According to Greek mythology, it was Prometheus who gave fire to humans.
According to Greek mythology, it was Prometheus who gave fire to humans.
The acquisition of fire allowed humankind to develop civilization. Fire derived from fossil fuels further spurred production capacity. In time, humans attained atomic fire, a feat that was also described as "superior energy." Playing with fire, however, has presented humans with a dilemma.
Humans, who achieved a civilized world through Prometheus, are now troubled by atomic fire. The series of articles contemplate the country, its citizens and electric power in light of the accident at the Fukushima No. 1 nuclear power plant.
The third series, “Order to Suspend Radiation Monitoring,” considers the bureaucratic logic that could have discontinued the world's longest-running radiation observations at a truly critical juncture following the accident at the Fukushima plant.
The first and second series are available at
* * *
On March 31, 2011, Michio Aoyama, a 58-year-old researcher at the Meteorological Research Institute of the Japan Meteorological Agency, was attending an International Atomic Energy Agency (IAEA) conference in Monaco when he received an e-mail from Japan.
As he read the message, Aoyama could not help but shake his head in incomprehension and disbelief.
"We're discontinuing radiation monitoring? Now? But we've been doing it for more than half a century!"
In 1954, a U.S. thermonuclear test at the Bikini atolls prompted the Meteorological Research Institute to begin nuclear research that year. Three years later, the institute began monitoring environmental radiation in the atmosphere and the oceans, which was still going on when Aoyama got the disturbing e-mail. The undertaking had already set a world record as the longest of its kind, and the institute had earned the respect of many countries for it.
The sender of the e-mail was Takashi Inoue, 47, a researcher at the institute's Office of Planning in Tsukuba, Ibaraki Prefecture. According to Inoue, he received a phone call from the meteorological agency's Planning Division in Tokyo at 6 p.m. on March 31.
The caller told Inoue, "Effective tomorrow, there will be no more budget for radiation monitoring. Please do as you see fit at your end."
Inoue could think of no reason why the budget was being pulled right when radiation level readings were at their highest since monitoring began. He demanded an explanation, but the caller merely repeated that the agency's decision was irreversible.
Inoue didn't know what to do. Only six hours remained of the fiscal year, which in Japan ends on March 31. And Inoue had never heard of a government organ freezing its budget on the eve of the new fiscal year--and after office hours, to boot.
But Tokyo's directive could not be ignored, and Inoue had to act fast. Picking up the phone, he called the temp staff agency, whose analysts the institute relied on for radiation monitoring.
"Sorry about this sudden call," Inoue began. "But I have to ask you to get the word out to your radiation analysts that they won't be working for us anymore from tomorrow."
Paychecks for these specially trained analysts and their assistants were coming from the institute's "radiation research budget." With this budget gone, the institute couldn't pay them anymore.
Pandemonium broke out in the office of planning.
"We've got to call an emergency meeting of the related staff," Inoue yelled.
"The accounting people have already left for their farewell party tonight," someone reminded him.
"Well, call them and tell them to come back."
The core members of the Meteorological Research Institute's radiation research team were Aoyama of the Geochemical Research Department and Yasuhito Igarashi, 53, of the Atmospheric Environment and Applied Meteorology Research Department.
Igarashi had already gone home when he received a phone call from a planning office staffer, who explained what had transpired: "The Ministry of Education, Culture, Sports, Science and Technology informed the meteorological agency that a budgetary adjustment is necessary to cope with the nuclear accident at the Fukushima No. 1 nuclear power plant. The situation requires urgent radiation monitoring, for which the ministry has decided to use our radiation research budget ..."
On April 3, Aoyama returned to Japan from the IAEA conference in Monaco and headed directly to the Meteorological Research Institute’s Office of Planning.
"What's all this about freezing our radiation monitoring budget?" he asked. "Would you please call Tokyo and ask again?"
"They've told me the science and technology ministry refuses to disburse the budget," Inoue replied.
Aoyama called the ministry himself. "If ever there's a time when radiation monitoring is absolutely necessary, that's now," he insisted. "Why are you telling us to stop now?"
The person he spoke to was Akane Yamaguchi, chief of the No. 1 Coordination Section of the Disaster Prevention Network for Nuclear Environment of the ministry's Nuclear Safety Division.
"The meteorological agency has informed us that it does not need the radiation research budget," Yamaguchi said.
The agency said that? Aoyama was stunned.
On the grounds of the Meteorological Research Institute in Tsukuba, Ibaraki Prefecture, there are three vessels for collecting rainwater. The vessels are cubes with open tops, with each side measuring 1 meter or 2 meters. Minute particles in the atmosphere are trapped in the rainwater, and radiation level readings are done with these particles.
The institute has another radiation measuring device, which uses filters to trap minute particles in the atmosphere.
