Between the World and the Town

“This is no time for idealism.”

Tetsuya turned to face his elder brother Kentaro. Showing him the figures he had put together at the co-op office, he went on. “Look at this. Even in Aogawa alone, rice stocks are virtually zero. Supplies from the neighbouring areas have dried up too. This is way beyond what you’d call a ‘crisis’.”

The brothers sat facing each other on the engawa. The morning light filtered softly through the shoji, casting long shadows between them. A night had passed since the family meeting, and they had arranged to have some time just the two of them.

Kentaro looked through the documents his brother had brought and gave a grave nod. “This is certainly serious. But that’s precisely why our choice matters.”

“Choice?” Tetsuya gave a wry smile. “Kentaro, do you think there’s any room for choice? Every single day I’m questioned by dozens of people asking when the rice is coming in. Some of them break down in tears. Especially families with children…”

He broke off and closed his eyes. The scenes from his days at the co-op seemed to be playing behind them.

Kentaro had always been the idealist among the brothers. Working for an international NGO and confronting the world’s food problems, he had grown used to seeing things from a broad perspective.

“Tetsuya, I understand the reality you’re facing,” Kentaro said quietly. “But what we ought to be thinking about is how to change this situation. One gō of rice is little. And yet how it is used carries an important meaning.”

Tetsuya stood and walked to the far end of the engawa. In the garden, there had once been a vegetable patch that their mother Chiyo had tended with great care. Now only a few leafy plants were growing there — the lack of water meant they could not thrive as she would have wished.

“You’ve flown all over the world and seen the big picture,” Tetsuya said, his back still turned. “I’ve been here in this town, facing the everyday reality. It’s natural that we see things differently.”

Kentaro watched his brother’s back. “Listening to Dad yesterday, I thought — perhaps we are each facing the same problem as he is, just in different forms. The gap between theory and practice.”

Tetsuya turned round. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve been thinking about the theory and strategy of global food aid,” Kentaro explained. “Efficient distribution of resources to famine zones, building sustainable agricultural systems, creating frameworks for international cooperation… Yet at the same time I’ve come to realise that the lived sense of actually putting food into the hands of a hungry person had grown thin for me.”

He stared at the documents in his hands. “You’re the other way round. So pressed with attending to the people in front of you who need help that it’s hard to keep the perspective of changing the larger system.”

Tetsuya looked at his brother with a slightly surprised expression. “I see.” He walked slowly back to the engawa and sat down. “That’s a very Kentaro kind of analysis.”

The two of them gazed quietly at the garden. A small bird sang; a faint breeze stirred the branches of the trees. A peaceful morning scene — and yet the sense of crisis beneath it weighed heavily on both their hearts.

“I have sometimes found Dad’s philosophy of food too abstract,” Kentaro said. “But thinking about it now, perhaps he has been looking at the essence of what food is.”

“The essence?”

“Food is not simply a source of nutrition. It is culture, it is connection, it is the hope to go on living.” Kentaro said this recalling his father’s words. “At our NGO, we don’t simply hand out food. We put great importance on supporting local people to produce their own food, and on rebuilding communities through food.”

Tetsuya was sorting the documents on his lap. “Going by the numbers, this crisis has only just begun. Because of the effects of climate change, the harvest looks hard for next year and beyond. It’ll take at least a few years for the system to recover.”

“All the more reason,” Kentaro leaned forward, “why our choice about how to use this one gō of rice carries symbolic meaning. Our decision will show the way to live in the time to come.”

Tetsuya, a little overwhelmed by his brother’s fervour, replied calmly. “But symbols alone can’t keep people alive. Practical solutions are needed.”

“I understand that,” Kentaro nodded. “Which is exactly why I think we ought to make a choice that satisfies both the symbolic and the practical.”

The glass door slid open and Rie appeared. Tetsuya’s wife had been getting ready since early morning for her local food-support work.

“Good morning,” Rie said, smiling at the two of them. “Sorry to interrupt a serious conversation. I’ve made some tea.”

She came out on to the engawa carrying a tray. There were three cups on it. The fact that she had brought one for herself meant she intended to join the conversation.

“Thank you,” Kentaro said, taking his cup. “Rie, as a food-support volunteer in the area, how do you see the situation?”

