 3/11 related volumes, we can see Shiriagari experimenting
with these different symbols or manga techniques to draw the reader’s attention
to the radiation. In “Shaking Town,” strange lightening-like marks fill the Tokyo
sky behind the iconic Shibuya crossing, marks that align with the protagonist’s
worries about radiation (Figure 12.3).26
He also experiments with these symbols in his follow-up manga about the
same widow now settled in Tohoku: the “Purorōgu” (“Prologue,” 2015) and
“Epirōgu” (“Epilogue,” 2015) for Despair Since. In these works, the widow
questions her decision to flee to and stay in Tohoku. Radiation exposure is not
addressed directly in the speech bubbles; however, the “Prologue” includes
flashback scenes showing the disaster clean-up, and these scene have grid-like
black dots covering the images (Figure 12.4).27 The dots only appear on these
clean-up frames, and since the characters in them are wearing masks, the dots
can be seen as a visual representation of radiation, a type of manpu.28
Figure 12.3 “Furueru machi,” in Kotobuki Shiriagari, Ano hi kara no manga. Shohan.
230 Rachel DiNitto
Figure 12.4 “Purorōgu,” in Kotobuki Shiriagari, Ano hi kara no yūutsu. Bīmu komikkusu
(Tokyo: Kadokawa, 2015).
At the end of the “Epilogue,” the disaster widow worries there will be no
further efforts at redeveloping the disaster area in her lifetime, making it difficult
for her to find work and stay in Tohoku. She hopes for positive change in her son’s
lifetime, but the manga ends with her speculating about the length of her son’s
life.29 This ambiguous comment could be read as anxiety that his life will be cut
short, and in the context of the disaster area, the obvious cause for that would be
radiation-induced illness. This final comment is in a speech bubble overlaying a
realistic image of nature—the ocean and mountains—but the shining sun is emit-
ting strange rays with white dots. These dots resemble the hail-like rain in the
opening panels, but since in this panel the sun is shining and there is no onomato-
poeia to indicate rain, the reader is left to question the meaning of these dots.
Could they be another manpu for radiation? By referencing the problem of radi-
ation in the disaster towns, Shiriagari questions the livability of these areas, in a
move that reverberates with the controversy over Oishinbo.
In the final panels of “Proposal to Make Radiation Visible,” the manga artist
decides he must devise different means for bringing radiation into the visible
spectrum. In one frame, he draws angular lines and dots emanating from a
30
gutter to represent high levels of radiation, and by doing so, actually makes the
radiation visible in the image, even though in reality it remains invisible. Below
I examine other methods Shiriagari employs to represent radiation and its
dangers: including references to other disasters and historical tragedies, as well
as to symbolic images within the visible realm. Shiriagari’s strategies are a
response to the climate that discourages such expression.
Recourse to history: from Hiroshima to Chernobyl

Shiriagari’s “Yūenchi no kessen” (“Showdown at the Amusement Park,” 2006)
from the Gerogero pūsuka collection is full of references to World War Two,
nuclear weapons, and nuclear power plants.31 In the manga, the mention of a
weapon (heiki) that will be reluctantly activated (kadō) recalls the atomic
bombs (kakuheiki) and the activating or reactivating (saikadō) of nuclear
power plants after the Fukushima disaster. The atomic bombings of Hiroshima
and Nagasaki are also referenced in “Village by the Sea.” The residents live
with minimal and intermittent power in a shanty town that is reminiscent of
the atomic bomb victim ghettos in Kōno Fumiyo’s Hiroshima manga, and the
black dots in the “Prologue” recall the black rain that fell after the bombs
(Figure 12.5).32
Figure 12.5 “Umibe no mura,” in Kotobuki Shiriagari, Ano hi kara no manga. Shohan.
