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.