Here is a controversial truth: I was traveling to Hiroshima, but I wasn’t going to visit the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Musuem or Park.
I had my defense ready. I was a (reasonably) compassionate human being with basic empathy. I didn’t need to make a heart wrenching trip and look at burned, radiation oozing artefacts of murdered children to understand that nuclear weapons are diabolical. It was the instinct of a sane and rational person and one I already possessed. In my opinion, the museum was meant to be a teaching experience for the distasteful breed of loud foreigners who took drunken selfies at cemeteries and whose standard response was “Drop an atom bomb on them all” every time they saw war struck countries on their computer screens. Not me.
A phone-call from my country changed everything. I won’t go into the specifics but let me just say that my parents can still put more fear and obedience into me than the threat of any rogue ballistic missile out there today. I scheduled the museum in.
On my first day in Hiroshima, I took a ferry to the famous orange tori gates of Miyajima, climbed a mountain, took thousands of photos, ate too much ice cream and watched the life changing sunset over the rippling sea that seared the sky orange and purple and then black.
The next day, I wore something more solemn and headed out to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum. The gutted yet preserved Atomic Dome was a three minute stroll from my AirBnb and every time I passed it, my stomach twisted in a strange mixture of guilt and sorrow. Naturally enough, passers-by didn’t spare it a second glance and the only ones perturbed by it seemed to be tourists like me.
The walk to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum was beautiful. I cut across a lush green garden, the children’s memorial park, and then paid my respects at the stone plaque and burning flame that will stand alight until every Nuclear weapon on the planet is eradicated. The area was designed in such a way that the Atomic Dome, the memorial, the fire of hope for eternal peace and the museum behind were on the same sharp line. The precision was breathtaking.
Entering the museum, I knew I was expecting gloomy rooms, tear-jerking photos of the atrocities and sorrowing visitors and senior citizens. I couldn’t have been more mistaken.
Children chased each other in the wide, sunlit reception chamber as their parents bought tickets. Smiling guides helped me into a line and thanked me for visiting. A nearby cafeteria sold fresh juice, ice cream and chips. Everything was glassy and bright and the blue sky permeated the entire space, coloring us in its hues.
After placing down 50 yen and receiving some brochures, a postcard and my ticket, I was ushered into a dense line and stepped into the first display hall. A huge photograph of a mushroom cloud greeted me. The photo was taller than I was, reaching to brush up against the ceiling and I instinctively scrunched up.
Strange words untangled themselves and filtered into my hearing
“It was terrible,” I heard an old woman behind me saying Japanese, “Just look at the cloud. Amazing.”
I jumped, not realizing how much my Japanese had improved. It was hard to not eavesdrop in the tightly packed space we all shared but I did try. The next thing I heard, however, completely put an end to that attempt.
“Where you on that day?” a young girl my age gripping the old woman’s arm asked, “Did you see?”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t there,” the old woman reply and I lingered a few seconds to catch the rest of that, “But Uncle…oh, you know, my uncle, he was there on the train going to work when the news came and all of us immediately went and-”
I didn’t have enough Japanese to understand if Uncle had survived or not and before I could strain to listen, the crowd gently nudged me ahead.
I passed other exhibits and saw the burned uniforms of pre-teens who survived the initial blast only to die in their parents’ arms later in the night. There were lunchboxes, accessories and toys of children whose bodies were never found. Melted glass bottles. Warped ceiling bricks. Wax statues of teary people with their kimonos in shreds and the skin melting off their face.
“Come here, come here and see this.”
A father behind me gathered his three close, crouched to their level and pointed out the tortured statues.
“Do you know why they look like that?” He asked, “After the blast, it was so hot that they got hurt like this.”
Wide eyes looked up at him.
“Ehh, how?” the oldest asked, “Because it’s hot?”
“It was very very very very hot,” the father struggled to explain, “A terrible heat.”
“Don’t understand,” the next one mumbled, tilting her head. He tried to relaunch into an easier explanation and I moved ahead.
To my surprise, out of the many conversations I heard that day, not a single person so much as breathed the word “America”. I’d expected cursing, tears and vows of revenge, but the visitors were calm and their aim seemed to be to educate their children rather than debate political history over the literal grave of thousands.
“Look a moment,” a mother by herself tried to engage her squirming son, “Do you see that? After the bomb, there was rain so dirty that it was black and everyone’s clothes became like this. Isn’t it sad?”
The son shot an obligatory look at the stained fabric in a glass box, nodded and then broke free of her grip and vanished into the crowd.
I watched her straighten up slowly and take in the white cloth that was marred by so many needle-like lines of dried black fluid.
Many of the saved artefacts that that victims’ families had donated were cased in thick glass boxes and in some cases, were still radioactive. Explanations in Japanese and English were provided everywhere and alongside Japanese families, I looked at a watch that had stopped at the exact moment of the bombing, a sandal with an incinerated child’s footmark still printed on it, and a section of wall where the shadow of a man who had been vaporized by the blast still clung to the bricks. Other sections in the museum explained the many generational cases of cancer that overtook the nation in following years and the scientific working of nuclear particles. A final display let visitors actually touch deactivated remains from the blast, like bubbling tiles and fused containers, feeling the devastation for themselves.
Mentally exhausted, I emerged outside to a long corridor where we could occupy low sofas and watch subtitled video clips of survivors recount their experiences. Finally, families with cameras eagerly crowded around a glass box showcasing President Obama’s message for peace and his folded paper cranes. Adults sounded out the English words and children were lifted high so they could peek at it as well. They were so genuinely heartened to see his kind gesture and the sight made me realize that I was in the company of a group of people far more forgiving and gracious than I had ever been with in my entire life.
Walking around Hiroshima city for the rest of the day was a living history lesson. Wherever I traveled, if I made an effort to look for it, a standing plaque with vintage photos would show how the area had looked in the aftermath of the blast, while mentioning its previous use and any notable buildings or happenings.
After some research, I was shocked to find out that the Atomic Dome was in fact, not the intended target of the bomb. I decided to venture out and find the hypocenter of the blast, which for some reason, was on a different place on every map and somehow impossible to find due to almost no proper signage or indication of its location.
After some drawing some circles, wandering around backstreets and passing through alleys, I reached my destination more by accident or providence rather than any actual navigational skill. Stepping into a small back road filled with electrical poles and cables and in the shadow of a small hospital building, I was right before the hypocenter, or the point on ground closest to where the bomb had exploded midair due to a slight miss in target.
In the end, I was glad that I had visited. After that day, bombs and wars ceased to become joking matters and the experience helped me understand the height of tension surrounding modern day nuclear disasters like Chernobyl and Fukushima. I developed more sensitivity for Cancer patients and received a small glimpse of the trauma that previous generations of Japanese citizens had faced in their lifetimes. And finally, I found some kind of resolution regarding the question of culpability in World War 2. After the visit to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, I realized that in a war between governments it’s always innocent citizens who suffer the most persecution and who are called upon without their knowing to stand in for brutal sacrifice.
To the reader: regardless of whether you align with the right or left wing, identify with a specific ideology or support/oppose disarmament, I recommend leaving behind your beliefs for a short while and then taking a trip to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum with an open mind.
Every visitor there is sure to discover their own life changing lesson to take home.
To learn more:
http://visithiroshima.net/things_to_do/attractions/museums/hiroshima_peace_memorial_museum.html
Picture Credits:
(all photos by the original author)