232 Rachel DiNitto
These images link the communities in Shiriagari and Kōno’s work as nuclear
victims (hibakusha). This linking of victims of atomic bombs and nuclear power
is controversial in Japan. Ryan Holmberg explains that the term “irradiated lab-
orers” (hibaku rōdōsha) used for nuclear power plant workers is “politically
loaded” because the word hibaku is homophonous with that used for victims of
the atomic bombs.33 The Japanese government and nuclear industry have long
tried to maintain the line separating the peaceful from non-peaceful uses of the
nuclear. However, as Roger Pulvers argues, in the aftermath of the Fukushima
accident, nuclear power was linked with the radiation released by the atomic
bombs to reveal the government betrayal hiding behind Japan’s no nuclear
stance.34
In between the publication of Manga Since and Despair Since, Shiriagari
republished Gerogero pūsuka, a work originally created as a response to the
Chernobyl accident. This manga provides an important subtext for reading the
other two collections, as Shiriagari draws a clear connection between the Cher-
nobyl and Fukushima disasters. When Gerogero pūsuka was reprinted in 2012,
Shiriagari added an afterword that references the 3/11 Fukushima nuclear dis-
aster and encourages a re-reading of Gerogero pūsuka in light of the more recent
catastrophe. Not only do the storylines connect across the two works, but the
earlier disaster also informs and reinforces the severity of the later one. By
bringing the weight of Chernobyl to bear on Fukushima, Shiriagari reinforces a
recognition of the victims of these nuclear accidents as hibakusha, something
that is, as explained below, still controversial in Japan with regards to victims of
the Fukushima accident.
Although there are no overt indicators linking the manga in Gerogero pūsuka
to Chernobyl, the memory of that accident looms over the manga through indi-
rect yet recognizable iconic references such as the famous Ferris wheel in Pripy-
at’s amusement park (Figures 12.6 and 12.7). The Ferris wheel in Gerogero
pūsuka, as seen in “Kyūjitsu” (“Holiday,” 2006) and “Showdown at the Amuse-
ment Park,” could easily be the famous wheel at the Tokyo Dome or in Odaiba.35
However, the fact that neither the wheel nor any of the rides are operational
recalls the amusement park in Pripyat, which was abandoned shortly before the
May Day celebrations in 1986 due to the Chernobyl explosion a few kilometers
away. The Pripyat wheel is now iconic of the Chernobyl disaster: it has become
part of the landscape of dark or disaster tourism, featuring in video games and
movies.36 The modern town of Pripyat that housed workers from the Chernobyl
plant is recalled in Shiriagari’s massive housing complexes that are empty of
human life, as seen in his manga about a child all alone in a large housing
complex titled, “Sanjō!! Mitottaman” (“Visit!! Child Caregiver,” 2006).37 These
iconic images from the Chernobyl disaster work as visual shorthand for the
dangers of radiation. By associating the images in Gerogero pūsuka with Pripyat,
there is no need for Shiriagari to add in a separate visual representation (manpu)
for radiation.
Chernobyl casts a long shadow over the other two collections and asserts Fuku-
shima’s status as another Chernobyl, directly countering Japanese government
Figure 12.6 “Kyūjitsu,” in Kotobuki Shiriagari, Gerogero pūsuka: kodomo mirai-

shi. Beam comix (Tokyo: Entaburein, 2012).
Figure 12.7 The Ferris Wheel in Pripyat. Tiia Monto.

Source: CC BY-SA 3.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/bysa/3.0), from Wikimedia
Commons. https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/7/74/Pripyat__ferris_wheel.jpg.
234 Rachel DiNitto
assurances that the situation was under control. Shiriagari addresses not only the
immediate impact of the disaster, but also the slow violence of long-term radiation
exposure. In “Village by the Sea,” the somatic damage is represented by grand-
children who have grown wings, and is rationalized as a natural form of human
evolution via a comparison with dinosaurs who grew wings in order to survive.38
But, in Gerogero pūsuka, the world has already changed to the point that only the
old and the young survive. Or, even worse, the world is only occupied by the old
and children are a true oddity. Shiriagari depicts the violence of radiation-induced
human mutation as both a form of human evolution and the possible end of
humanity itself.
