An American in Hiroshima

When I found out I would be spending the summer in Hiroshima, I thought about what it might mean to show up as an American in this city – for me, personally, or for the people of Hiroshima.  I realized that I knew precious little about the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.  Furthermore, what I did know were facts about the war, not people’s own personal narratives.  My curiosity grew for stories from the people of Hiroshima:  before, during and after the bomb.  I wanted to learn what had really happened in people’s lives and to their livelihoods.  I am drawn to stories, partly because I find stories to be a lingua franca – a way to connect with people and our humanity.  I decided to learn what I could about the narratives of the atomic bomb, and the personal narratives that were erased and re-weaved as a result of this unbelievable event. 

Standing in the Peace Park in Hiroshima, I marvel at the unique and macabre nature of being in the first place where an atomic weapon was used on people, on purpose.  Furthermore, it was MY country that used that weapon (well, at least the country I was born in), and the weapon was deployed into this country I’m now standing in.  Whenever I think about it I get shivers up my spine, and standing in the Peace Park made me also feel really quiet and tender. 

The Atomic Bomb Dome, or Genbaku Dome, stands at the north end of Hiroshima Peace Park.  It was one of the very few buildings where some walls remained after the bomb detonated.  It has been preserved, not without controversy, as a monument to encourage people to never forget.

 The Hiroshima Peace Park seems to be a place of quiet contemplation and prayer for many people.  I encounter many tourists like myself, but also many Japanese people coming to offer incense or clap their hands together in prayer at one of the many memorial sites throughout the park.  In Hiroshima, I’m not the only one to wonder about the courage it must take for the survivors to tell their stories, and the trauma that this must remind them of.  The Atomic Bomb Dome, for example, is on the one hand a symbol of world peace, a standing reminder to the destruction wreaked in 1945 in a matter of seconds.  It is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.  On the other hand, it is a painful reminder of unspeakable events, especially for those directly affected by the bomb, the hibakusha.  Many hibakusha and residents of Hiroshima opposed preserving the A-bomb Dome building in the first place.  Also, many people thought of as hibakusha now remain silent about their status and choose not to identify themselves as hibakusha, even almost 70 years later.  It wasn’t for many years that the Japanese or American government set up any formal assistance for hibakusha – this only came about after the crew of the Japanese fishing vessel, the Lucky Dragon, suffered from radiation effects after the ship navigated close to an American nuclear missile test.  Only after that did the Japanese government acknowledge the need for specialized medical and financial assistance for hibakusha, and formal recognition and a medical fund for survivors of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombs was established.  That was 1954, almost 10 years after the bombs were dropped.  Survivors were classified as qualifying for assistance (as “hibakusha”) if any of the following applied to them:

1)      Present in the city on the day of the bomb

2)      Arrived in the city to assist with rescue efforts within two weeks of the bomb

3)      Were a fetus in utero at the time of the bomb

These are still the gruesome criteria for hibakusha.  Imagine needing to identify your “status” to receive medical attention and benefits.  However, I understand the desire that some people had to be as far away from remembering anything about the horrors of the bomb or the war as they could.  To receive medical benefits would mean identifying oneself as having been there, as having been affected.  Just to receive care was to bring up unwanted memories (and their associated emotions) for some survivors – and thus many hibakusha went without treatment, special care or recognition of their often precarious physical and mental health.

At the Hiroshima National Peace Memorial Hall for Atomic Bomb Victims.  This is a relatively new, Japanese effort to document victims and create a registry of names and photographs.  Upwards of 140,000 people are thought to have died as a direct result of the bomb and within the few weeks following detonation.  Countless others have suffered health problems and death as long-term complications from radiation effects.  The nearby cenotaph registry (created by the Americans occupying the region after the war’s end) lists 292,325 victims names as of August 2014.  

