No More Hiroshima

No matter how many times you imagine a scenario happening, none of the things you imagine ever really end up being quite like how things turn out--and not necessarily in a bad way. Just... different.

I've wanted to make a... for lack of a better word, a "pilgrimage" to Hiroshima ever since I was 14. The same summer I fell in love with Japan, I also gained a growing horror at the events of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. When I read the story of Sadako Sasaki, a little girl who died from atom bomb disease several years after the atomic bombings, I made her, myself, and God a promise.

Someday, I was going to go to Hiroshima. It was a duty. I had to go. I had to see the atom bomb dome for myself. I had to see the Peace Park with my own eyes. I had to pray at the peace memorial.

Above all else, I had to leave paper cranes at the statue dedicated to children victims of the atomic bombings, depicting Sadako lifting a giant paper crane up to the heavens.

I had to do that, someday. I had to make that pilgrimage. I had to go and pay my respects, and acknowledge the horrors that man had wrought.

I finally made that pilgrimage today.

I woke up this morning at my homestay, with my bag already packed for my two days in Hiroshima and upcoming few days in Tokyo visiting a member of Morningside's board of directors. The trip from Nagao to Osaka went uneventfully, and I was able to get on the shinkansen to Hiroshima without any trouble (or luggage tumbling down escalators, thank goodness).

At Hiroshima Station, I met Ken Tanimoto, a friend and alumnus of Morningside College. If you've ever read John Hersey's landmark 1946 work Hiroshima, you'll recall a Japanese Methodist pastor by the name of Kiyoshi Tanimoto as one of the several people the book focused on. He was Ken Tanimoto's father. Mr. Ken Tanimoto's elder sister, Ms. Koko Kondo, was a young baby at the time of the atomic bombing, and has gone on to be an outspoken peace activist. Hopefully, I will have an opportunity to meet her sometime before I return home to the US.

Mr. Tanimoto showed me around the Peace Museum. In the images of the aftermath, he pointed out his father's church to me. He told me where his mother and Koko were during the bombing, and showed me on a map. He waited patiently, and let me take my time looking at the various exhibits (much fewer than normal currently, as the museum is undergoing earthquake-proofing renovations).

Once we'd finished looking around the museum, he led me out to the memorial for the dead out behind the museum. I didn't take any pictures of the memorial itself. It felt like a sacred place, like somewhere a camera didn't really belong.

I bowed in front of the memorial and prayed for peace, then stood up and, in a wavering voice, asked, "What does the memorial say?"

Mr. Tanimoto's voice was also shaking. "We will not make this mistake again. Let all the souls here rest in peace."

It may not be commonly viewed as appropriate in Japan, but I couldn't help it. I bowed my head and I cried. Not loudly, (quite quietly, actually), not obnoxiously, but I cried for a couple of minutes. When you are standing in a spot where just 74 years ago, human beings were literally vaporized or died in all manner of horrific ways, after having viewed images and relics of those lives, you can't help being emotional.

These people had spouses, parents, children, siblings, teachers, friends, coworkers. They had hopes and dreams. They had lives every bit as vivid and real as yours and mine. Many of them had nothing to do with the war, aside from the fact that it had unwelcomely pervaded into every single aspect of their lives. Many of them approved of the war, but many of them didn't.

And they weren't just Japanese, though that, of course, would be far beyond bad enough. They were Korean, Chinese, even American (there as POWs). They had futures. They had purposes. They had reasons to live.

And all of that was shattered in an instant. Some of them died in the blast. Some of them died in the days and months after. Some of them (like Sadako) didn't die until years later. But because of the most horrible weapon humanity has ever used, they died. Their lives were unceremoniously ended as just a "few" more casualties of a horrible, horrible war.

After I had finished crying, I quietly apologized to Mr. Tanimoto. "I'm sorry for crying."

He waved it off. He was teary too.

We went next to Sadako's statue, the memorial for the children of Hiroshima. Again, this space felt sacred. It didn't feel right to me to take a picture of the statue itself. There were several boxes full of paper cranes, one of which was standing open with space for more cranes to be placed.

And while I had not folded the full one thousand that many do, I had brought something with me, at least.

I kept the promise I made to my fourteen-year-old self. I kept the promise I made to God. I kept the promise I made to Sadako Sasaki.

I left my cranes I had folded, 24 cranes bearing the flags of various nations of the world, at Sadako's feet.

I looked at the cranes, and then bowed deeply before them, the common sign of respect in Japan. It felt like the right thing to do.