This dire prediction for humanity’s future is explained on the opening page of
the title manga “Gerogero pūsuka” (2006), which can easily be read as a futuris-
tic story about the Fukushima accident (Figure 12.8). Against a scene of decrepit
skyscrapers, the text reads: “20XX. Human desire and idleness caused this acci-
dent. The radiation contaminating the globe is survived only by the old with their
slow metabolisms and children who live until age fourteen.”39 Despite this grim
warning, the bodies of the youth in all three manga collections are healthy and
suffer no visible damage from radiation. Although the manga states that children
die at age fourteen, it does not explain how or why. Shiriagari chooses not to
depict the bodily harm that leads to the children’s deaths. In other words, he
chooses not to make the somatic damage visible.40 Similarly, in Manga Since,
there is no discussion about the damage to the area or its residents from the NPP,
although the father in “Village by the Sea” warns his son to stay away from the
plant. Are Shiriagari’s characters so used to the fact that children do not live past
age fourteen that there is no need to discuss it? Is Shiriagari showing how those
deaths that result from radiation are in essence invisible, meaning those who die
are society’s disposable? The lack of damaged bodies also points to Rob Nixon’s
assertions about the difficulty of representing the slow violence of radiation and
its “long dyings.”41
I do not in any way mean to dismiss Nixon’s assertions or the disposability of
radiation victims. These are important issues that require attention in both crea-
tive works and scholarship on the Fukushima accident. Yet, I propose another
way to read the healthy bodies of the children in Shiriagari’s manga by using the
example of the naked boys roaming the streets in “Chisana matsuri” (“The Little
Festival,” May 12, 2012) from Despair Since (Figure 12.9). The cartoonishly
drawn boys engage in juvenile jokes as they attempt to create a festival (matsuri)
but are unable to find anything indispensable enough to parade about. There are
no mothers anymore, and they reluctantly rule out poop and snot. The boys find
their answer when they encounter a checkpoint, men in protective gear, and no
entry signs, and decide to make a portable shrine out of the barriers in order to
parade the men around.42 Amidst the middle-school scatological humor, the real
danger is hidden in plain sight. The boys are naked and their entry into a no-go
area exposes their bodies to radiation.43 Their very nakedness is visible in a way
that damaged, irradiated bodies are not in Japan. The manga emphasizes this
with a warning in the final panel: “Don’t take life for granted.”44
Figure 12.8 “Gerogero pūsuka,” in Kotobuki Shiriagari, Gerogero pūsuka: kodomo

miraishi. Beam comix (Tokyo: Entaburein, 2012).
Source: Kadokawa/Shiriagari.
236 Rachel DiNitto
Figure 12.9 “Chisana matsuri,” in Kotobuki Shiriagari, Ano hi kara no yūutsu. Bīmu
komikkusu (Tokyo: Kadokawa, 2015).
The invisible and the unspeakable
While writing an article about debris and cultural trauma a year after the 2011
disaster, I speculated about the lack of dead bodies in the 3/11 visual and literary
archive.45 This absence is surprising given the graphic images of bodies that fea-
tured in previous disasters from the Great Kantō Earthquake in 1923, to World
War Two, to the atomic bombs. Fiction writer Ikezawa Natsuki commented on
the media’s intentional avoidance of images of dead bodies in their coverage of
the 3/11 disaster: “I learned of the circumstances of these many deaths through the
media, but the Japanese media would not show these remains as dead bodies …
The camera casually averted its gaze. But the corpses were there.”46 Mary
Knighton discusses the mood of restraint (jishuku) “with regard to 3.11 out of
respect for Tohoku’s dead and its displaced populations.”47 Knighton sees the
effects of this in Shiriagari’s wordless manga “Sora to mizu” (“Sky and Water,”
July 12, 2011) in which children, born atop lotus pedals growing out of the dis-
aster debris, have a temporary reunion with the dead souls of their loved ones,
who also emerge from the mud and water-covered debris. The dead bodies are
shown in this manga, but as ghost-like figures with no verbal commentary,
leaving interpretation fully up to the reader.48 In the debris article mentioned
above, I speculated that the resistance to showing corpses was a post-9/11 style
censorship meant to minimize human “collateral” damage.49 This mood of
restraint that descended on Japan post-3/11 can be aptly described as a case of
“trauma instrumentalized as an alibi for censorship,” a phrase used to describe
post-9/11 America.50 The self-restraint, or as Knighton translates it “self-
censorship,” kept the Japanese public from discussing the disaster dead and
debating the nuclear disaster, a silence that aided in the government’s efforts to
downplay the danger.51
However, it is not just the corpses that are invisible, but also the living
victims of radiation exposure, the hibakusha, who are also invisible in Japanese
society. Unlike the victims of the atomic bombs, the somatic damage to the
hibakusha of Fukushima has not manifested itself as the horrific bodily injuries
seen in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. At least for the present, the damage only
appears on disembodied thyroid scans and body counters. But for many hibaku-
sha, the invisibility is also self-imposed, a strategy to avoid discrimination at
work, school, and in society. Soon after the nuclear meltdowns, critic Yamauchi
Akemi discussed the stigma attached to the label hibakusha and the difficulty of
applying this label to the new generation of victims.52 The media and Japanese
public tend to avoid the term hibakusha when speaking of Fukushima’s victims,
commonly using hisaisha, a more neutral term that simply implies a disaster
victim.
