It's been 12 years since the Great East Japan Earthquake and Tsunami.

During that time, an NHK program has been speaking to survivors,

offering them a place to express their hopes and fears.

"Voices of Tohoku."

We gave them a sketchbook where they could write down their thoughts.

"Overcome the disaster."

"We will rebuild Namie Town."

A record of their most candid feelings in the wake of unspeakable tragedy.

The house was destroyed.
But Grandpa and Grandma were okay.

I have no idea what we'll do now.
That's my biggest worry.

Dad, come live with us. Please.

I'm so grateful to hear my daughter
say that.

NHK has recorded messages from 5,400 people since the disaster.

The program has become a record of recovery...

...both of the region itself, and of the people living in it.

"Reconstruction: what is it, anyway?"

The physical progress is clear.
New roads. Developed land.

Buildings are popping up everywhere.

But the way we residents see it,
our feelings are being left behind.

In this special edition, we follow up with survivors we've met over the past 12 years.

We also hear from people involved with the government's reconstruction policies.

We examine the concept of "reconstruction."

What does it mean for people who have faced such devastation?

As of this February, there have been more than 500 episodes of "Voices of Tohoku."

Tsuda Yoshiaki has been the program's anchor since the start.

"Mike check, please."

Okay. Testing, one, two...
Rikuzentakata has a population of...

The 501st episode featured the messages of people from Rikuzentakata City, Iwate Prefecture.

"I want to create a community of people
who love life."

50, 100 years from now,

I want people to think of cherry trees
when they think of this city.

I tell them to say whatever they want.

Hopefully it eases some of their frustrations.
I want them to be able to unload.

I try to be by their side.

Breathing together.

Bearing it all together.

The program was launched in March 2011, 8 days after the tsunami.

More than 18,000 people died or went missing.

Almost half a million were forced to evacuate to shelters set up in schools and public halls.

My name is Kumagai Namiko.
(81-year-old woman who lost her home)

It was the work of a demon, something
that comes once in a millennium.

I don't bear anyone ill will.

Because I know we are all suffering.
I'm not the only one.

I'm going to hang in there.

"I want my life to return to normal. "
(Junior high school student)

"What's ‘normal'?"

To get up in the morning, go to school,
attend classes, hang out with friends...

To be able to enjoy life - not like now.

I lost a close friend to the tsunami.

It was a big shock.

I couldn't understand how it could be that
my friend was no longer in this world.

"We want a house."

Everything was destroyed. We want a house
where we can all live as soon as possible.

A two-story house.

A big one.

The tsunami disabled the power supply at the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear power plant,

triggering one of the worst nuclear accidents in history.

11 municipalities near the plant issued evacuation orders because of the spread of radiation.

More than 160,000 people were forced to leave their homes.

They struggled with an anxiety different from what was felt by those affected by the tsunami.

We can't go out looking for the missing.
There's nothing we can do. At least not yet.

"I wanted to be able to search for my friends
for even one more day."

"Why couldn't you?"

The search was suspended right away
because of the nuclear accident.

We all had to evacuate by the afternoon.

I just hope they're alive somewhere.

I can't think about the future yet.
I just want to go home.

I want to go home as soon as possible
and return to a normal life.

That's all I can think about.

"What do you worry about the most?"

The herbs and honeybees.
I'm a beekeeper.

The nuclear accident is a big problem.

Why do we have to go through this?

It's like we're in prison.

It's been one month since the disaster.

I was in my hometown Ishinomaki at the time.

For those of us who experienced it, one month is not enough time to find closure.

Difficulties at the shelters, worrying about family and our jobs, mourning loved ones.

That's the reality of our lives now.

But if I had to say one thing, from one disaster victim to another, it would be, "You're doing great."

I was born and raised in Ishinomaki City, Miyagi Prefecture.

A tsunami over 8 meters high swept through the coastal areas.

This is really hard to see.

The town is gone, everything from my childhood - all those years I spent here.

It's so shocking.

Our hometown is gone.

They tell us, OK, let's rebuild.

But it's not as simple as that.

In April, 2011, the government launched a unit to lead its rebuilding efforts in the region.

Experts discussed how to go about reviving the affected region.

