Rebirth and Resilience

The highway to Fukushima felt both familiar and foreign.
As the car moved north, names of towns flickered by — places I had heard all my life in my parents’ voices. The mountains were still a deep, endless green, and the rivers caught the same silver light I remembered. Yet something was different. Many roofs were patched, and a few fields were left fallow. Time had moved forward; the land was still healing.

Ikariya Kiln had relocated inland to Shirakawa after the 2011 earthquake.
The showroom was a wooden building flooded with soft daylight. Shelves of ceramics stood quietly, each holding its own warmth, as if the pieces were still breathing.

For a moment, I hesitated at the door. Until now, my only connection with the potter had been through a few Instagram messages. I wondered if he would recognize me.
Then a cheerful voice called out, “Ah, you must be Kyoko from WAZA Tokyo!”
The gentle Fukushima accent immediately melted my nerves. In that moment, I felt as if I’d come home — not only to a place, but to a sense of belonging I hadn’t realized I’d missed.

The man who greeted me was Mr. Yamada, the thirteenth-generation head of Ikariya Kiln. His family has carried on this craft for more than three centuries. As we walked through the studio, he explained how each Ōbori Soma ware piece is shaped, painted, and fired by a single artisan — a tradition rarely seen today.
He lifted one of the signature double-walled cups and turned it slowly in his hand.

 “The hard part,” he said, smiling, “is making two cups that fit perfectly together. Too big, and it won’t go in. Too small, and it falls right through.”
He tapped the rim lightly. “It takes seven years — sometimes ten — to master this balance. The lips must meet so smoothly that when you drink, you never feel the join.”

Behind him stood two large gas kilns, each worth millions of yen — symbols of both risk and perseverance.
After the earthquake, Yamada-san lost everything: his home, his kilns, his income. For a time, he thought about giving up. But his wife made a bold decision — she took a job far away so he could stay and rebuild.
He paused, then shared a memory that still moved him deeply. During a school event, his young son had read a short essay aloud:

“My mother works in another town to support our family.
 That’s why we must do our best, too.”

Yamada-san smiled softly. “I realized then that he already understood everything — the struggle, the sacrifice. That day, I promised myself I would continue.”

Over the years, with the help of his community and government support, Ikariya Kiln was reborn. Today, the two kilns burn steadily once more. His pieces have traveled to international exhibitions, and his collaboration with a Taiwanese craft-beer company resulted in beer cups that sold out quickly.

In 2024, he received the Industrial Association Award for a lidded, double-walled tumbler shown at the National Traditional Crafts Exhibition — proof that renewal can coexist with tradition.
Yet, despite the acclaim, Yamada-san insists that Ōbori Soma ware should remain part of everyday life — not an artifact, but a companion to tea, sake, and conversation.
His son, now grown, is apprenticing to carry on the lineage.

“I think about why I’m still here,” he said at last. “If my story can give courage to someone else — to keep creating, even after losing everything — maybe that’s my role now.”

Outside, the late-afternoon light spread across the courtyard.
A freshly fired cup sat cooling near the doorway, its glaze still faintly shimmering. Across its soft gray surface, a horse galloped — free, enduring, alive.
I smiled.

After fourteen years, I had finally come home — not only to Fukushima, but to the quiet persistence of beauty itself.