The institute also commissions oceangoing liners to collect seawater for radiation analysis. All these undertakings have continued without interruption for 54 years since 1957.
Changes in the Earth's environment can be determined only through constant observation over many years. In fact, the ozone hole over Antarctica was first discovered by a researcher from the institute who kept observing the sky over Showa Station.
Everyone at the institute knew the importance of continuing the observation, and were determined to keep it up even when the going got rough.
And now, less than a month after the nuclear disaster started at Fukushima, the meteorological agency was ordering the institute to stop.
Aoyama's colleague, Igarashi, was forced to conclude that the agency's decision was final and irreversible. But as researchers, both men could not possibly bring themselves to discontinue their work. They decided to ignore the budget freeze and keep going. "No budget means we just don't spend money," they agreed. "Let's at least keep collecting samples. Analysis can wait."
The Nippon Yusen Kaisha (NYK Line) liner the institute had commissioned for seawater collection had already set sail before the budget freeze.
To change filters for trapping minute particles in the atmosphere, Aoyama and Igarashi came to the institute at night and on their days off. When they ran out of filters and other supplies, researchers at other institutes and universities helped them out on the Q.T.
Aoyama was at the Meteorological Research Institute when the Great East Japan Earthquake struck on March 11. Books tumbled off the shelves and thudded to the floor.
When the tremors subsided, Aoyama put on a hard hat, grabbed a survey meter, and raced out of the lab. There were radioactive substances, chemicals and other dangerous substances on the premises.
"Something smells foul," he yelled. "Check for any broken glass." As he rushed around the institute, he saw heaps of broken tiles in the front lobby and cracks on many walls. It was early evening by the time he completed safety inspections and finally took a breather.
On the TV, a newscaster was reporting the conditions at the Fukushima No. 1 plant. "The plant's nuclear reactor cooling system is down. A radiation leak is now a possibility."
At around 3:30 p.m. the following day, an explosion rocked the plant. The TV showed footage of flying debris and white smoke billowing out of the crippled facility.
There was no doubt that airborne radioactive substances would eventually reach Tsukuba, about 170 kilometers from the plant. The institute beefed up its observation system.
Until then, filters for collecting minute particles in the atmosphere were changed once a week. From the night of March 12, the frequency was upped to every 12 hours, and eventually to every six hours.
Aoyama made frequent trips to the institute's flat roof, carrying a survey meter. He also constantly checked radiation level readings at monitoring posts in Ibaraki Prefecture.
He studied wind directions and speeds, and estimated that airborne radioactive substances should reach the institute on March 14 or 15.
He went up on the roof on the morning of March 15 to measure radiation. At 8:45 a.m., the meter read 2.2 microsieverts per hour.
He then checked the radiation level of minute particles collected from the atmosphere, and had his colleague, Igarashi, analyze them.
Staring at his computer screen, Igarashi groaned, "Can't do it. This is completely off the chart."
Red, orange and green lines, representing radioactive energy, were criss-crossing all over the screen. It was impossible to tell one radionuclide from another. Igarashi even suspected a system breakdown. The levels of radiation were far higher than anything he had ever dealt with.
As normal analysis methods were useless, Igarashi diluted the rainwater with ordinary water and made the necessary conversions. As for minute particles trapped in filters, they were positioned on top of a small transparent container, placed upside down, to leave space between them and the radiation detector.
The readings showed an astounding 113 becquerels per cubic meter of iodine-132, and 14 becquerels of cesium-137--abnormal levels by any account.
It was at this truly critical juncture in their research that the institute was told to put it all on hold.
The radiation research budget that the Meteorological Research Institute was to receive in fiscal 2011 was about 41 million yen ($535,000).
The government's total radiation research budget for the year was about 1.043 billion yen, which the science and technology ministry was to oversee and allot to the government ministries and agencies concerned.
Those ministries and agencies included the Ministry of Health, Labor and Welfare, which was responsible for measuring radiation in food imports; the science and technology ministry itself, which was tasked, together with the Japan Coast Guard and various local governments, with monitoring U.S. nuclear submarines at Japanese ports; and the Environment Ministry, whose job was to measure air doses on remote islands.
The meteorological agency's share of the year's total budget was 4 percent, and the bulk of the amount was earmarked for personnel expenses related to radiation analysis.
When the fiscal 2011 budget abruptly came up for "review," the agency was notified by an employee of the Section of the Disaster Prevention Network for Nuclear Environment of the science and technology ministry's Nuclear Safety Division.
"The Finance Ministry told us it wanted to use some of the year's radiation research budget for emergency radiation monitoring," the section chief Yamaguchi recalled.