They came up with a policy called "creative reconstruction."

The aim was not to return the area to the way it was before the disaster,

but to bring about a major transformation... and build for the future.

The council quickly agreed on this goal.

But it may have been too soon for victims still nursing deep emotional wounds.

Political scientist Iokibe Makoto served as council chairperson at the time.

We asked him what the national government was trying to do.

Creating something new for the future.
That was creative reconstruction.

The government didn't try to do this after
the Great Hanshin-Awaji Earthquake.

Recovery was limited to humanitarian aid,
like providing food and shelter.

There was nothing extra for reconstruction,
to make things better than before.

The government thought that would be
too much, like getting rich after a fire.

If they were going to do that
it had to be with local money.

No other developed nation would take that
attitude. It was utterly embarrassing.

Disaster can strike anywhere,
at any time in this country.

We can't just shrug this off.
That kind of attitude will ruin the nation.

The council came up with what it called Seven Principles for the Reconstruction Framework.

It proposed public funding for the initial steps of creative reconstruction.

And it sought to transform the disaster-hit region by building safe and secure communities,

and introducing natural energy resources.

What people needed most after the disaster were homes where they could feel safe again.

About 50,000 temporary housing units were built with prefabricated material.

They were offered to evacuees free of charge.

Hello, thank you for letting us visit.

People no longer had to sleep on bare floors without privacy.

But their living conditions were still far worse than before the disaster.

It's definitely too small for two people.

This unit was made for one person.
The two of us are cramped in here.

The size is the biggest problem.

It's only about 7 square meters.
It's very tight.

Your winter clothes are hanging on the wall.
There's nowhere to store them.

There's not even space for laundry.

An elderly couple and their grandchildren
live in neighboring units

I want a house.

A big, sturdy one.

You want your own room, right?

Yes, so I can study and do all sorts of stuff.

It's hard to concentrate here.

My room is cramped, too.

- "Your husband has a kind expression."
- He does, doesn't he?

- "Was he a fisherman? I see some photos."
- Yes, he was a man of the sea.

This is when the tsunami hit.
We lived in this small community.

This roof is where our house used to be.

My husband was right over here.
I was here, watching the wave roll in.

I kept calling out to him.

Even now, I apologize to him for surviving.

She says interactions with her fellow residents help her get by.

These are symbols of reconstruction.

"Every day, I hope to have one moment
when I can laugh out loud."

Those are the words I live by.

The evacuation order meant many people in Fukushima were unable to return to their towns,

even though their own homes had sustained no damage.

Two years on, people who evacuated a village near the nuclear plant were still living in temporary housing.

They danced to a song, written after the disaster, about longing for home.

When I'm dancing, it's just...

Pent up in the shelter, I find myself arguing
with my husband about trivial matters.

When I come here,
I can forget about all the bad things.

These siblings also live in temporary housing.

They come from a family of farmers.

"Please let us go home."

I come from a family of farmers.

My plan was to get a job and farm
on the side on weekends and holidays.

But the nuclear accident ruined everything.

I wanted to go to college.

But with all this, we can't afford tuition.

I had to give up on my dreams.

All this talk about "ideal reconstruction" makes me think of one couple I spoke to.

It was the second year after the disaster.

I met Yamada Shoji at a temporary housing complex.

His daughter-in-law and two grandchildren were swept away by the tsunami.

His son survived, but took his own life the following year.

I'm the 6th generation of a farming family.
My grandchildren were the 8th.

I'd tell them, "You're Yamadas.
You have to farm with me."

I used to let them ride the combine
and rev up the tractor.

I thought we'd have many more years
to make memories.

But it all ended in just 5,6 years.

The two were living in a tiny room.

A makeshift altar took up most of the space.

What did "reconstruction" mean to them?

Hello, it's been a long time.

I visited them for the first time in 10 years.

Yamada had something he wanted to show me.

It's the photo of the altar.

I keep it in my bag.

And you hang this in the car.

He says he has the photo of the family altar on him all the time.

It feels like we're together.
I don't let myself think they're dead.

I try to live in a way that wouldn't
embarrass the four of them.

So they don't laugh at me in my dreams.

Embracing the sadness, and moving forward with their lost loved ones.