In many ways, the term hibakusha resides in the “domain of the unsayable,”
just as the victims of Fukushima remain unseeable.53 This does not mean that
representations of them are fully absent in post-Fukushima Japan, but that the
designation of the Fukushima victims as “nuclear victims” is an act that moves
outside sanctioned speech. As Judith Butler argues, censorship makes “certain
238 Rachel DiNitto
kinds of citizens possible and others impossible,” circumscribing “the social
parameters of speakable discourse.”54 From the perspective of a government and
nuclear industry eager to repatriate residents back into formerly contaminated
zones, the label hibakusha undermines the purpose and efficacy of the decon-
tamination work. From the perspective of those citizens who remained in
affected areas or returned to zones officially designated as “decontaminated” but
which may still be irradiated, the term hibakusha threatens the existence of their
communities. The destabilizing nature of the term hibakusha stands in sharp
contrast to terms like “decontamination” (josen) and “damaging rumors” (fūhyō
higai), which offer reassurances of safety while silencing fears and doubt.55
What is speakable and, by extension, for a manga artist like Shiriagari, what
is seeable in post-Fukushima Japan? In Shiriagari’s case the not seeing of dead
or damaged bodies in the Japanese media allows for the very visibility of the
naked body in his manga, and when it is placed in the toxic landscape, it acts as
shorthand for the damaged, irradiated body.56 Although he does not openly label
them as such, the characters in Shiriagari’s manga are all hibakusha—the old
men who meet the damaged NPP leaking her toxins into the river, the intergen-
erational family living near the decommissioned NPP, the children in the Cher-
nobyl stories living in a contaminated world, the disaster widow in Tohoku and
her son wondering about their longevity. The designation of these characters as
hibakusha and of their environments as toxic, runs counter to decontamination
campaigns and to a reaffirmation of the hometown (furusato) that are key to suc-
cessful repatriation. If the radiological danger from the Fukushima NPP was well
recognized and accepted, why would the government delete the word “sarcopha-
gus” (sekkan)—a reference to the concrete entombment at Chernobyl—from a
report on decommissioning the Fukushima NPP in 2016? Local governments
raised objections and the Fukushima governor expressed his outrage that this
solution meant acknowledging a condemnation of the site and no possibility of
return for former residents.57 There is no clear solution for dealing with the
melted fuel, yet residents and local governments play semantic games in order to
hold out hope rather than face this grim reality.
That reality is apparent in the afterword to Gerogero pūsuka, where Shiriagari
says: “We may not be able to pass on a prosperous, rose-colored world to the
children. … The era when we could carefully raise those few children in an ideal
environment is over.”58 Shiriagari is not looking to place blame for the NPP acci-
dents (either Chernobyl or Fukushima). Rather he insists that we must keep
reproducing and sowing the seeds of life. “We must plant these seeds regardless
of how barren or contaminated the earth and they will bud.”59 As seen in the
controversy over Oishinbo, such recognition of the contaminated status of the
disaster areas is an unwelcome sentiment for many living in those zones. The
controversy continues to swirl around the irradiated status of these disaster land-
scapes, and as reader, we have to wonder what kind of children could be born of
such a contaminated landscape.
The invisibility of forgetting
The despair in Shiriagari’s second 3/11 collection points not only to censorship
but also to a national forgetting of the disaster that creates its own form of invis-
ibility. The Japanese government is interested in making the damage of Fuku-
shima as invisible as possible in order to rally support for the upcoming 2020
Olympics. The Tokyo Olympics expect to host some events (baseball, football,
rowing, and canoeing) in Tohoku, but none in areas that experienced evacua-
tions.60 The committee claims they want to showcase a rebuilt Tohoku, but in
order to do that, the continued menace of radiation must be removed from
view.61
A certain level of compassion fatigue is normal for any disaster, and it would
be unreasonable to expect that the 3/11 disaster would retain its impact several
years later. Shiriagari addresses this desire to move on in Despair Since.62 But,
Shiriagari’s “Village by the Sea” shows the dangers of this forgetting; the NPP
becomes hidden from view, and this invisibility also serves to hide its toxic
threat through an act of public forgetting. The children in this story are unaware
of the existence or history of the nuclear power plant. When the winged son goes
off to play, the father warns him not to go near the plant, the genpatsu. When the
older son asks what the genpatsu is, the father explains that fifty years ago there
was disaster and
many things were lost. We resolved to take a different path forward. We put
an end to the prosperous lifestyle that was filled with the anxiety of not
knowing when we would face such losses again, and chose the path of
endless happiness.63
The reader can assume that “endless happiness” means the abandoning of the NPP
and all it stood for. But the manga ends with the “good” news that the town will be
able to start up a new power plant (bio or hydrogen), and residents speak with nos-
talgic cheer about the possibility for cars, refrigerators, and the prosperous world
of the past.64 Shiriagari’s use of the word “prosperous” (yutaka) intentionally
echoes the now empty slogans that promised the affluence of nuclear power.