The accident at the Fukushima No. 1 plant had made it urgently necessary to measure radiation in the atmosphere, soil, water and food over extensive areas, not only in the immediate vicinity of the crippled plant. The manpower needed to get this done was expected to be quite substantial, and that meant a sizable budget had to be secured. According to Yamaguchi, this got both her ministry and the Finance Ministry thinking. "Why not use some of the radiation research budget for this?"
The science and technology ministry approached all the ministries and agencies concerned with this proposition, although bearing in mind that half the budget, or about 500 million yen, could not be touched because this was for monitoring U.S. nuclear submarines in keeping with the Japan-U.S. Security Treaty.
Yamaguchi phoned the meteorological agency to ask if the latter's "radiation observation" implied "radiation monitoring." The reason was that if the agency was prepared to release its observation data, the work could be construed as "emergency radiation monitoring" and exempted from the budget review.
But Yoshiaki Hirano, 41, a researcher at the agency's planning division who took the call, replied that the observation data was not for immediate release because it was part of ongoing research. And he added, "We can do without the radiation research budget (for fiscal 2011)."
Yamaguchi was relieved that the agency didn't put up a fight.
"We did not ask the agency to stop radiation observation," she later explained. "All we did was ask the agency if it would be amenable to a budget review, and the agency agreed, saying that its radiation observation was not the same thing as radiation monitoring."
But Hirano's side of the story is somewhat different. "The call (from the ministry) came in the late afternoon of March 31, the very last day of the fiscal year," he said. "I had to assume they were in a real bind."
Hirano interpreted the call from the ministry as an order to stop radiation observation. "After all, radiation observation is not really the meteorological agency's responsibility," he noted. "As such, the task rates a low priority."
Aoyama, who kept up radiation observations even after the budget had been pulled, is internationally acclaimed for his research on the effects of radiation on the environment.
In the summer of 2011, the city of Hiroshima compiled and published a series of academic papers in which the dispersion of radioactive substances, released by the atomic bomb dropped on the city in 1945, was analyzed. The purpose of this project was to understand the environmental impact of those radioactive substances, some of which were contained in the "black rain," and educate the entire world. Aoyama was one of the experts who participated in this project.
Aoyama joined the Meteorological Research Institute in the spring of 1984. While strolling on the premises upon his arrival, he grinned at the sight of cubic vessels sitting there to collect rainwater.
"They were just like what I'd made as a student at Meteorological College," he recalled.
Aoyama went to Meteorological College in Kashiwa, Chiba Prefecture, after graduating from a high school in Nara Prefecture. The competition to get in was quite severe, but successful candidates were promised salaries and assured they would receive six years' worth of education in four years.
"I also liked that the college accepted only 15 students each year," he noted. "The scholastic environment ensured that students could devote themselves to serious lab work and research."
He soon found out he was more interested in learning about the Earth than studying meteorology proper. While trying to determine the circulation patterns of mercury and cadmium, he thought of studying substances that attached themselves to minute particles in the atmosphere. He built a large container and placed it on campus to collect rainwater. It was a device of his own design, and as he discovered years later to his amusement, the Meteorological Research Institute had built something almost identical.
After graduating from Meteorological College in 1977, he worked at the Nagasaki Marine Observatory of Japan Meteorological Agency for four years, and then at the Hakodate Marine Observatory for three years. During those years, he was at sea 150 days a year, collecting and analyzing seawater around Kyushu, Okinawa and Hokkaido.
In the spring of 1984, he was offered a position at the Meteorological Research Institute, where he would specialize in radiation observation. The seas became his primary domain, while Igarashi, who joined the institute a little later, focused on the atmosphere to complement the research.
Radiation level readings had been consistently high in the 1960s because of atmospheric nuclear testing by the United States and the Soviet Union. But with the erosion of the Cold War order, nuclear tests decreased in frequency until China became the last to conduct one in 1980. Radiation levels hit an all-time low in 1985, and it became difficult to measure radiation even in rainwater collected in the institute's collection vessel that had a 1-meter-square opening. The institute installed a 2-meter-square vessel to see if that would help.
Radiation levels spiked again in the wake of the Chernobyl disaster of 1986, and this reminded the institute of the importance of continued observation.
But with the passage of time, the effects of Chernobyl grew increasingly harder to gauge. Still, Aoyama and Igarashi told themselves that their work must continue, for there was no guarantee that another nuclear meltdown will never happen again.
"But we never imagined it would happen in Japan," said Aoyama.
Nature is one of the most authoritative science magazines in the world. Having a paper published there earns the author global recognition in the scientific community.
In April 2011, Aoyama was to submit his contribution to Nature. It was about the effects of radioactive substances, released from the crippled Fukushima No. 1 plant, on the marine environment.
That he should publish in Nature was the idea of Ken Buesseler, a chemical oceanographer at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution in Massachusetts. He and Aoyama had become acquainted right after the Chernobyl disaster and remained close ever since. In 1996, Aoyama spent three months at Woods Hole as a visiting researcher.