For the couple, that was the beginning of their "reconstruction."

If I keep crying and stay sad forever,
the four of them will cry, too.

"Creative Reconstruction" begins.

Local municipalities come up with their own recovery plans based on the government's policy.

Huge storm surge barriers are installed.

Homes are moved to higher ground.

The land is levelled and raised higher.

The area gets a complete makeover.

The government described the five years after the disaster as the "intensive reconstruction period,"

and funneled about 26 trillion yen into their efforts.

A special income tax was introduced to pay for the project.

Massive funds were raised at the cost of taxpayers.

"We want our town to be rebuilt quickly."

But rebuilding individual livelihoods was not an easy task.

During this period, we spoke to many people who were struggling to get back on their feet.

This fisherman's boat capsized in the tsunami.

He's repairing it by hand.

He said it had taken him a year, but now he's almost done.

"A beacon of reconstruction."

When the repair work is finally done
and the boat is back on the water,

I'll turn on the engine and
smoke will come out.

That will be the signal of the boat's rebirth.

Then I'll sail out to sea,

and work until I'm blowing up steam
like a smokestack.

Prefabricated units were used as makeshift stores to help revive the local economy.

A shop washed away in the tsunami reopened in the prefab building.

"I don't know which way to go."

I lost everything in the disaster.
I'm trying to take a step forward.

But - how should I explain it -

my emotions are still in limbo.
"Temporary" - like the buildings.

I worry about people leaving the town
and don't know if my business can survive.

Many young people are moving out
because they can't find jobs here.

In Fukushima, where the nuclear accident took place,

people living outside the evacuation zone were also hit hard, and struggled to make ends meet.

This couple sold vegetables in an area about 50 kilometers from the nuclear plant.

Annual sales used to be 4 million yen before the disaster.

Now, they're down to zero.

"I have no idea what we should do."

We don't want compensation.
Just give us back our land.

Mushroom growers in the same town struggled due to disinformation, among other reasons.

"There can be no victory
for those who don't fight."

- "It's a fight against anxiety, too, I presume."
- Yes.

I try not to let it show.
But I'm so worried, I have a bald spot now.

My barber tells me I've gone really gray.

Despite its lofty goals, "creative reconstruction" seemed to do very little to help people's livelihoods.

One former member says the blueprint drawn up by the Reconstruction Design Council wasn't feasible to begin with.

Genyu Sokyu is a writer and Buddhist monk.

Genyu commuted from Fukushima to attend council sessions in Tokyo.

He says the basic concept of "creative reconstruction" didn't sit well with him.

They said, ‘It's not just rebuilding and
reviving, but creative reconstruction.'

But I got the impression there wasn't
a lot of substance in that phrase.

They were looking down on us.

They saw us as a backwards area
and were giving us huge funds to rebuild.

They wanted us to be better than before,
to rebuild and reach a higher level.

But I wanted to ask,
"Better according to who?"

It seemed like they wanted to create a new
Japan after the disaster -

a return to the post-war infrastructure
building boom.

When money starts raining down
from above,

those who are nearest grab it all.

This went against their stated plan
of fair and widespread distribution.

Iokibe Makoto, who chaired the Council,

admits he felt uneasy about the way state funds were used in reconstruction projects.

A government official came to see me
and said it was formally decided that

the state would shoulder the entire cost.

I was surprised. "Really? 100%?"

I thought this could lead to a moral hazard.

Had the region shouldered even 1% or
0.1% of the cost,

things would have been different.

They would have used it wisely,
only on what was truly necessary.

They would have treated the funds as a
precious resource.

That can't happen with a blank check.

"They're building us a big breakwater?
No one lives there but sure, OK."

The government took our requests for
reconstruction funding the wrong way.

We also met people who were disillusioned with reconstruction,

and were suffering inside as a result.

Nishiya Namio was 67 when he spoke to us.

It was the first time we met someone who didn't write a message on the sketchbook... only his name.

My name is Nishiya. I have nothing to say.

I'm doing all I can to keep going.

This market sells seafood.

Before the disaster, Nishiya had been selling seafood for 40 years in Shinchi Town, Fukushima.