Mr. Tanimoto took me next to the atom bomb dome. It was much smaller than I had always imagined it to be; for some reason I thought it was very tall, when it's actually just about three stories at the tallest point. It's also not as wide or long as I thought it would be.

"There was a big argument over whether or not to keep this building," Mr. Tanimoto told me. "In Nagasaki, there are no buildings like this left. They were all torn down. And here, the survivors said the atom bomb was painful to see, because it is a terrible reminder of that day. But in the end, we decided to keep it, that we needed to keep it."

"I'm glad it was kept," I said, my voice still shaking with emotion. "Someday, there will be no one left who remembers the war themselves. We need to keep this building so that the people living then can see that these things really happened. People need to be able to see that this was real history, not just a legend."

Taking a deep breath, I finished, "Sometimes we need to be able to see our mistakes, so that we will not make them again."

We proceeded from there to the city government's memorial to the dead of Hiroshima. There was a long hall that went down in a big circle, before opening into a basement room. The infamous panoramic image of the razed downtown area, including the atom bomb dome, filled the giant, circular space.

But here, the image was made of tiles.

140,000 tiles.

One tile for each life that was ended because of the bomb in 1945 alone.

I cried a little more there, as well.

And lastly, Mr. Tanimoto showed me a tree that survived the atomic bombing, a tree that still grows today.

And at that moment, I noticed just how alive the park was. There were children running and laughing. There were cats wandering around here and there. There were tourists from various nations. There were countless plants, trees, and so, so many flowers.

There were so many colors. There were so many buildings all around us, beyond the park. There was a bustling open-air market on the other side of the nearby river we'd crossed a couple of times during our time in the park.

I cried a little more, this time from happiness and a full realization that, despite everything, Hiroshima is still here. Hiroshima is still alive, and well, and lively, and strong, and vivid.

I felt a bit cleansed, somehow. It's hard to describe, but I did.

The rest of the evening was lovely. Mr. Tanimoto and his wife took me to a really delicious ramen place for dinner ("because you are my Morningside College kohai (junior fellow student)," Mr. Tanimoto explained), and dropped me off at my hotel. Tomorrow, they're taking me to Miyajima, a famous shrine near here. On the way to dinner, Mr. Tanimoto told me about growing up as a PK, and laughed when he learned I'm a PK, too. He had three sisters and one brother; I have three brothers and one sister. He and his wife had three boys and two girls. His older sister, Koko, swore she'd never marry a preacher. So did my mother. Koko made her husband promise to never become a preacher. So did my mother. Koko married a financial worker. My mom married an accountant.

Both of their husbands became preachers. It's a small world, after all.

But now, as I sit here in my hotel, after the long day, trying to process everything, with tears rolling down my face, there's only one thing I can really think.

ノーモア広島。No More Hiroshima.

Not in the sense of "down with Hiroshima;" not by any means. No, this phrase is a promise of "Never again will we allow this to happen." It's an admission of "Never again can we allow this to happen." It's a plea of "Never again may we allow this to happen."

No More Hiroshima.

I went to Hiroshima. I did my duty. I saw the atom bomb dome for myself. I saw the Peace Park with my own eyes. I prayed at the peace memorial.

I left paper cranes at the statue dedicated to children victims of the atomic bombings, depicting Sadako lifting a giant paper crane up to the heavens.

I did all that, today, after all these years. I made that pilgrimage. I went and paid my respects, and I acknowledged the horrors that man had wrought.

And God willing, if I ever have children (as I hope to one day), I will bring them here. I will teach them about Sadako, about the Tanimotos, about the thousands of people who died here, about the thousands of people who survived. I will share all the stories I have learned about the victims, about the survivors. I will teach them, No More Hiroshima.

And for the rest of my life, I will say, No More Hiroshima.

And may that phrase ring true throughout the rest of human history, I plea.

No More Hiroshima.

Amen.

Branch Lines and Main Lines and Freight Lines, Oh My!

Despite being a Wizard of Oz reference, that title really takes me back to my Thomas the Tank Engine days. My three younger brothers all, at one point or another in their childhoods, were massive Thomas the Tank Engine fanboys, and I'll freely admit that the fervor ended up rubbing off on me, too. We owned a big collection of all of the Rev. W. Audrey's (I didn't even have to look up how to spell the name; that's how much I've internalized it) original stories about the trains and their adventures on the Island of Sodor, and at least a dozen of the video tapes of the old episodes voiced by Ringo Starr and/or Alec Baldwin, back when the trains and people were still portrayed by wooden train sets and figures. Me and my dad still mention sometimes that we wish we could "go on holiday" to Sodor. For some reason, the idea of trains with faces has never scared me, even though I feel like maybe it should.

