Reflections from Hiroshima

Over a half a lifetime ago, I wrote a personal memoir, yet to be published, focusing on a series of adventures very significant to my young adult life. The preface of the memoir began with this opening thought, “I am an only child. But like every other child, something within me yearns for union. Parades of celebration filled the streets the day I was born, my mother tells me. Not for me, but for the end of one era and the beginning of another. It was the day the first atomic bomb had turned a world at war into a nuclear village. But peace was elusive, and my life became a subtle quest to find it…”

Now, in this “International City of Peace,” I reflect further, still trying to understand what this convergence means to me. Seeing pictures and reading about it is not the same as being here. At the edge of Peace Memorial Park, separating it from the rest of modern Hiroshima, the burnt out ruins of the steel skeleton A-bomb dome is a mute but stark reminder of the tragedy, and a conscious, concrete appeal for world peace, where millions come from around the world to visit and renew their commitment to lasting world peace.

Hiroshima is in every way “a call to unity in the quest for survival.” In the Peace Memorial Museum, I learn that since 1968 successive mayors of Hiroshima have sent telegrams to the countries responsible protesting every nuclear weapons test, each one expressing the fervent hope that it will be the last such telegram. The latest telegram to be added to the exhibit was sent August 30, 2002, to President Bush, the day before we sailed to Japan, protesting his “reckless posture” for our nation’s “18th subcritical nuclear test at its underground nuclear test site in Nevada” on August 29th, urging him that he “begin striving in good faith to fulfill your promise of an unequivocal undertaking to eliminate your nuclear arsenal… and begin working conscientiously to build a truly peaceful 21st century.”

What this peace effort means to the people of Japan may only be known by what took place after the end of World War II. The Japanese rewrote their constitution to include an Article that not only renounces war, but also specifies a ban on sending military troops for combat purposes. It is essentially a declaration of a lasting peaceful approach to international relations. This is remarkable in that Japan had been an aggressor not only at Pearl Harbor but just before that in China and Korea as well. Their adoption of a pacifist constitution after the war represents a 180 degree transformation in their national policy - and the strongest commitment to peace of probably any nation in the world.

The message engraved on the plaque at the Cenotaph explains this unique commitment: “Let all the souls here rest in peace; for we shall not repeat this evil.” An exhibit in the Peace Memorial Museum states, “The continual prayer of the A-bombed city of Hiroshima is to unite humankind toward our common goal, genuine and lasting peace.” In the Hall of Remembrance of the National Peace Memorial for the Atomic Bomb Victims, opened only a month ago, there is a tile for each of the 140,000 victims, an exhibit and library of memoirs of survivors, and names and photographs of all the victims. This memorial pledges to convey the truth of this tragedy throughout Japan and the world, to pass it on to the future, and build a peaceful world free from nuclear weapons.

What struck me, even though I somehow knew this intuitively, is how pervasive this message is throughout the entire Peace Park. It is first and foremost a memorial to peace; the devastation is clear and almost too powerful, the stories of the victims and the survivors are told vividly, but everywhere in the park are monuments to peace – the Children’s Peace Monument, a Peace Cairn, the Peace Clock Tower, the Peace Bell, the Peace Fountain, the Pond of Peace, the Flame of Peace (which will remain lit until world peace is finally established), and many more. The spirit of Hiroshima, that nuclear weapons must not be allowed, and resolving to not fight with other countries, represents a real first step on the path to peace.

There are many sobering similarities between August 6, 1945 and September 11, 2001: myriad innocent victims, orphans, and widows; those who died trying to help others; messages left on walls everywhere for lost loved ones, and on and on. Yet, the numbers and horrors of Hiroshima are even more severe.

I still try to make some sense of what I have seen, remembering what I have often pondered: all these souls died when I was just beginning my sojourn in this world. I know I have experienced the most somber, respectful mood of anywhere I have ever been, and I wanted to stop, sit, reflect, take it all in for as long as it took, and let flow out of me whatever needed to. A few moments later, our tour leader, who had told us when we arrived that her father is a Hiroshima survivor, says to us, as we leave Peace Park, “Thank you for sharing the pain of the victims and survivors.”

We cross the river into present day, bustling Hiroshima, and carry on. But I am not quite the same. I am infinitely more aware that even more than before my every thought and action needs to be directed toward peace and understanding among all peoples.

And that is because the people of Hiroshima never lost hope, a point made clear by a verse in the Museum:

“That autumn

In Hiroshima, where it was said,

“For seventy years nothing will grow,”

New buds sprouted

In the green that came back to life

Among the charred ruins,

People recovered

Their hopes and courage.”

Neither can I ever lose hope or faith that peace will come to pass. And so I carry on. As we left the bus to board our ship, I mentioned to our tour leader how meaningful this visit has been for me and why, and we shared a hug in parting, as well as a newly discovered common understanding.