Go There
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re in Hiroshima, Japan.
Go There
I’ve said it before, and I’m going to say it again: I think everyone should visit Hiroshima at least once. I feel the same way about concentration camp memorials in Europe—everyone should go to at least one, at least once. I think it is an essential obligation of every individual on this planet who claims to be a decent, moral person. If you’re not willing to confront and consider the worst parts of history—and I think it’s nearly impossible to really understand history without stepping into the spaces and examining the individual stories—you’re just sticking your head in the sand.
I might even use the word complicit.
Yes, it’s hard to look directly at what humans are capable of doing to each other. It’s upsetting and traumatic and complicated. It’s impossible to understand, and impossible to forget.
But ignoring these things, refusing to grapple with the horror, is to abdicate our individual responsibility to civilization as a whole—the species. Moral ‘adulthood,’ if you will, requires that we examine the past, if we are to have any hope of doing better.
Yes, it’s hard—disturbing, troubling, uncomfortable.
Our hotel in Hiroshima is a few blocks from Peace Park, which marks the epicenter of the atomic blast in 1945. The first time we visited the city, we did the usual march through all the sights, studying the information plaques and the museum exhibits and all the memorials and statues in the park.
This time—back at that same hotel, but with the leisure of two weeks rather than five days—we have the luxury of getting to know Peace Park in a more intimate way. Every time I cross the bridge on a walk, I remember what I’ve read about burned, dehydrated survivors plunging into the water and drinking it, only to die because it was contaminated with radiation.
We walk past that bombed-out dome on our way to lunch, and I think about the people inside, who simply ceased to exist, incinerated in a second.
Yesterday, on our way to get pizza (Japan has strong pizza game), we cut through the park because we could hear singing, and were curious about what it was.
A school choir—middle-school-ish, I think—were performing on the river bank. They sang beautifully, their strong, clear voices carrying in the autumn air. The leaves are starting to turn here, and summer’s humidity has dissipated. Peace Park has been blanketed with marigolds and chrysanthemums. It would have been a beautiful scene in any park, in any ordinary corner of the world.
Toward the end of the war, after the fire-bombing of Tokyo, students were assigned to dig fire-breaks in densely-populated cities all over Japan. On August 6th, 8400 junior high and high-schoolers were digging in Hiroshima, directly below the spot where the first atomic weapon was targeted at civilians. Roughly 6300 of them died instantly.
Yesterday I stood next to the memorial to those students, and listened to a school choir. I couldn’t understand the words, but their meaning was unmistakable.
People—writers, the media—like to talk about how individuals experiencing horror manage to find hope even when things are at their worst. I’ve read more novels than I can count about characters who make music or poetry or art or babies as war/terror/famine rage around them.
I would posit that we’re looking at it backwards: the question is not how humans can find hope and optimism in the face of cruelty. Instead we should be asking—how can we allow cruelty to continue unchecked in the face of middle-schoolers with clear, hopeful voices?
Take care,
Lisa
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