W. Eugene Smith’s Minamata shows the power of documentary photography at its most urgent. Created after leaving LIFE Magazine, it was his response to what he felt mainstream photojournalism lacked: responsibility to both subject and reader. As he put it,

“My first responsibility is to my subjects. My second responsibility is to my readers. I believe that if I fulfill those two responsibilities, I will automatically have fulfilled my responsibilities to the magazine.”

Smith and his wife Aileen spent three years in Minamata, Japan, documenting mercury poisoning caused by decades of industrial waste. The work reveals not just the scale of environmental devastation but the dignity and resilience of those affected. For Smith, the book was more than documentation—it was a warning, a call to action, and proof that photography can still matter.

Minamata was once a quiet fishing town until the Chisso Corporation built a factory there in 1907, promising prosperity. By the 1930s, Chisso began producing plastics using mercury, and strange illnesses appeared—affecting both people and animals. Locals, unaware of the cause, called it the “strange disease.”

By 1956, children were showing signs of severe brain damage. Chisso’s own doctor traced it to mercury poisoning from factory waste, but the company covered it up, deflecting blame and coercing victims into settlements that absolved Chisso of future responsibility.

Even when evidence mounted, the government backed Chisso for its industrial value. It wasn’t until the 1970s that the courts held Chisso accountable. W. Eugene Smith called it “industrial genocide,” estimating tens of thousands were affected. Later reports confirmed over 50,000 suffered, with at least 2,000 formally diagnosed. Minamata captures the human cost of corporate denial and environmental neglect with devastating clarity.

Circles of Life

When Smith met with Chisso executives, they answered politely, trying to soften the company’s image despite its clear guilt. “Even today,” he noted, “most Minamata citizens sympathize with Chisso.” Many felt the company had already suffered enough, or remained silent out of social pressure—Chisso had fueled the town’s prosperity.

Smith and Aileen saw how conflicted locals were—kind in private, distant in public—trapped between loyalty, survival, and justice. Their writing reveals a deeply human portrait of quiet struggle.

Despite the silence of many in Minamata, some refused to back down. In the chapter Flags of Vengeance, Smith describes a new wave of protest led by Teruo Kawamoto, who demanded national attention for Minamata Disease. “The rage of the patients had to be felt... This was a cry from the wounded that was not to be smothered.”

Kawamoto organized protests outside Chisso headquarters, lining fences with photos of victims and refusing to leave. Years earlier, convinced his father died of the disease, he exhumed the body for an autopsy—but never got results. That drive turned into relentless advocacy, meeting families and gathering proof the crisis was larger than acknowledged.

In one protest, Smith was beaten by Chisso employees while photographing a staged meeting. “Chisso had set us up,” he said. The attack triggered national outrage and bolstered sympathy for the victims. Eventually, renewed momentum led 29 families to file a lawsuit against Chisso, reigniting the fight and reminding the public what had been buried—both literally and politically.

A major lawsuit against Chisso began in the early 1970s, led by 29 families determined to hold the company accountable for Minamata Disease. A key turning point came with the testimony of Chisso engineer Nishida, who admitted—shortly before his death—that he had known since 1959 the wastewater was toxic. His statement exposed the deep conflict between corporate loyalty and public health and became one of the most damning blows to Chisso’s defense.

In 1972, the court traveled to Minamata, where victims testified from their homes. “Witness after witness tore down the dams of privacy, ” Smith wrote. The emotion was overwhelming—years of pain laid bare. In 1973, the court ruled in favor of the victims, awarding up to $68,000 per death. By 1975, Chisso had paid out over $80 million.

Still, Smith emphasized, “There can be no true victory.” While financial relief came, the trauma endured. Minamata stands as a landmark in photojournalism and a reminder that photography, at its most urgent, can force the world to reckon with injustice.