In March 2011, both men participated in the IAEA conference in Monaco, where Aoyama gave a report on the Fukushima meltdowns at a special session.
That was when Buesseler proposed that they co-author a paper for Nature magazine. The sooner the better, he insisted, as the whole world was holding its breath over developments at Fukushima.
Buesseler had been deeply impressed by a database created by Aoyama on artificial radiation in seawater. He had always felt that Japanese scientists by and large were sharing too little of their scholarship with the rest of the world, and he believed it was time for Aoyama to step up to the plate.
Heeding his friend's advice, Aoyama approached Masao Fukasawa, 61, an authority on the movement of seawater and a researcher at the Japan Agency for Marine-Earth Science and Technology (JAMSTEC), an independent administrative institution, and asked if he would collaborate on the Nature magazine contribution.
Fukasawa agreed to come on board, and it was decided that he, Aoyama and Buesseler would co-author the paper. On April 18, the trio completed a draft in English.
The paper would reveal that: Even three weeks after the Fukushima disaster, the level of cesium-137 in seawater had yet to drop, registering 1 million to 50 million becquerels per cubit meter near the plant's effluent drain; 50,000 becquerels along the Fukushima coast; and 1,000 to 50,000 becquerels at 30 kilometers offshore; these numbers had several more zeroes than the radiation levels registered by any atmospheric nuclear tests in the past, and at least 10 times higher than the levels of contamination noted in the Black Sea and the Baltic Sea after the Chernobyl disaster of 1986.
The paper would also be accompanied by graphs to compare Fukushima and Chernobyl. These would show that the levels of radiation near the Fukushima plant's effluent drain were about 10,000 times higher than those in the Black Sea in the immediate aftermath of Chernobyl. And at 30 kilometers offshore, there were some spots where the radiation levels were comparable to those in the Black Sea.
Nature magazine was greatly interested and immediately agreed to publish it.
Aoyama showed the draft to his superior, Takashi Midorikawa, 58, head of the Geochemical Research Department, and sought his permission.
"I don't see any problem," Midorikawa said, and affixed his seal to a publication authorization form.
But someone else saw a big problem.
On April 19, Aoyama was summoned to the institute's Office of Planning. The day before, he had shown to Midorikawa a draft of a paper he was to co-publish in Nature magazine.
Hiroshi Nirasawa, 52, head of the Office of Planning, told Aoyama, "I need to ask you some questions about your paper."
The paper's publication had already been approved by Midorikawa, Aoyama's superior and a scientist. For the Planning Office to ask for an explanation after the fact was certainly unprecedented. Aoyama felt uneasy, but obliged Nirasawa.
On April 25, Aoyama was summoned to the office of Yuji Kano, 60, director-general of the Meteorological Research Institute. Aoyama was accompanied by Nirasawa and Midorikawa.
"The Chernobyl data pertains to radioactive substances that were carried to the sea via rivers running hundreds of kilometers," Kano began. "I must question the scientific validity of comparing this data with the readings you got from the sea off Fukushima."
Aoyama replied, "You are right that the radioactive substances from Chernobyl reached the sea via those long rivers. But radiation doesn't diminish much in rivers, regardless of the length it travels."
Aoyama went on to explain that the radiation levels near the Fukushima plant's effluent drain were 10,000 times higher than those in the Black Sea, but at 30 kilometers off Fukushima, the radioactive substances are diluted in the seawater and registered levels comparable with those in the Black Sea.
Below is the gist of the exchange that took place in Kano's office.
But Kano was not backing off. He finally told Aoyama, "If you refuse to rewrite your paper, I cannot authorize you to publish it with your byline as a researcher of the institute."
The deletions Kano demanded applied to parts written by Buesseler, one of the three co-authors of the paper and Aoyama's old friend. Aoyama could not possibly comply.
Having been refused permission by the director-general of the Meteorological Research Institute on April 25 to co-publish his paper in Nature magazine, Aoyama sent an e-mail that evening to Buesseler.
"I have failed to get the director-general's authorization," Aoyama wrote. "Please publish the paper without my byline."
But the magazine would not have that. It informed the co-authors that it could not publish a paper that did not meet the approval of the head of the organization to which one of the authors belonged.
Aoyama did not know how to apologize to Buesseler and the other co-author, Fukasawa.
What made this case anomalous was that even though Midorikawa, Aoyama's immediate superior, had approved the paper and authorized its publication, the decision was overruled by Kano, the institute's director-general.
The Geochemical Research Department holds weekly discussion meetings where staff members share their research findings and exchange ideas. When Aoyama explained the content of his paper on April 22, nobody saw any problem there. In fact, everyone concurred with Midorikawa that the paper should be published.
