![]() Dominic, though, kept returning to Fukushima. Even as Fukushima Daiichi still leaked radiation and the haplessness of the plant’s operator, Toyko Electric Power Co., became ever more apparent, the world’s media moved on to the next natural disaster, the next epic scandal. We ate dried seaweed in the hope that iodine might counteract any dangerous, unseen particles. Dominic eventually bought a dosimeter-its Cyrillic writing signifying another nuclear disaster at Chernobyl-to track his personal radiation. Radiation is invisible, and we didn’t want to be foolhardy. Three of its reactor cores began to overheat and then melt down, sending clouds of radiation spewing into the air.Įvery day, as other news crews evacuated the area, we took stock of just how close we were willing to go to the crippled plant. The aging Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant, perched on Japan’s coastline, had been inundated by the tsunami and lost the electricity needed to operate cooling systems. But the natural disaster quickly gained a surreal, manmade edge. We came to cover the deadly wave that had overwhelmed fishing and farming communities in Iwate, Miyagi and Fukushima prefectures, killing nearly 20,000 people. But somehow he squeezed his lanky frame between a jerrycan of gas, a portable stove, gallons of drinking water and a mountain of food I’d packed for our rations. Born in Switzerland and raised in Hong Kong, Dominic is not a short man. Two days after the Maearthquake and tsunami devastated northeastern Japan, photographer Dominic Nahr joined a TIME team roving the Tohoku countryside in a very compact car.
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