“Village by the Sea” is driven by a dynamic of forgetting. The children do not
know what the NPP is or the damage it still poses, so in essence, the threat of
radiation remains invisible. Even though the father’s generation knows of it, they
are willing to forget in exchange for “prosperity.” The cost for failing to retain
and transmit information about the dangers of radiation is palpable in an essay
Hayashi Kyōko wrote after 3/11.65 Hayashi was distressed that the knowledge of
radiation gained from the atomic bombs had already faded from the national
consciousness, and she and others like critic Kuroko Kazuo fear the memory of
Fukushima will fade as well. The sense of danger may be fading, but the slow
violence of radiation is not and will not for years to come.
Shiriagari’s manga do not blame the government, nuclear or electric power indus-
tries, or residents of the affected zones. Neither do they employ the documentary
240 Rachel DiNitto
strategies or specialized vocabulary of many other post-disaster manga. They are
nuanced, at times purposely silly, and not always clear in their anti-nuclear stance.
But a careful reading of his manga and symbols reveals “the limited, obstructed
vision that characterizes a historical moment ruled by trauma and censorship.”66
Shiriagari brings a much-needed visibility to the ongoing problems of the Fukushima
accident and the dire fate of its victims.
Notes
1 The term 3/11 refers to the March 11, 2011 triple disaster in Japan: earthquake,
tsunami, and three meltdowns at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant.
2 Noriko Manabe, The Revolution Will Not Be Televised: Protest Music After Fuku-
shima (New York: Oxford University Press, 2015), 112–113.
3 Mary Knighton, “The Sloppy Realities of 3.11 in Shiriagari Kotobuki’s Manga,” The
Asia–Pacific Journal 11(26) 1 (June 30, 2013).
4 Lorie Brau, “Oishinbo’s Fukushima Elegy: Grasping for the Truth About Radioactiv-
ity in Food Manga,” in Barbara Geilhorn and Kristina Iwata-Weickgenannt (Eds.),
Fukushima and the Arts: Negotiating Nuclear Disaster (London: Routledge, 2017),
177–198
5 Ryan Holmberg, “Nuclear Gypsies,” Art in America, December 2015, 114–119. See
the NHK special for more on these manga and interviews with the artists, including
Kotobuki Shiriagari: “Ima Fukushima o Egaku Koto: Mangaka-Tachi No Mosaku,”
Kurōzu-up Gendai. NHK, June 2, 2014.
6 See Knighton’s article on Shiriagari for more on his four-panel strips (4-koma):
Knighton, “The Sloppy Realities of 3.11 in Shiriagari Kotobuki’s Manga.”
7 Kotobuki Shiriagari, Ano hi kara no manga: 2011.3.11. Shohan. Beam comix (Tokyo:
Entā Burein, 2011), 28–29.
8 The word for “hope” (kibō) is crossed out in Shiriagari’s original.
9 Shiriagari, Ano hi kara no manga, 72.
10 Shiriagari, Ano hi kara no manga, 78–83. See Knighton for these images from
“Hope,” and “The Twin Old Geezers Go Downriver”: Knighton, “The Sloppy Real-
ities of 3.11 in Shiriagari Kotobuki’s Manga.”
11 Richard A. Hindmarsh, “3/11: Megatechnology, Siting, Place and Participation,” in
Richard A. Hindmarsh (Ed.), Nuclear Disaster at Fukushima Daiichi: Social, Polit-
ical and Environmental Issues (London: Routledge, 2014), 56.
12 Associated Press, “TEPCO: Delay in Declaring ‘Meltdown’ Was a Cover-Up,” The
Asahi Shimbun, June 21, 2016; and Chico Harlan, “Japanese Prime Minister Naoto
Kan Calls for Phase-Out of Nuclear Power,” The Washington Post, July 13, 2011.
