23 October 2004. I had left my hometown of Niigata and was working in sales in Nagoya.
It was taken for granted that we worked regardless of whether it was a weekend or a weekday. I was dealing with a customer in the evening when my mobile phone in my pocket started making an awful racket. But as I carried on with my work without even being able to look at it, a senior colleague called out to me, ‘Kaba-chan, you’re in a bit of a pickle.’
From the television playing in the back room, the news was showing images of how unrecognisable our local town of Nagaoka had become.
This was the Chuetsu Earthquake, which struck Niigata Prefecture.
I couldn’t get through on the phone. I had no idea whether my family were safe. All that remained was a strong sense of unease at the fact that I was simply carrying on with my work.
After travelling back and forth between my home town and work several times, I handed in my notice a few months later.
Without knowing what I could do, or having decided what to do, I returned to Nagaoka driven solely by the feeling that my hometown was in trouble.
In this job, it’s all about the figures; if you improve your figures, you’ll be promoted.
Back then, that’s what I believed.
However, when I returned to my hometown, the atmosphere there was so different that I actually felt a little embarrassed about how proud I’d been of that way of working.
The wounds in the disaster-stricken areas are still deep, and there are people looking to volunteer and do what they can.
There are people who rush to provide support for disasters in other regions as well.
Even if sales aren’t rising, there are people who take immediate action.
That was the sort of town Nagaoka was.
That was when I found out for the first time.
It is not just money or academic results that motivate people.
Twenty years have passed since that day, and I have been pondering that question ever since.
A community has everything people need to live happily.
Nature, culture, festivals, scenery, cuisine, and the wisdom of fermentation.
There are certain practices that have been passed down over a long period of time.
On the other hand, the economy has mechanisms in place to ensure its continuity.
Ideally, these two should be pointing in the same direction.
However, in reality, I feel there is a slight discrepancy between the two.
What is true wealth, I wonder?
What will we leave behind, and what will we pass on to the next generation?
I’ve started to think that sort of thing.
There is a saying in the world that goes like this:
We do not inherit the Earth from our ancestors;
We borrow it from our children.
(We have not inherited the Earth from our ancestors; we are borrowing it from our children.)
For a long time, I have regarded this phrase as a local expression.
Let’s try replacing ‘Earth’ with ‘Land’.
When you do that, the meaning becomes much more accessible.
We have not inherited the land from our ancestors; rather, we are holding it in trust on behalf of the children who will live in the future.
When I thought about it that way, my view of the neighbourhood changed.
I would like to re-examine the value that cannot be measured by economic terms alone, from the perspectives of ‘the local community’ and ‘food’.
It was with this in mind that I set up FARM8, and I have continued to work from our base in Nagaoka City, Niigata Prefecture.
This book is a record of the questions I have continued to ponder over the twenty years since that day.
I’d be delighted if this reached those who feel a vague sense of unease about society or their daily lives.
That sense of unease is surely not something you feel alone.
ATSUSHI KABASAWA
FARM8 Co. Ltd.,