In the meantime, Kano had taken the paper to the Japan Meteorological Agency and sought the opinion of Yasuo Sekita, 51, chief of the Planning Division.
Sekita voiced his doubts about the scientific validity of comparing Chernobyl and Fukushima by their respective data on seawater pollution. He also pointed out that publishing such data could invite misunderstandings.
Sekita later explained to The Asahi Shimbun, "(Publishing that data) would've been all right under normal circumstances. But given the enormity of the Fukushima disaster, I feared that releasing those sensational numbers could throw the public into a panic, and I certainly didn't want that."
It was unusual indeed for the meteorological agency to debate the pros and cons of publishing a paper co-authored by a researcher at its affiliate.
Kano had served at the agency for many years, and was not a "researcher" as such. He was basically an administrator. Aoyama doubted that Kano was capable of forming a valid scientific opinion on a research paper.
Aoyama decided to send a list of questions to Kano by e-mail. He had kept notes of their April 25 exchange in Kano's office, and wanted to run them by him for confirmation.
Aoyama stressed two points in his e-mail dated April 27.
First, he said Kano was mistaken to demand deletions from the paper just because he thought the media might play up the "10,000 times worse" bit.
Then he asserted, "Sometimes, a research institute may end up with a non-expert at the helm. When a researcher at the institute is unable to publish his paper because the non-expert at the helm does not approve, the institute is structurally flawed as a research organ."
Aoyama cc'd the e-mail to the heads of all departments.
Twenty days later, he had yet to receive a reply from Kano.
Kano did not respond to questions e-mailed to him on April 27 by Aoyama.
Aoyama sent Kano a follow-up e-mail on May 17, but again there was no response.
Forced to remain in limbo, Aoyama's frustration grew. His worst fear was that he might not be able to publish his research findings anywhere.
Seeing Aoyama's plight, Midorikawa felt he had to do something. So he went to speak with Nirasawa, who explained Kano's thinking.
Midorikawa conveyed to Aoyama what Nirasawa had told him.
"According to Nirawasa, the director-general's reason for not authorizing the publication of your paper is that he thinks it isn't fair to compare Chernobyl and Fukushima," Midorikawa told Aoyama. "But apparently, the director-general at least doesn't think your paper is of no scientific worth."
"So he didn't reject it on scientific grounds," Aoyama muttered. "He was just afraid of the mass media blowing things out of proportion and throwing the public into a panic."
This made Aoyama more determined than ever to vehemently challenge Kano's decision. He sent him another e-mail: "I would like you to apologize to my co-authors, Ken Buesseler and Masao Fukasawa." Fukasawa of the JAMSTEC had no issues with the research institute over the paper's content.
"It is a fact that Fukushima caused far worse marine pollution than Chernobyl, and Nature magazine, which screens contributions rigorously, was quite eager to publish our paper," Fukasawa noted. "We stated in our paper that the farther radioactive substances traveled out to the sea, the lower their radiation levels became. What we stated could not have generated unfounded rumors of the sort that cause people to panic. On the contrary, I believe our paper would have discouraged such rumors.
"Determining the scientific validity of a research paper should be left to researchers," he continued. "I can understand Kano's stance as a managerial administrator, who apparently thought (publication of the paper) by a researcher at the national institute troublesome. Still, I wouldn't accept his decision."
At the meteorological agency, Aoyama's paper was discussed by people who were not radiation experts. Among them was Sekita. These people decided there were "problems" with the paper, and advised Kano that he might be wise to instruct Aoyama to rewrite it.
Kano never responded to Aoyama's e-mail demanding that he apologize to the paper's co-authors. But Aoyama received a reply from Nirayama, who said, "I must ask you to explain the situation to your co-authors."
And Nirayama continued,"Given that nobody knows yet if the Fukushima disaster is being brought under control and the media are still trying to get comments from as many experts and research organs as possible, I strongly doubt that the Planning Division (of the Japan Meteorological Agency) or the director-general (of the Meteorological Research Institute) will approve (the publication of your paper in Nature)."
Aoyama and Igarashi were inundated with requests for media interviews and invitations to speak in public after the nuclear disaster at the Fukushima No. 1 plant. Both men were well known in Japan as well as abroad for their research on environmental radiation, Aoyama mainly in the oceans and Igarashi in the atmosphere.
But the atmosphere that prevailed in the institute was making everyone wary about speaking their minds in public.
On March 23, a newspaper reporter asked to interview Igarashi on the dispersion of nuclear substances released from the crippled Fukushima plant.
A research assessment officer from the institute's Office of Planning sat in the interview to act as the record keeper. Also present were Igarashi's superior who headed the Atmospheric Environment and Applied Meteorological Research Department, and the chief of the Office of Planning.