(And, surprisingly enough, Thomas is huge over here among little kids. The series makes for a common Happy Meal toy, you can find Thomas toys at any toy shop, and bigger train stations often have at least a few posters portraying the cheery blue engine.)

All that reminiscing aside... The reason I bring it up is because I grew up loving trains, at first as a secondhand fan thanks to my brothers, and eventually just because trains are really freaking cool (a major obsession with The Polar Express starting around the time I was 7 and never really ending probably didn't hurt any either). However, in America, the only times I really ever got to ride trains were on the rare occasions we went to train museums (or the less-rare occasions we went to zoos). And none of those ever had a real destination--it was just for the experience of riding in a train, or to go around the zoo looking at the animals and end up back where you first started.

While I went on the St. Louis Zoo train fairly often as a little girl, if you only count the train rides I've taken since moving to Iowa at age 8, I've easily gone on far more train rides since coming to Japan than I have in my whole life previous. By the time I leave, I'll probably be able to say that, even counting my times on the zoo train. A side effect of this mix of train adoration and actually being able to ride them on a regular basis is that I basically can't stop smiling whenever I'm on a train. I look out the window at the world speeding by, at the ever-present mountains (which I absolutely adore) in the distance, and just feel this huge joy in my heart. The swaying and leaning of the cars on the track, the clacking of the rails beneath, and the hum of acceleration all do the same for me.

My absolute favorite moment, whether I'm inside a given train or not, is when it first starts going and leaving the station. There's this distinct note that plays when a train here starts moving; I feel like it must have something to do with the electricity that powers the train, but you only hear it when a train starts moving. By the time it leaves the station, you can't hear it anymore from inside the train, and not really anymore from outside, either. I don't know why it is, but I just absolutely love that particular sound so much. To me, it sounds like adventure, like having a place in mind to go to and going there.

Alright, I think I've fangirled about trains enough. I should probably get to the actual point of this post.

I think I mentioned in my Osaka trip post that when me and my friends traveled to Osaka, we had to change from a Keihan train line to a JR line. This is a fairly common thing in Japan. You see, JR (Japan Railways) is the giant in transportation here. They have stations and lines throughout the country, and operate every single freight train I've seen to date. However, there are areas where smaller transportation companies still have a large share of the daily travel done in the area. Keihan (a train and bus company) is an example of this in the area where I live. While the station nearest my homestay is a JR station (Nagao), the station nearest Kansai Gaidai is a Keihan station (Hirakatashi). The bus I use to get around on a daily basis, too, is owned and operated by Keihan. But by the time you get to Kyoto or Osaka, pretty much everything is JR again.

(An aside, "Osaka" is actually pronounced quite differently from how we say it in America. In Japanese, it's actually spelled as Oosaka, essentially, and the two Os are basically one and a half syllables. They're not fully said separately (like oh-oh) but they're not just perfectly strung together (like ohh) either. It's hard to explain in writing, but it's sorta of like saying two separate Os, but slurring them together. It's not the same as saying them separately or perfect together, but sort of in-between. Ohohsaka is basically the best way I can think of articulate the proper pronunciation in writing.)

One of the interesting things about different lines being owned by different companies is that to transfer lines, you often have to go to a different station than the one you originally get off your first train at. I hear in Tokyo, this sometimes amounts to having to actually leave one building and walk across the street to another. So far, in my experience, it usually just means having to walk from one part of a building to another (though, oftentimes, there'll be a decent-sized courtyard connecting the two areas). There'll still be signs all over the place with info for both lines on them, but they're still technically two different stations (though often with the exact same names).

While it can be a little frustrating at times having to deal with multiple companies (JR tickets usually cost a bit more than Keihan tickets, though not to a point that it's a real issue), I find it fascinating how well the companies usually seem to work together. Like I said, oftentimes the two stations are practically the same building, and you'll see directional signs listing both companies on the same sign. You can find screens with the timetables for JR trains in the Keihan area, and vice versa, so you can check when you need to be on your transfer train as you get off your first train. It's really so convenient.

