卫报报道福岛50勇士可能是被洗脑的体力工

http://gb.nownews.com:6060/2011/03/24/91-2699433.htm
记者朱锦华／综合报道

日本「福岛50人」冒着生命危险死守核电厂，感动全世界，但有英美媒体露这些「死士」的真相，指这些核电厂工人是经过厂方「洗脑」，且其中多人只是核电厂的体力劳动工人。

英国《卫报》、澳洲《悉尼先锋报》等外国媒体爆料，这些被西方媒体称作「核武士」(Nnuclear Samurai)的赴死真相是：他们只是核电厂的体力劳动工人，属「业余者」，根本不能胜任挽救这次大灾难的工作。

报道说，本业是烟草农民的菅野信吾(音译)是其中一名死士，在其他人眼中，他是一位发挥无私精神的英雄，奋不顾身地力图挽救日本免受核子大灾难祸劫；但对他的家人而言，他只是一位性命危在旦夕的初为人父者，原为了赚多一点让家人生活好一点，在核电厂兼职干粗活。

菅野信吾家住福岛县南相马市，位处核事故方圆叁十公里的禁区量程，他只是烟草农民，对他来说，在核电厂兼职赚取的工钱非常重要。

菅野信吾的叔公菅野正夫(音译)说：「人们称他们是核武士，因为他们为了填补漏洞，随时会牺牲性命。可是，当中像信吾的那些工人，只是业余人士，他们根本不能帮上忙，像信吾的那些人也不应当死士。」

福岛第一核电厂事发当天宣布发生紧急核事故不久，在核电厂当建筑工人的菅野信吾奉上司指示，提早下班；当核电厂核事故危机持续恶化，以及日本政府宣布扩大疏散区范围，他决定将妻子和小女儿送到姻亲家暂住，以避核祸。菅野信吾接着帮助其他家人从南相马市，疏散到山形县米泽市避难中心。

菅野信吾的亲戚表示，当信吾安排好一切后，接到核电厂请求他上班的电话；当他的家人获悉，便纷纷打电话给他，劝他切勿上班。家人在电话告诉菅野信吾，他只是农民，不是核电厂工程师，根本没有能力应付核危机，他必须谨记还未尽报答父母养育之恩和照顾女儿的责任。

菅野正夫称：「我当时对他说，你是有家室的人，不应事事以公司为先，家庭才是最重要。」到了上周五，菅野信吾没有理会家人劝告，返回核电厂上班，至今音讯全无。

为了业务经常到访福岛核电厂的山本敬一(音译)表示，那些核电厂工人可以说是经过厂方「洗脑」。他说：「日本人惯於全心全力地效忠公司，他们事事以公司为先。」

卫报的新闻出处：
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/ ... shima-japan-reactor
To a world that doesn't know him, Shingo Kanno is one of the "nuclear samurai" – a selfless hero trying to save his country from a holocaust; to his family, Kanno is a new father whose life is in peril just because he wanted to earn some money on the side doing menial labour at the Fukushima nuclear plant.

A tobacco farmer, Kanno had no business being anywhere near a nuclear reactor – let alone in a situation as serious as the one that has unfolded after the 11 March earthquake and tsunami in Japan.

His great-uncle, Masao Kanno, said: "People are calling them nuclear samurai because people are sacrificing their lives to try to fix a leak. But people like Shingo are amateurs: they can't really help. It shouldn't be people like Shingo."

Masao Kanno is one of more than 500 people camped out on the hardwood floors of a sports centre in Yonezawa. The homes of most of them lie within 19 miles of the Fukushima plant. They worked at the plant, have family members who did, or passed it daily on the way to work or school.

Before, they rarely thought about the down side to that proximity; now it rules their lives. Many of their homes are inside the evacuation zone, with radiation 17 times higher than background levels and tap water too contaminated to drink.

Those with a close personal connection to the crisis, like Masao Kanno, are moved and grateful for the personal courage of the 500 or so workers still at the plant. But where Japan's prime minister and others have conjured up cardboard heroes, he sees a flesh-and-blood relation.

Shingo Kanno, who had been hired to do construction work, was released from his duties at Fukushima soon after the declaration of a nuclear emergency. As the crisis at the plant worsened, and the Japanese government widened the evacuation zone, he moved his wife and his infant daughter to his in-laws, where they would be safer.

He also helped evacuate his extended family from their home town of Minamisoma, which is within the 30km exclusion zone, to the sports centre and other shelters. Then, his relatives say, Kanno got a call from the plant asking him to go back to work.

His whole family took turns getting on the phone to tell him not to go. They reminded him that he was a farmer, not a nuclear engineer, that he did not have the skills for such a sophisticated crisis. They said he should think of his responsibilities to his parents and his baby daughter.

"I told him: 'You have a family now. You shouldn't be thinking about the company – you should be thinking about your own family,'" said Masao Kanno.