Igarashi remained evasive in his answers to the reporter's questions. "I can talk about radiation dispersion, but I can't comment on risk assessment because that's not the job of this institute," he told the reporter. "If you use my name or the institute's name in your story, your readers will assume that my comments reflect the official position of this institute, which I don't want to happen."
Aoyama, too, was feeling the effects of the "the less said in public, the better" atmosphere at the institute.
The Japan Radioisotope Association, a nonprofit corporation whose activities include research concerning the utilization and safety of radioisotopes, was scheduled to hold an academic forum in Tokyo in early July. Participants were to present their research papers on isotopes and radiation.
Once the forum was in session, the association decided to organize an emergency open session on the effects of radiation from Fukushima on the environment and how scientists should deal with the situation. As Aoyama's name was on the list of would-be participants in the forum, the association asked the Meteorological Research Institute to send Aoyama to this emergency session to give a talk.
But the institute's Office of Planning turned down the association's request, saying it was too late to make the necessary arrangements.
The association therefore got a replacement speaker from another research organ, who made his presentation using Aoyama's research data while Aoyama watched from his seat on the same stage.
"It felt weird, having someone else explain my data while I sat silent," he recalled.
One month before this incident, Aoyama was ordered by the institute to decline his scheduled participation in a two-week, joint Japan-U.S. radiation survey in the sea off Fukushima.
Nirasawa explained the circumstances to The Asahi Shimbun: "(We asked Aoyama not to participate in the survey) because there was the possibility of the government commissioning us to conduct emergency radiation monitoring. We didn't want Aoyama to be gone for such a long period."
But an official at the meteorological agency contradicted Nirasawa's claim: "Aoyama was never scheduled to participate in the Japan-U.S. survey in the first place." Actually, the agency had instructed the institute to delete Aoyama's name from the list of proposed participants.
Aoyama's colleague, Igarashi, noted, "The Meteorological Research Institute is a national research organ, which means we are civil servants. And that means, in turn, that the Japanese people are the 'customers' we serve. Isn't it our duty to tell them what they want to know?"
After the Fukushima nuclear disaster, the atmosphere at the Meteorological Research Institute made its radiation researchers wary about speaking in public.
But what happened on June 28 helped dispel that wariness.
That day, the institute got a surprise visit from Yuko Mori, 55, an Upper House legislator and a member of the ruling Democratic Party of Japan.
Mori's office declined to comment, but her blog entry, dated June 28, provided an account of her visit.
Mori wrote: "After I was tipped off that the Meteorological Research Institute's valuable research and survey findings were not being utilized at all in dealing with the Fukushima disaster, I asked the Japan Meteorological Agency yesterday for an explanation. But I was not satisfied with the agency's explanation, so I simply decided to visit the institute today. ..."
She went on to note that the institute's alpha-ray detector remained idle because its operator had retired and the institute had no budget. Photos showed Mori inspecting a radiation monitoring site and being briefed by Aoyama and Igarashi.
Mori had gone to see them without an appointment. She described them in her blog as "top-notch researchers" and "radiation authorities."
According to Aoyama, Mori took out her cellphone during the briefing and made a call. "I presumed she was calling the science and technology ministry," Aoyama recalled. "I heard her yell, 'Just tell me what's going on with the budget!' or something to that effect."
Soon, in a matter of days, the institute's fiscal 2011 radiation research budget, which had been withdrawn abruptly on March 31, was restored just as abruptly.
An official at the meteorological agency's Planning Division explained: "We were advised by the science and technology ministry that since its budget for emergency radiation monitoring had been secured, we could go ahead and file a budget request for whatever research we needed to conduct."
The institute's radiation budget for fiscal 2011, which had been set at 41 million yen before it was withdrawn, was restored in August.
Although the amount was reduced to 39 million yen, it still enabled the institute to keep measuring radiation in minute particles in the atmosphere and the oceans--an undertaking that had continued uninterrupted since 1957.
But the revised budget entailed changes in the nature and subjects of some research projects. One project actually got axed, and that was what the researchers called the "construction of prediction models."
Aoyama recalled with a wry smile, "Perhaps the powers that be didn't want us to predict the dispersion of radiation and talk about it in public."
For Igarashi, the recovery of the budget did not spell a full victory. At the time of the budget freeze on March 31, Igarashi had been forced to dismiss radiation analysis experts who were working for the institute on contract. These experts had since gone to work for other research organs, and could not be brought back. The loss of these highly qualified experts hurt the institute.
Mori would go on to become senior vice minister of the science and technology ministry. But she was not plugged into the ministry when she showed up at the Meteorological Research Institute in June. Then, who could have tipped her off on what was happening at the institute?
After Mori's surprise visit to the Meteorological Research Institute on June 28, the government decided in July to revive the institute's radiation research budget.
Who could have given Mori the idea of visiting the institute?
"We are not in a position to comment on this matter," Mori's office replied to a question from The Asahi Shimbun.