14 Edano used this phrase on March 16 after explosions at reactors 1, 2, and 3, and a fire
at number 4. He repeated this phrase on seven occasions. See Manabe, The Revolution
Will Not Be Televised, 49. Also see Manabe for a list of officials who said the con-
ditions were safe post-meltdown: Manabe, The Revolution Will Not Be
Televised, 125.
15 The Japanese word to indicate no negative health effects (nai) is obscured in this
quote, purposely adding to the sense of confusion surrounding radiological danger.
16 The Japanese government delayed the release of this data to the public until March
23, although they gave it to the US military on March 14. Sarah Phillips, “Fukushima
Is Not Chernobyl? Don’t Be so Sure,” Somatosphere: Science, Medicine, Anthropol-
ogy (blog), March 11, 2013.
17 The performance is from April 11, 2011 and can be viewed online at: http://chimpom.
jp/project/real-times.html. Accessed April 24, 2018.
18 Hiromi Kawakami, “God Bless You, 2011,” in Elmer Luke and David Karashima
(Eds.), March Was Made of Yarn: Reflections on the Japanese Earthquake,
Tsunami, and Nuclear Meltdown. Translated by Ted Goosen and Motoyuki Shibata
(New York: Vintage, 2012), 37–48. Hiromi Kawakami’s “Kamisama 2011” was
published in the June 2011 issue of the journal Gunzō, and Furukawa’s Horses,
Horses, in the End the Light Remains Pure (Umatachi yo, sore de mo hikari wa
muku de, 2011) first appeared in the July 2011 issue of the journal Shinchō. For
more on these two works, see Rachel DiNitto, Fukushima Fiction: The Literary
Landscape of Japan’s Triple Disaster (Honolulu, HI: University of Hawai’i Press,
2019).
19 Manabe, The Revolution Will Not Be Televised, 117.
20 Marianne Hirsch, “Editor’s Column: Collateral Damage,” PMLA 119(5) (October
2004), 1214.
21 Brau, “Oishinbo’s Fukushima Elegy.”
22 Manabe, The Revolution Will Not Be Televised, 74; and Mathieu Gaulène, “Does the
Advertising Giant Dentsu Pull the Strings of the Japanese Media?” Translated by
Sachie Mizohata. The Asia–Pacific Journal 14(11) 5 (June 1, 2016).
23 Yō Henmi, Gareki no naka kara kotoba o: watashi no “shisha” e (Tokyo: NHK
Shuppan, 2012), 85–86.
24 Manpu are signs, symbols, and characters used as conventions in manga to represent a
variety of actions, emotions, and conditions.
25 Kotobuki Shiriagari, Ano hi kara no yūutsu (Bīmu komikkusu. Tokyo: Kadokawa,
2015), 83.
27 Shiriagari, Ano hi kara no yūutsu, 1.
28 See Katsumata Susumu’s “Devil Fish (Octopus)” (1989) for a different visual repres-
entation of radioactive particles: Holmberg, “Nuclear Gypsies,” 117 and 119.
31 Kotobuki Shiriagari, Gerogero pūsuka: kodomo miraishi. Beam comix (Tokyo:
Entaburein, 2012), 91–126.
32 Shiriagari, Ano hi kara no manga, 14, 16 and 19; and Fumiyo Kōno, Naoko
Amemiya, and Andy Nakatani, Town of Evening Calm, Country of Cherry Blossoms,
1st edn (San Francisco, CA: Last Gasp, 2009), 71.
33 Holmberg, “Nuclear Gypsies,” 114.
34 Roger Pulvers, “Murakami, the No-Nuclear Principles, Nuclear Power and the
Bomb,” The Asia–Pacific Journal 9(29) 6 (July 18, 2011).
35 Shiriagari, Gerogero pūsuka, 104 and 181.
36 For more on the Pripyat Ferris wheel and its place in popular culture, see Sarah Phil-
lips and Sarah Ostaszewski, “Illustrated Guide to the Post-Catastrophe Future,”
Anthropology of East Europe Review 30(1) (spring 2012): 127–140; and Kim Hjelm-
gaard, “Pillaged and Peeling, Radiation-Ravaged Pripyat Welcomes “Extreme” Tour-
ists,’ USA TODAY, April 17, 2016.