Though, honestly, the train system in Japan is endlessly convenient in general. If you have an IC card (a preloaded funds card) all you have to do to pay for your tickets is scan your card at the gate on the way in and again on the way out, and it automatically deducts your fare. (As my host mom put it, you bin when you get on and bin again when you get off--bin being the sound the scanner makes when you scan your card--though she was referring to buses at the time, since IC cards work there too. You can even use some IC cards with vending machines or at stores; I bought a book at a bookshop using mine the other day.) When it comes to local trains (and sometimes even to bullet trains), your ticket (if you buy a physical ticket) isn't restricted by time. You can buy a ticket, eat lunch, and go on the fourth or fifth train going where you want to go, and there's not an issue. Oftentimes, the exact same sort of train (say, Local service to Such-and-Such or Rapid service to So-and-So) will come through every ten minutes, so if your bus is delayed by traffic, it's really not a big deal.

I'm taking my second bullet train trip ever to Hiroshima this Saturday, and then taking the bullet train back to Osaka just in time to travel to Tokyo to visit a friend of Morningside the next day (so, I have four bullet train trips planned in the next couple of weeks). Since I'm planning to have less luggage to deal with this time, I'm seriously looking forward to it. I'm hoping to be able to sit in a window seat this time, so I can actually get a few videos of the world rushing by outside for my littlest brother, who still has yet to completely finish his train mania phase.

Overall, the trains are just yet another facet of daily life in Japan that I find absolutely enthralling and enchanting, despite their total normality to all of the natives. One thing's for sure--when I go home, I am going to seriously, desperately miss being able to go anywhere in the country, anytime, with just a bin of my IC card and a spirit of adventure, with the beautiful note of the train pulling out of the station to sing me along my way.

The Pros and Cons of Living with a Host Family

Pros:

Your host mom truly becomes, in many ways, your surrogate mom for the time you're under her care. Depending on the society, maybe she doesn't hug you or pet your hair like your real mom does, but she shows her affection in her own ways. She pats your backpack when you head out for the day, reminds you to take an umbrella in case it rains like the forecast says it might, and tells you to take care. She slips up and calls you the society's version of a pet name on occasion, even though normally she takes care to call you by your real name in order to sound polite and respectful. If you tell her you especially enjoyed a dish, you notice she starts making it just often enough for you to realize she wants you to be able to enjoy your favorite meal fairly often. She tells you to run your heater even when you feel bad about the electricity usage, because she doesn't want you to get sick. She tells you not to forget your jacket, since it gets cool out still in the late afternoons when the sun starts setting. She gets excited when you tell her you did well on a test, and even more so when you tell her you made a new friend. If you make a mistake in the local language, she gently corrects it. She laughs whenever she discovers some new aspect of her home culture that you already know about and enjoy.

Your host dad is really a dad too. He laughs at things on the TV with you, and laughs even more when he realizes you're laughing too. He asks what you're working on for school, and when you show him, comments "That's tough... please do your best!" He tells you funny stories about things that are happening to the family's friends and at his work, oftentimes using funny voices. He teaches you interesting things about the culture. He gets overjoyed when you learn a local dialectal phrase and use it correctly.

Your host grandma is a grandma. She helps you when you have a crafts-y project you want to try and go to her to ask for advice--and when you thank her for her help, she tells you "it's my first time trying this too." She comments on how well you do everything--according to her, at least, you use chopsticks well, you play the piano well, you sing well, you fold origami well. She loves when you show her photographs of your family and home surroundings and tell her things about where you come from. She gives you a nickname and uses it often. She makes sure you get enough to eat and excitedly teaches you about different kinds of food.

Your host sisters are sisters. They sing duets with you of their favorite songs, letting you sing the English bits and singing the parts in other languages themselves. They sit on the floor and laugh at the TV with you, sometimes to the point where you're all dissolved in giggles and can't even see the TV anymore, leaving mom in the kitchen to comment "well, now EVERYONE is laughing!" They laugh when you make an obvious mistake in the language, but correct you nonetheless, and you know their laughter is all in good fun. Sometimes when they buy a snack while they're out, they buy an extra to bring home and give you, so you can try it too. They make you laugh with their antics--the way they make faces at their homework, the way they dance around the house together to their favorite songs.

Your host family is a family. They make you one of their own. They teach you their customs, their tastes, their celebrations, their language, their culture. They do what they can to make you feel at home. They support you in your life abroad. They do so much for you, and treat you so kindly, and really just make you feel like you belong.

Cons:

You know that after the months you spend living with them, laughing with them, eating with them, picking up their mannerisms, internalizing their faces, their smiles, their voices...

You'll probably never get to see them or even talk to them again.