But on Friday Shingo Kanno went back anyway. The family have not heard from him since.

In the meantime, the cult of the nuclear samurai has only grown. Japanese television aired an interview with a plant worker on Monday offering a harrowing insider's account of the struggle for the reactors.

The worker, his face hidden from view, described sirens blaring, billowing smoke, explosions so powerful the earth rumbled, water sloshing in the pool of spent atomic fuel. Then he touched on his own complicated emotions before pulling out of the plant. "The people left behind – I feel really sorry for them," the worker said. "It was a hard decision to make, but I had a strong feeling that I wanted to get out."

Such scenes stir powerful emotions in this sports centre, where evacuees are re-examining their own relationship with the Fukushima plant.

"I think you could say those nuclear workers have been brainwashed," said Keiichi Yamomoto, who used to visit the plant regularly for business. "Japanese people are used to focusing their whole lives on their company, and their company takes priority over their own lives."

He said the power company had a policy of locating nuclear facilities in sparsely populated areas with little local industry. Local people got jobs; the power company was able to increase its supply of electricity for Tokyo.

The Japanese government assented to the Fukushima plant; the prefecture government assented to it; even local people assented to the plant, when they took jobs as inspectors there, Yamomoto said. "It was a trade-off."

Now they are experiencing the consequences of that assent.

People who built their lives around the nuclear plant without ever fully acknowledging its presence are now signing up for text updates of radiation readings from their home town.

Some evacuees in the sports hall say they cannot rely on the power company to give them accurate information. They are going to wait for the Japanese government to issue an all-clear before they consider returning home.

Others are wondering whether they are also somehow culpable in the disaster. Yoshizo Endo moved to live near the plant in 1970, when he became one of the first workers at the then newly opened Fukushima.

He spent more than 20 years as an inspector, undergoing regular safety exercises: fire drills, earthquake evacuations. But, he said, they never contemplated the prospect of a nuclear disaster. "Looking back, it's easy to say now that we should have thought of that," he said.

His wife, Tori, said the crisis at the plant, and the struggle of the nuclear workers, had made her increasingly uncomfortable: her husband had made a good living for years at the plant, and they were living on his pension even now. "I feel guilty," she said.

Had Endo been called, he would have gone too, albeit as part of a team, he said. But he added: "I can't really do anything in this kind of situation. The only thing I know how to do is hold a thermometer."

Did he think the nuclear samurai would succeed in taming the reactors? "What will be will be," said Endo.http://gb.nownews.com:6060/2011/03/24/91-2699433.htm
记者朱锦华／综合报道

日本「福岛50人」冒着生命危险死守核电厂，感动全世界，但有英美媒体露这些「死士」的真相，指这些核电厂工人是经过厂方「洗脑」，且其中多人只是核电厂的体力劳动工人。

英国《卫报》、澳洲《悉尼先锋报》等外国媒体爆料，这些被西方媒体称作「核武士」(Nnuclear Samurai)的赴死真相是：他们只是核电厂的体力劳动工人，属「业余者」，根本不能胜任挽救这次大灾难的工作。

报道说，本业是烟草农民的菅野信吾(音译)是其中一名死士，在其他人眼中，他是一位发挥无私精神的英雄，奋不顾身地力图挽救日本免受核子大灾难祸劫；但对他的家人而言，他只是一位性命危在旦夕的初为人父者，原为了赚多一点让家人生活好一点，在核电厂兼职干粗活。

菅野信吾家住福岛县南相马市，位处核事故方圆叁十公里的禁区量程，他只是烟草农民，对他来说，在核电厂兼职赚取的工钱非常重要。

菅野信吾的叔公菅野正夫(音译)说：「人们称他们是核武士，因为他们为了填补漏洞，随时会牺牲性命。可是，当中像信吾的那些工人，只是业余人士，他们根本不能帮上忙，像信吾的那些人也不应当死士。」

福岛第一核电厂事发当天宣布发生紧急核事故不久，在核电厂当建筑工人的菅野信吾奉上司指示，提早下班；当核电厂核事故危机持续恶化，以及日本政府宣布扩大疏散区范围，他决定将妻子和小女儿送到姻亲家暂住，以避核祸。菅野信吾接着帮助其他家人从南相马市，疏散到山形县米泽市避难中心。

菅野信吾的亲戚表示，当信吾安排好一切后，接到核电厂请求他上班的电话；当他的家人获悉，便纷纷打电话给他，劝他切勿上班。家人在电话告诉菅野信吾，他只是农民，不是核电厂工程师，根本没有能力应付核危机，他必须谨记还未尽报答父母养育之恩和照顾女儿的责任。

菅野正夫称：「我当时对他说，你是有家室的人，不应事事以公司为先，家庭才是最重要。」到了上周五，菅野信吾没有理会家人劝告，返回核电厂上班，至今音讯全无。

为了业务经常到访福岛核电厂的山本敬一(音译)表示，那些核电厂工人可以说是经过厂方「洗脑」。他说：「日本人惯於全心全力地效忠公司，他们事事以公司为先。」

卫报的新闻出处：
http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/ ... shima-japan-reactor
To a world that doesn't know him, Shingo Kanno is one of the "nuclear samurai" – a selfless hero trying to save his country from a holocaust; to his family, Kanno is a new father whose life is in peril just because he wanted to earn some money on the side doing menial labour at the Fukushima nuclear plant.