37 Shiriagari, Gerogero pūsuka, 127–150.
39 Shiriagari, Gerogero pūsuka, 29.
40 Other artists have included images or descriptions of the somatic damage from
atomic bombs and radiation. See, for example, images of humans affected by the
atomic bombs in manga, in Keiji Nakazawa, Barefoot Gen: A Cartoon Story of
Hiroshima/Keiji Nakazawa, translated by Project Gen (San Francisco, CA: Last
Gasp of San Francisco, 2004); the declining health of children in fictional novels, in
Yōko Tawada, Kentōshi (Tokyo: Kōdansha, 2014); and filmic depictions of children
undergoing thyroid cancer screenings in Ian Thomas Ash, A2-B-C, Ian Thomas
Ash, 2013.
242 Rachel DiNitto
41 Rob Nixon, “Slow Violence,” The Chronicle of Higher Education, June 26, 2011; and
Ron Nixon, Slow Violence and the Environmentalism of the Poor (Cambridge, MA:
Harvard University Press, 2013).
42 Shiriagari, Ano hi kara no yūutsu, 17–19.
43 In Kawakami Hiromi’s “God Bless You, 2011,” the narrator goes outside for the first
time since the disaster wearing normal clothes that expose her skin. All other people
she encounters outside are in protective gear; see Kawakami, “God Bless You,
2011,” 37.
45 Rachel DiNitto, “Narrating the Cultural Trauma of 3.11: The Debris of Post-
Fukushima Literature and Film,” Japan Forum 26(3): 340–360.
46 Natsuki Ikezawa, Haru o urandari wa shinai: shinsai o megutte kangaeta koto
(Tokyo: Chūō Kōron Shinsha, 2011), 6–7.
47 Knighton, “The Sloppy Realities of 3.11 in Shiriagari Kotobuki’s Manga.”
48 Shiriagari, Ano hi kara no manga, 140–144.
49 DiNitto, “Narrating the Cultural Trauma of 3.11,” 19.
50 Hirsch, “Editor’s Column,” 1211.
51 Knighton, “The Sloppy Realities of 3.11 in Shiriagari Kotobuki’s Manga.”
52 Norio Akasaka, Eiji Oguma, and Akemi Yamauchi, “Tōhoku” Saisei (Tokyo: Īsuto
Puresu, 2011), 34.
53 Judith Butler, Excitable Speech: A Politics of the Performative (New York: Routledge,
1997), 133.
54 Ibid., 131–133.
55 David H. Slater, Rika Morioka, and Haruka Danzuka, “MICRO-POLITICS OF
RADIATION: Young Mothers Looking for a Voice in Post-3.11 Fukushima,” Crit-
ical Asian Studies 46(3) (July 3, 2014): 485–508.
56 See Hirsch on the “not seeing” in Art Spiegelman’s post 9/11 manga In the Shadow of
No Towers: Hirsch, “Editor’s Column: Collateral Damage,” 1213.
57 The Asahi Shimbun, “VOX POPULI: There’s No End to Fukushima Crisis While
Melted Fuel Remains,” July 23, 2016.
58 Shiriagari, Gerogero pūsuka. This afterword is on an unpaginated page at the end of
the volume.
59 Ibid.
60 Seth Berkman, “Would You Play Ball at Fukushima?” The New York Times, Decem-
ber 29, 2017.
61 Justin McCurry, “Fukushima to Host Tokyo Olympics Events to Help Recovery from
Nuclear Disaster,” The Guardian, March 17, 2017.
62 See, for example, the manga “Fukushima shōsuke kudarana matsuri,” in which a gui-
tarist wants to have a meaningless festival in Fukushima in order to allow people to
forget “that day”; see Shiriagari, Ano hi kara no yūutsu, 69–72. For more on the actual
festival with this title, see: www.i-m.mx/kudarana/info/.
65 Hayashi, “Futatabi Rui e.”
66 Hirsch, “Editor’s Column,” 1213.
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12 Envisioning nuclear futures

Shiriagari Kotobuki’s 3/11 manga

Images of the nuclear in Manga Since That Day

Making radiation visible

Recourse to history: from Hiroshima to Chernobyl

Figure 12.6 “Kyūjitsu,” in Kotobuki Shiriagari, Gerogero pūsuka: kodomo mirai-

Figure 12.7 The Ferris Wheel in Pripyat. Tiia Monto.

Figure 12.8 “Gerogero pūsuka,” in Kotobuki Shiriagari, Gerogero pūsuka: kodomo

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