- This is Nishiya Namio. Thanks for having us.
- Thanks for stopping by.

I'm going to have a taste.

It's plump and fresh. Delicious!

Yes, isn't it? It was caught this morning.

He took pride in bringing the rich bounty of the sea to the world.

We tried to look him up for this episode.

But we learned he passed away one year after he showed us his blank sketchbook page, at the age of 68.

What did "reconstruction" mean for Nishiya?

We visited his daughter, who lives in a neighboring town.

Thank you for having us.

This is Nishiya Yukie.

She worked with her father.

I know he was eager to rebuild.
At least in the beginning.

But then he couldn't rebuild his processing
facility, and his enthusiasm waned.

This three-story building?

Yes, he said he'd never tear it down.

She says that right after the disaster, Nishiya tried to get his business up and running again.

He planned to work out of a coastal building where he had his home and office.

But the area was soon designated as a hazard zone and declared unsafe to live.

He couldn't return to his home by the sea.

The bleak state of the Fukushima fishing industry also affected him mentally.

Nishiya left behind a trove of memos, into which he poured his emotions.

- Is this his handwriting?
- I found a lot of them after his death.

"The sea felt closer - only to become distant again."

He never let it show,
but he was troubled by lots of things.

The most frustrating part for him
was not being able to work.

For Nishiya, "reconstruction" may have meant going back to his old life by the sea,

just the way it was before the disaster.

I don't think I'll ever forget what he said at the end of our interview.

You know what, Mr. Tsuda, I think
I might be depressed.

If I can work - even a little -
I'm sure I'll start feeling better.

It's the same, day in and day out.

I really miss the sea, the sea breeze.

Fumonji Temple, Rikuzen-takata City
Housing the remains of tsunami victims

500 Rakan statues carved by families of victims
to mourn their loved ones

The 5-year intensive reconstruction period ended in 2016.

The government labeled the next 5 years the "Reconstruction and Revitalization Period."

It decided to review its policy of fully funding reconstruction projects.

During this time, land was developed on higher ground so communities could be relocated to safer areas,

and public housing units were built for disaster victims.

But a problem arose.

Residents began to feel uprooted and isolated in their new homes.

Many felt like they had nothing to live for.

They say they don't know anybody here.

If they would just go out and meet their
neighbors, I'm sure they'd get along.

But some say they can't even bring
themselves to say hello.

They stay cooped up inside all week.

"Reconstruction: what is it, anyway?"

The physical progress is clear.
New roads. Developed land.

Buildings are popping up everywhere.

But the way we residents see it,
our feelings are being left behind.

A summer festival is held at a public housing complex for disaster victims.

It's a chance for residents to meet and socialize.

This couple has different views on their new life here.

I like being on higher ground.
The view is great, and it cheers me up.

"How about you?"

Ever since moving here
I haven't felt like going out at all.

There's nothing to look forward to.

The scenery is completely different.
Every time I take a walk, I think...

this is where a friend used to live.
I remember how things looked before.

I can't get it out of my head.

One of the goals of "creative reconstruction" was to build communities that could withstand a tsunami.

A new breakwater was built in the Taro district of Miyako City, Iwate Prefecture.

It stands 14.7 meters tall.

But many residents were left baffled by the huge structure.

Tamazawa Kunihiko is a fourth-generation rice vendor.

Considering how big the tsunami was,
we should probably be grateful for this.

But the concrete wall obstructs the view.
We can't see the ocean.

It seems some things were lost forever.

When we met him for the first time, 7 years after the disaster,

he spoke passionately about reviving the local community.

He was determined to reopen the family business in honor of his parents, who died in the tsunami.

"I want to repay Taro for raising me."

I have my parents and relatives to thank
for who I am today.

I owe them a lot.

I want to reopen our family business.

They would have wanted that.

The store was located at the heart of the town.

People would visit every day just to socialize.

The store was swept away.

The surrounding area was designated a hazard zone.

Buildings were cleared away and replaced by a baseball field.

My house was around 3rd base - between the
coach's box and the breakwater.

People from the area were supposed to relocate to higher ground.

But the land development was a time-consuming process.

40 percent of residents ultimately chose not to stay.

Tamazawa has started efforts to bring his hometown back to life, alongside some friends.