By then, many experts on atmospheric and marine radiation were aware of the difficulties the institute's researchers were thought to be facing. Eventually, one name emerged as Mori's "source"--Shinzo Kimura, 44, a former researcher at the National Institute of Occupational Safety and Health, Japan (JNIOSH), who submitted his resignation after the Fukushima disaster and went to work in the affected area.
Asked if he was the one who tipped Mori off, Kimura replied without hesitation: "Ah, yes, that's me."
At the time, Mori was seeking information on how best to protect children from radiation. She saw Kimura on a feature program aired by NHK (Japan Broadcasting Corp.) Educational TV, and contacted him.
Kimura told Mori, "If you need radiation monitoring data, go to the Meteorological Research Institute."
Kimura had become convinced in 1999 that the institute was rivaled by none in radiation monitoring. That year, a fatal criticality accident occurred at a nuclear fuel reprocessing facility in the village of Tokai, Ibaraki Prefecture. Kimura was with the National Institute of Radiological Sciences at the time.
Among a team of experts investigating the accident were Aoyama and Igarashi. These men became virtual team leaders, and Kimura was deeply impressed by their expertise and professionalism.
But in directing Mori to the institute, Kimura warned her, "Just be aware, the institute may give you a hard time."
He was speaking from personal experience; after the Fukushima disaster, he had sought the institute's help in collecting radiation data, only to have his request dismissed out of hand.
Heeding Kimura's advice, Mori first called the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport and Tourism, of which the Japan Meteorological Agency is a part.
Hirano of the agency's Planning Division recalled, "The ministry diverted her call to us. She wanted to know if we had made public the Meteorological Research Institute's data."
Hirano later visited Mori at her office to explain the situation, but she told him he hadn't answered her question at all. "I guess that's why she decided to go directly to the institute," Hirano said.
Shortly after Mori's visit to the institute, the government decided to revive the institute's fiscal 2011 radiation research budget. Sekita, chief of the meteorological agency's Planning Division, explained: "It happened because a supplementary budget was made available in time for the science and technology ministry to secure its emergency radiation monitoring budget (without sacrificing the Meteorological Research Institute's budget)."
On July 8, a report titled "The advection and dispersion of radioactive substances concerning the accident at the Fukushima No. 1 nuclear power plant" was uploaded on the institute's website. The report provided detailed data, and moving pictures showed how those radioactive substances drifted and dispersed from the crippled plant.
Three days later, Mori's blog carried the URL of the site where visitors could access this "information disclosed by the Meteorological Research Institute."
It was as if all the ice had started melting at once.
On Nov. 8, Aoyama and Igarashi came under "investigation" by the science and technology ministry.
Aoyama and Igarashi had continued their observation of radioactive fallout from the Fukushima disaster even after the March 31 freezing of their budget. The institute had been observing radiation since 1957, and Aoyama and Igarashi were determined to keep it up as long as their resources allowed. Fellow scientists who had learned of their plight came to their support.
It was on Nov. 8 that the vernacular Asahi Shimbun ran the part in this series, which said, "When (Aoyama and Igarashi) ran out of filters (for collecting radioactive substances) and other supplies, researchers at other institutes and universities helped them out on the Q.T."
I listened to my recorded interview again to make sure I hadn't misunderstood anything said to me by my interview subjects. I hadn't.
And readers' reactions to this episode had been overwhelmingly positive; many expressed their relief that Aoyama and Igarashi were keeping up their work, and praised the scientists who had helped them out.
But the science and technology ministry obviously felt differently.
On Nov. 8, Yamaguchi, the section chief of the Disaster Prevention Network for Nuclear Environment of the ministry's Nuclear Safety Division, asked the Meteorological Research Institute, "Which organizations provided what supplies?"
When Yamaguchi called me and asked the same question, it was my turn to ask, "Why do you need to know?"
Yamaguchi replied, "If those organizations had surplus supplies to share with the institute, we'll have to ask them to give money back to us."
I asked: "Have you been ordered by someone to conduct this investigation? Is it the Finance Ministry?"
Yamaguchi: "No, I'm doing this at my own initiative because if what you wrote did happen, it shouldn't have happened. And I could be questioned by the Finance Ministry."
"But what amount of money are we talking here?" I countered. "If it's hundreds of thousands of yen or millions of yen, of course I can see your point. But is the Finance Ministry asking for 10 yen or 100 yen back? Come on."
Yamaguchi: "It's the rule. The Finance Ministry has always told us to be strict about it."
It was clear that Yamaguchi had no interest in the fate of research undertaken spanning half a century, but was obsessed with finding out what some research organs and universities had done with their surplus supplies. I could only conclude that Yamaguchi's sole concern was what the Finance Ministry would think.
