During my residency at Don Bank, I had the opportunity to host two workshops at Stanton Library in North Sydney. I was very excited; I had facilitated similar workshops elsewhere but never within my own local community. Meeting participants was deeply rewarding, and as someone who migrated to Australia as an adult, the experience was especially meaningful. It made me feel genuinely connected to the local community as a writer.
The first workshop, a haiku workshop, was held in November 2025, followed by a Japanese stab-bound zine workshop in January 2026. When planning these workshops, I wanted to create something that would endure beyond the events themselves—a lasting record of both occasions. This led me to the idea of producing a haiku zine that combined elements from both workshops.
In the first workshop, participants learned the basic rules of haiku and brainstormed original seasonal words suited to a Sydney November. They then wrote their own haiku and shared them with the group, resulting in many striking pieces that captured the feeling of Sydney’s early summer. At my request, 15 participants agreed to submit their completed haiku for inclusion in a stab-bound zine created during the second workshop.
In the second workshop, participants learned the kokitoji binding technique and created their own stab-bound zines. Some produced original zines using materials they had brought from home, while others made colourful notebooks. Stitching the distinctive kokitoji patterns with needle and thread created an atmosphere that was both challenging and relaxing. One participant remarked that working with their hands was deeply calming—a sentiment I shared. I’ve always found that focusing on handwork and creating something tangible helps to settle my mind.
The outcomes of the two workshops culminated in this zine. As the only collection of its kind in the world, it will remain a personal treasure and a lasting memory of my residency.
Thirteen Years Later: Why I Sent My Novel to Australian Politicians
When I published my first novel, Green Metal: Life in Tokyo During the Nuclear Catastrophe in early 2024 I never imagined that its themes might someday resonate with Australian politics.
The book is based on my experience of living in Japan during the 2011 Fukushima disaster, when three nuclear reactors exploded—a moment in history that now feels almost ancient in our rapidly evolving world.
Then, in June, something unexpected happened: Liberal Party leader Peter Dutton announced the Coalition’s plan to build nuclear power plants in Australia. The timing felt surreal, and I felt a strong urge to respond.
Watching the news, I noticed that many critical aspects of nuclear energy—including safety concerns and its potential risks to nearby communities—weren’t being discussed enough. I also saw a familiar and troubling pattern I never thought I’d witness in Australia: fear, anxiety and division spreading among communities suddenly announced as potential sites for nuclear power plants.
Nuclear projects are often imposed from the top down, without consulting residents. Promises of economic prosperity are dangled in front of rural communities, creating divisions among them. In Japan, especially after the Fukushima disaster, it has become widely recognised that nuclear power inherently involves structural discrimination and societal sacrifice. When there is even a 0.1% chance of an accident, who would willingly take that risk?
Nuclear plants are often built in economically struggling rural areas, where communities, desperate for opportunities, are persuaded to accept the risks in the hope of a better future. These locations are frequently prime farmland or vital agricultural regions—if something goes wrong, residents lose not only their safety but also their livelihoods.
Meanwhile, the politicians who approve these projects and the executives who profit from them remain far removed, living in cities, safely distanced from the potential dangers. And urban residents become the primary beneficiaries of the electricity generated in these rural areas. Regardless of how pro-nuclear advocates argue otherwise, nuclear power is far from clean when disasters occur, and it remains ethically tainted by the structural sacrifices it imposes on communities.
During the nuclear catastrophe in 2011, just like M, the protagonist of Green Metal who documents what she witnesses, I observed first hand how the nuclear industry operates. In the story, M records how industry-funded “experts” blatantly lie, how they collaborate with politicians and major media outlets to spread propaganda, and how they frame nuclear power as “clean” energy—a supposed alternative to dirty coal. These details are drawn from real life, based on the diary I kept during those days.
So as an act of protest, I sent copies of my novella to Peter Dutton, Prime Minister Anthony Albanese, and Adam Bandt from the Greens. I didn’t expect them to read it or respond, but it felt like something I needed to do.
If you’re curious, you can read the full text of the letters I sent along with the book:
✉️📪✉️📪✉️📪✉️📪✉️📪✉️📪✉️📪✉️📪✉️📪
November 4th 2024
Dear Mr Dutton,
I am a writer and translator, born in Japan and residing in Sydney since marrying my Australian husband in 2016. I now consider Australia my home, enjoying my life here with the support of my husband, Australian family, colleagues, and friends.
I am writing to express my deep concern regarding recent reports of Coalition’s plans to initiate nuclear power generation in Australia. I lived in Tokyo during the Great East Japan Earthquake and the subsequent nuclear disaster at the Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant in 2011. Although I was not near the epicentre (approximately 300 km distance between Fukushima and Tokyo), the chaos of the situation gave me insights and a deep understanding of how the nuclear industry operates.
Proponents often emphasise that, unlike Japan, Australia is largely free from earthquakes, which is certainly true. I also trust that Australia, if it were to introduce nuclear power, would likely implement stronger governance and regulatory systems than those in my native country.
However, I urge you and your colleagues to carefully consider whether introducing such a potentially hazardous energy source, and risking the strong safety reputation of Australian products—including agricultural goods, seafood, and wine—is truly worth it. I still remember, at the time of the Fukushima nuclear accident, mothers of breastfeeding infants seeking Australian baby formula as the safest option, fearing contamination of domestic supplies. If anything were to happen, Australia’s reputation for safe, clean products would be lost forever.
I’ve enclosed a copy of my novella, Green Metal: Life in Tokyo During the Nuclear Catastrophe (UGUISU BOOKS, 2024).
I wrote this semi-autobiographical fiction, consisting of my diaries, emails, personal notes and news bulletins from that time, after coming to Australia, as few people here are aware of what we went through.
Sincerely,
Michiyo Miyake
Michiyo Miyake's semi-autobiographical novel based on her experience of living in Japan during the time of the large earthquake and the subs
It’s been a year since we launched UGUISU BOOKS, and what a year it’s been! We’ve had many memorable encounters at events, but along the way, I realised something unexpected—and a little alarming.
Our name.
Many people find it incredibly difficult to pronounce. When I first noticed this, I have to admit, I almost regretted our choice. After all, what’s the point of having a name that so few can say?
For those unfamiliar, “UGUISU” refers to the Japanese bush warbler, a bird found in northeast China, the Korean Peninsula, and Japan. Its distinct, melodious call heralds the arrival of spring. In haiku, the traditional form of Japanese poetry, the uguisu is cherished as a symbol of the season.
The name UGUISU BOOKS came to us naturally. Before starting our indie press, Nick and I worked (and still do) as a translation duo under the same name. Nick chose it from a list I made because he liked how it sounded.
Even so, we’ve decided to keep the name—perhaps its hint of foreignness could be part of its charm.
If you’re curious, you can learn how to say “uguisu” (and hear the bush warbler’s call) in the video below. We hope more people will come to know and appreciate this beautiful word through us.