Furthermore, the memorial park itself, the Peace Memorial Museum, and the Radiation Affects Research Foundation in Hijiyama Park were all established and created by the Americans.  Controversy remains over whether these facilities adequately represent the Japanese and Hiroshiman perspective, or whether they’re more monuments to appease the West.  Controversy aside, for me the fact remains that my country bombed this city into oblivion, and killed hundreds of thousands of people in so doing.  I am desperate for ways to atone for what my country has done, to appease the sadness and devastation my country wreaked on another.  So I do the only things I can think of, which are to show up, contemplate, and wholeheartedly listen and bear witness to the stories. 

               It’s difficult to know what happened to all the people on August 6^th, 1945 in Hiroshima.  The vast majority of people who died were never found or identified as victims of the bom.  The estimates of those that died on that day or in the several weeks and months following the bomb are made from educated guesses.  Many of the deceased were reported by survivors or family members.  Yet many were never reported at all.  A confidential, sealed registry in Hiroshima now holds 292,325 names of people deceased as a result of the bombing – those who died and were identified by relatives and friends, updated as of August 5^th 2014 (http://www.pcf.city.hiroshima.jp/virtual/VirtualMuseum_e/tour_e/ireihi/tour_20_e.html).  A publicly accessible registry has been created relatively recently, and people can submit names, stories and photographs of victims.  That registry currently only holds about 20,000 names; a tiny fraction of the true numbers, yet heroic for those that came forward with their stories.  Many of the stories I heard and witnessed were part of the efforts by that facility, the Hiroshima National Peace Memorial Hall for Atomic Bomb Victims.  This facility is also in the Peace Park and contains its own museum space for contemplation and prayer.  I found it to be a very powerful experience to enter into the museum. 

Garden, fountain and sculpture at the Hiroshima National Peace Memorial Hall for Atomic Bomb Victims.  The sculpture is of a clock at 8:15, the time when the bomb was dropped, and the rubble all around the fountain are remains of buildings destroyed by the bomb.  

 Back to the numbers:  Everyone agrees that 1) the numbers of estimated casualties are conservative; 2) we will never know the actual death toll because of the mass death, casualty number and chaos of the ensuing days and months. 

On August 6^th, 2014, I attended the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Ceremony for the atomic bomb. 

 

Hiroshima Peace Memorial Ceremony, August 6th 2014.  The Peace Memorial Museum is in the background.

The ceremony takes place at 8 am, with a minute of silence at 8:15 am.  Take a moment right now, take a deep breath, and consider the weight of one minute at 8:15 am on August 6^th, 1945 in the city of Hiroshima.  Being there at the ceremony took my breath away.  The bell marking the minute of silence rang and I felt like my throat and thorax were being squeezed.  I feel so fortunate to have been able to participate in this ceremony of prayer and remembrance, to bear witness to the survivors and the horror they must have experienced.  Later in the morning, some hibakusha read their stories out loud in English.  I am grateful for their courage and willingness to share.  It was small, but this tiny moment that was the only way I knew to manifest the shouting and screaming I wanted to do, proclaiming that I stand for peace and justice for all, and that I’m sorry for all acts of war and violence.  I offered flowers in at a large, magnificent altar of flowers and incense that had been erected near the eternal flame.  I did a small thing, but it remains large in my heart and I believe in the importance of each of us doing a small thing.  If we each do a small thing, we can do big, great, amazing things.

Flowers just offered at the Hiroshima Atomic Bomb Memorial Ceremony, 2014.  These flowers will be added to the large display as the container becomes full.

A small section of the wall of flower offerings for the Hiroshima Atomic Bomb Memorial Ceremony, 2014.

On this journey I’ve found many caring people, eager to speak English, eager to learn about me and my experience, eager to learn about the country I was born into.  This despite the fact that in modern history, my country annihilated the city these same people live in.  We can each work on peace in our hearts, and talk to each other instead of letting our countries, our governments and policies and flags do the talking for us.  Now the message I heard, over and over, throughout Hiroshima, was one of peace and non-proliferation of weapons.  I find this all inspiring.  I’ve found monuments and ceremonies, erected and conducted all for the ritual of remembrance, and in the name of peace.  I’ve found a place rich in character and compassion.  I am fortunate, and I wish to share the messages of peace and justice that I’ve heard in Hiroshima with everyone.