Rie sat down slowly and took her own cup in her hands. “Things are really tough on the ground. I worry especially about the children.” She took a sip of her tea and continued. “But strangely, it’s at times like this that you see people as they really are.”

“As they really are?” Tetsuya asked.

“Yes,” Rie said gently. “When things are hard, some people reach out to share a little more, while others pull in to protect only themselves. But lately I’ve noticed that the impulse to share is slowly spreading.”

Kentaro listened with interest. “In what way, specifically?”

“In the eastern district, for instance, more and more households are growing vegetables, and a network is forming for neighbours to share their harvests,” Rie explained. “In the western district, a workshop has begun where elderly residents are teaching younger generations their knowledge of preserved food.”

Tetsuya showed mild surprise at his wife’s account. “I had no idea that kind of thing was happening. None of this makes it to the co-op.”

“There’s so much going on that official organisations can’t see,” Rie smiled. “People are trying to adapt in their own ways.”

Kentaro nodded admiringly. “That’s exactly what I’ve seen in various parts of the world. When institutions stop working, people start rebuilding their communities by themselves.”

“But,” Tetsuya never let go of his practical eye, “small movements like that alone can’t solve the overall food shortage. Change at the level of the system is needed.”

“Exactly,” Rie agreed. “Which is why both approaches are necessary. Grass-roots action from below, and reform of the system from above.”

The three of them drank their tea in silence, each thinking about the situation from their own position. Beyond the garden they could see from the engawa stretched the houses of Aogawa. The crisis lurking beneath that peaceful scene pressed painfully on all of them.

“Coming back to the rice,” Rie said quietly, “I think the very process of deciding how to use it matters. Not only the result, but how we arrived at the decision.”

Kentaro nodded firmly at her words. “Absolutely right. In responding to future crises, the way decisions are made will itself come to shape society.”

“So what do you actually want to do with it, then?” Tetsuya asked his brother. “This one gō of rice.”

Kentaro answered with a serious expression. “I think we ought to share it with the local community. Not simply to eat it, but as a medium through which to create new connections.”

“Meaning?”

“We invite people from the neighbourhood, for example, and make congee with this rice — and share it out a little at a time among everyone. Then, over that, we talk about how we might cooperate going forward.” Kentaro explained with warmth. “It wouldn’t be just a single meal. It would be the first step towards rebuilding a community, looking towards the future.”

Tetsuya stared at the documents and fell into thought. “Theoretically, I understand that. But…”

“But in practice it feels hard?” Kentaro looked into his brother’s face.

“Yes,” Tetsuya answered honestly. “I wonder how Misaki would take it, for instance, or Mother. Misaki especially — she’s still growing, and she needs nutrition.”

Rie listened to the two of them and said quietly, “I think Misaki would understand. She sees this situation far more clearly than we give her credit for.”

“Does she, really?” Tetsuya said, uneasy. “She’s only sixteen. That might be an age when the hunger of the present feels more real than the future.”

Kentaro tried to understand his brother’s concern. “True, a sense of time differs with age. Which is exactly why it matters that the whole family talks it over.”

“Yes,” Rie said, standing. “That’s what today’s afternoon meeting is for. Before then, I’ll go and find out a little more about how things stand in the area.”

She placed her cup back on the tray and smiled at the two of them. “It’s nice that you brothers have had a chance to talk properly at last.”

After Rie had gone, the brothers looked out at the garden again. The morning light had strengthened; the shadows of the plants in the garden had grown shorter.

“Tetsuya,” Kentaro said quietly. “Do you remember, when we were children — when Dad brought home some unusual grain from abroad and we all tasted a little of it together?”

Tetsuya’s eyes lit up a little. “I remember. An African millet, I think. Dad said, ‘This is not just food. It is a seed of culture.’”

“Yes.” Kentaro smiled. “At the time I didn’t understand it, but I feel as though I can now. That food is something beyond mere nutrition.”

Tetsuya smiled faintly in turn. “Talking with you always broadens my horizons. Sometimes it’s frustrating, though.”

Kentaro laughed softly. “That’s what an elder brother is for.”

The two of them stood and went back into the house. Before the afternoon family meeting, they each needed to gather their thoughts. A brother who had seen the world, a brother whose roots were in this town. Their perspectives differed, but the crisis they were facing was the same. And it was on their values and their decisions that the fate of that small symbol — one gō of rice — depended.