Toshiharu Onoda, a thirteenth-generation potter living in a town close to the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant, had just finished loading his kiln on March 11, 2011, when the massive earthquake struck. Clinging to a wall as the room filled with choking dust, Onoda watched stunned as his two-tonne kiln began to move across the floor. "Things were smashing all over the place, the kiln was clattering, everything inside just shattered," he said in the dusty ruins of his studio in Namie, built roughly a century ago.
By Syndicated Content
By Elaine Lies and Akira Tomoshige
NAMIE, Japan (Reuters) - Toshiharu Onoda, a thirteenth-generation potter living in a town close to the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant, had just finished loading his kiln on March 11, 2011, when the massive earthquake struck.
Clinging to a wall as the room filled with choking dust, Onoda watched stunned as his two-tonne kiln began to move across the floor. Things were smashing all over the place, the kiln was clattering, everything inside just shattered, he said in the dusty ruins of his studio in Namie, built roughly a century ago.
Even in that dramatic moment, Onoda thought the danger would pass and he would continue at his studio.