But he has doubts about the future of his business.

The area has changed completely.

Can I even get enough business here?

The future isn't looking bright.
I'm worried.

In the first ten years after the disaster, a total of 32 trillion yen was spent on reconstruction projects.

Meanwhile, many affected areas saw their populations dwindle.

These communities face serious challenges going forward.

We asked the experts what they thought about "Creative Reconstruction" in retrospect.

In terms of infrastructure, I think
we did a good job making towns safer.

But as for reviving communities and people's
livelihoods... Well, that's a different story.

I've spoken to people who already left
and bought a house elsewhere.

They said they won't be returning.
They said they never asked for all that.

Only a sturdy road or two for evacuating,
and to have the rubble cleared away.

They wanted their neighborhood cleaned up
so people would come back.

Did they really want such a big construction
project? I seriously wonder.

Some said they thought, "OK, why not?
It's going to be fully paid for by the state."

"If we turn it down, we may regret it
later on."

There's no such thing as 100% safe.

Natural disasters can't be fully avoided.
We can only mitigate the effects.

Once we take care of that,
"evacuation" is the only thing left.

Some towns took a flexible approach.

Others took a more rigid one
and aimed for complete safety.

It was a choice of one or the other.

Former Council member Genyu Sokyu was vocal about his concerns about "Creative Reconstruction" from the start.

He says the actual work of reconstruction was hampered by a manner of decision-making typical of Japanese society.

The goals came first and foremost.

The actual reconstruction projects
became a means to an end.

But people's feelings change with time.

You can't really think beyond your immediate
needs amid such turmoil.

Only after the foundations are laid
can you think about what to build on top.

We needed to stop and think about our
process. But we didn't.

It's not easy to reach a consensus among
so many people.

That was very evident during the
reconstruction process.

"Voices of Tohoku" continues to this day.

The producers want to stick by the people's side as they take their next step forward.

Every person has their own experience of reconstruction.

The program aims to record each of their voices.

Ten years on, for some people, the pain is just as acute as it was in the immediate aftermath.

Nagahashi Akitaka evacuated from Namie Town, Fukushima Prefecture, following the nuclear accident.

He now lives in Tokyo.

He worked as an artisan specializing in Obori-Soma ware,

a traditional craft that originated in the Obori district of Namie.

Nagahashi fell ill after evacuating,

and was forced to give up his hope of returning to his hometown and reopening his kiln.

I've gotten old.
I can't go back and do it all myself.

10 years is a long time for an old person.

"What a wonderful place Obori was.
Nagahashi Akitaka, 82 years old."

"I was expecting a horse.
But you drew sweetfish."

It had to be sweetfish.

When I needed something for dinner
I'd go and fish.

Just one throw of the net
and I could easily catch 30.

We were there as Nagahashi came to a painful decision.

His hometown had been designated a no entry zone.

But the evacuation order was lifted in March this year.

Residents of some areas were allowed to return.

Still, Nagahashi decided to demolish his home and kiln.

It was a choice he had to make to break with his feelings and seek closure.

Work begins to remove the remaining equipment and pottery.

It's been 12 years.

This must be hard for you.

It's fine. I've come to terms with it.
I know I have to do it.

They're not broken.

All this good pottery...

"This is the end.
Compensation is all that remains."

That's how I felt, watching each piece go.

It's heartbreaking.
I really can't put it into words.

Can we really call this "reconstruction?"

I don't know.

Everything I saw today seemed like small points in a long and painful journey.

12 years since the Great East Japan Earthquake and Tsunami...

What does reconstruction really mean?

The answer to this question lies in the hearts of every person affected by the disaster.

Yamada Shoji and his wife Hideko get emotional strength from the 4 family members they lost.

They are the couple's reason for living.

"We haven't forgotten,
even after 10 years."

"We'll stay cheerful
and live on as best we can."

Nishiya Yukie remembers her father, who left the sketchbook blank and died in despair.

Our house was right around that curve.

She visited the spot where their house stood for the first time in a while.

"Happiness will never return."

Rice shop owner Tamazawa Kunihiko observed the twelfth anniversary of his parents' death.

"I want to bring this place back to life."