A tobacco farmer, Kanno had no business being anywhere near a nuclear reactor – let alone in a situation as serious as the one that has unfolded after the 11 March earthquake and tsunami in Japan.

His great-uncle, Masao Kanno, said: "People are calling them nuclear samurai because people are sacrificing their lives to try to fix a leak. But people like Shingo are amateurs: they can't really help. It shouldn't be people like Shingo."

Masao Kanno is one of more than 500 people camped out on the hardwood floors of a sports centre in Yonezawa. The homes of most of them lie within 19 miles of the Fukushima plant. They worked at the plant, have family members who did, or passed it daily on the way to work or school.

Before, they rarely thought about the down side to that proximity; now it rules their lives. Many of their homes are inside the evacuation zone, with radiation 17 times higher than background levels and tap water too contaminated to drink.

Those with a close personal connection to the crisis, like Masao Kanno, are moved and grateful for the personal courage of the 500 or so workers still at the plant. But where Japan's prime minister and others have conjured up cardboard heroes, he sees a flesh-and-blood relation.

Shingo Kanno, who had been hired to do construction work, was released from his duties at Fukushima soon after the declaration of a nuclear emergency. As the crisis at the plant worsened, and the Japanese government widened the evacuation zone, he moved his wife and his infant daughter to his in-laws, where they would be safer.

He also helped evacuate his extended family from their home town of Minamisoma, which is within the 30km exclusion zone, to the sports centre and other shelters. Then, his relatives say, Kanno got a call from the plant asking him to go back to work.

His whole family took turns getting on the phone to tell him not to go. They reminded him that he was a farmer, not a nuclear engineer, that he did not have the skills for such a sophisticated crisis. They said he should think of his responsibilities to his parents and his baby daughter.

"I told him: 'You have a family now. You shouldn't be thinking about the company – you should be thinking about your own family,'" said Masao Kanno.

But on Friday Shingo Kanno went back anyway. The family have not heard from him since.

In the meantime, the cult of the nuclear samurai has only grown. Japanese television aired an interview with a plant worker on Monday offering a harrowing insider's account of the struggle for the reactors.

The worker, his face hidden from view, described sirens blaring, billowing smoke, explosions so powerful the earth rumbled, water sloshing in the pool of spent atomic fuel. Then he touched on his own complicated emotions before pulling out of the plant. "The people left behind – I feel really sorry for them," the worker said. "It was a hard decision to make, but I had a strong feeling that I wanted to get out."

Such scenes stir powerful emotions in this sports centre, where evacuees are re-examining their own relationship with the Fukushima plant.

"I think you could say those nuclear workers have been brainwashed," said Keiichi Yamomoto, who used to visit the plant regularly for business. "Japanese people are used to focusing their whole lives on their company, and their company takes priority over their own lives."

He said the power company had a policy of locating nuclear facilities in sparsely populated areas with little local industry. Local people got jobs; the power company was able to increase its supply of electricity for Tokyo.

The Japanese government assented to the Fukushima plant; the prefecture government assented to it; even local people assented to the plant, when they took jobs as inspectors there, Yamomoto said. "It was a trade-off."

Now they are experiencing the consequences of that assent.

People who built their lives around the nuclear plant without ever fully acknowledging its presence are now signing up for text updates of radiation readings from their home town.

Some evacuees in the sports hall say they cannot rely on the power company to give them accurate information. They are going to wait for the Japanese government to issue an all-clear before they consider returning home.

Others are wondering whether they are also somehow culpable in the disaster. Yoshizo Endo moved to live near the plant in 1970, when he became one of the first workers at the then newly opened Fukushima.

He spent more than 20 years as an inspector, undergoing regular safety exercises: fire drills, earthquake evacuations. But, he said, they never contemplated the prospect of a nuclear disaster. "Looking back, it's easy to say now that we should have thought of that," he said.

His wife, Tori, said the crisis at the plant, and the struggle of the nuclear workers, had made her increasingly uncomfortable: her husband had made a good living for years at the plant, and they were living on his pension even now. "I feel guilty," she said.

Had Endo been called, he would have gone too, albeit as part of a team, he said. But he added: "I can't really do anything in this kind of situation. The only thing I know how to do is hold a thermometer."

Did he think the nuclear samurai would succeed in taming the reactors? "What will be will be," said Endo.