I called the Finance Ministry and spoke with Hiromichi Sakuma, a chief examiner at the section in charge of the education and science budget. He replied simply, "We'd never even bother asking anyone where the surplus supplies went. Is it not the responsibility of each organization to manage their budget?"
In response to Yamaguchi's question concerning those supplies, the Meteorological Research Institute stated, "The Asahi Shimbun story is not factual." The institute went on to elaborate, "We provided our radiation monitoring data to various organizations at their request. In exchange, we received supplies from them. There were no under-the-table exchanges."
That was definitely not what I heard when I interviewed them.
At 2 p.m. on the afternoon of Nov. 17, Mitsuhiko Hatori, 57, director-general of the meteorological agency, held his regular press conference at the agency.
Hatori spent the first few minutes speaking on matters concerning disaster damage. This was followed by a 45-minute question-and-answer session, the entire duration of which had to do with what I had reported in this series.
Below is a brief summary of some of the questions and Hatori's answers.
Throughout the news conference, Hatori barely gave his opinion as director-general of the meteorological agency. He repeatedly noted to the effect that he had "only followed the science and technology ministry's instructions." In fact, he mentioned the ministry 16 times.
A reporter asked him to comment on the refusal by the director-general of the Meteorological Research Institute to approve the publication of a paper, co-authored by Aoyama, in Nature magazine. But Hatori merely reiterated his "trust in the director-general." And when an official from the agency's Planning Division chimed in to point out that the validity of comparing Fukushima and Chernobyl had to be questioned, Hatori stressed that the agency was qualified to "offer objective assessment and advice."
But when the reporter persisted and asked to hear Hatori's personal opinion on the Nature magazine issue, he replied, "I am not familiar with the details, and I do not know all the facts."
A reporter, who had been filing reports from Fukushima since the nuclear disaster, asked: "Many people in Fukushima believe that their exposure to radiation would have been less, had the agency started disclosing information sooner. What would you say to those people?"
All Hatori said was, "It would be difficult for me to give them a message on behalf of the agency."
The paper co-authored by Aoyama, the planned publication of which in Nature magazine was effectively vetoed in April by Kano, director-general of the institute, was finally published in "Environmental Science & Technology" magazine in October.
Kano raised no objections this time, even though the subject of the paper--the effects of radioactivity in the oceans following the Fukushima meltdowns--remained unchanged from back in April. Kano explained, "I saw no problem with the paper this time because the authors had expanded the content to explain their findings in greater detail. This eliminated all possibility of the paper inviting misunderstandings."
The meteorological agency measured radiation at its observatories around the nation until a growing number of local governments began establishing radiation monitoring stations of their own. As a result, the agency discontinued radiation monitoring in fiscal 2005, and the Meteorological Research Institute became the agency's sole organ responsible for radiation research.
The research was funded by a budget appropriated by the science and technology ministry.
The meteorological agency is under the jurisdiction of the land ministry. The latter, however, has no say on how the agency manages its budget. The chief examiner at the Office of the Minister's Secretariat noted, "All budget-related procedures go through us. But that's only as a matter of routine, and we are certainly keeping it that way."
At the science and technology ministry, the party that oversees the meteorological agency's radiation research budget is the Disaster Prevention Network for Nuclear Environment of the Nuclear Safety Division. Yamaguchi, a section chief, said, "We received word from the Finance Ministry that it wished to use the agency's radiation research budget for emergency radiation monitoring after the Fukushima disaster."
Were there no reserve funds for use in times of emergency?
Sakuma of the Finance Ministry, replied: "Had we gone right ahead to tap into reserve funds or supplementary budget accounts, would taxpayers have readily accepted a tax hike our action would have led to? I doubt it. Our obvious course of action, then, would be to review the existing budget for nuclear research. And this had to be done before the end of the fiscal year, as it would be too late to make changes once the new year started."
Apparently, the government's thinking was that the "right" way was to tap into the existing budget, even in a crisis of Fukushima's magnitude. And it didn't matter if a radiation research project spanning five decades had to be discontinued as a result.
Katsumi Hirose, 63, a visiting professor at Sophia University who worked at the Meteorological Research Institute for 32 years, noted, "Because anything to do with radiation makes the public nervous, it's best to have to steer clear and avoid all responsibility. That, I believe, is the basic attitude of the institute."
He continued, "Had the institute discontinued the world's longest-surviving radiation observation right in the middle of collecting data on radioactivity released from the crippled Fukushima plant, the institute would have had a lot of answering to do to the international community. Had the institute cited a lack of budget as its excuse, it would have made a laughingstock of itself. You can never retrieve data you didn't collect."
On Oct. 3, Aoyama sent an e-mail to a "suggestion box" at the Cabinet Office. He proposed the establishment of a third-party committee to investigate the actions of the Meteorological Research Institute after the Fukushima disaster.