The rice paddies on the outskirts of this tsunami-hit city are ankle-deep in a black, salty sludge. Crumpled cars and uprooted trees lie scattered across them.
His house destroyed, rice farmer Shinichi Shibasaki lives on a square of blue tarp on the top floor of a farming cooperative office with others like him. He has one set of soiled clothes. But all he can think about is getting back to work.
"If we start washing the soil out now, we can start growing our rice seedlings at the end of April at a different location, and plant them here a month later," the 59-year-old farmer said.
That may prove overly optimistic, but agriculture experts — as well as Indonesian farmers hit by a tsunami in 2004 — say a quick recovery is possible, maybe within a year. A key factor will be how long it takes for the salt to wash out from the fields, some still flooded with seawater.
Whenever it comes, the return of bright green stalks swaying in the breeze will be a symbol of rebirth. The affected area may represent only a small part of Japan's overall production, but rice is a spiritual touchstone in this country. The nation's soul — despite a modern fascination with all things high-tech — remains rooted in the soil.
In the name of preserving tradition, Japan's mostly small-scale rice farmers are heavily protected from cheaper foreign competition. The emperor plants and harvests symbolic stalks every year, and some city dwellers rent small plots to grow rice on the edge of town. The country's mythology is filled with references to rice, and the written character for "rice field" forms part of many surnames.
In the small city of Natori, Akemi Miura can only laugh as she looks at the land around her home, which her family has worked for mo
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