I am very glad I was able to go to a location as precious as Hiroshima. I’ve seen so many castles and shrines that were destroyed in World War 2 and since rebuilt, but nothing leaves more of an impact than the story told at the Peace Memorial Museum. 

Though photos were allowed, I was not in the tourist mode. I read panel after panel of the history of Hiroshima starting with the Sino-Japanese war. The lack of bias was really refreshing. Though I can hardly say I read them all, when I looked at the Japanese version they appeared equivalent. It felt so raw and honest. One can’t promote peace without cleaning out the skeletons in their own closet. 

Slowly but surely it built up to the the morning of August 6th, 1945. The morning when mothers, fathers and children were going about their daily commutes. They were on their way to work, even many of the children. As they strolled along, trying so hard to support their country that struggled to feed them, their world was desolated. 

The dark patterns of their clothing tattooed their flesh, shadows were burned into the pavement and walls as the people melted and babies shifted inside their mothers as their development physically and mentally was stunted from the radiation emitted that morning.

I’ve seen films, read stories and learned about all of this in school. It’s wasn’t particularly new information, but it was so much more tactile. 

Separated only by glass lay their uniforms, skin, and a scroched lunchbox with the lunch still inside. There was a rather stylish a purse that I envied and a lone sandal, complete with the footprint. Sometimes the effects were delayed for those who weren’t burnt to a crisp, but they too eventually expired. I’ve seen them on their last day and in their coffin.

They were real and I know them now. They had people who they loved and to whom they crawled back home to for one last night together. Can you imagine burying your son with his tricycle? Or cutting the least burnt hair from your daughter’s scalp to remember her by? Perhaps we are too young to know the love a parent feels for their own, but we should be old enough to see how unnatural that whole scene was.

What is it all for? Is it really that naive to ask “why can’t we all just get along?” Maybe there would be no offense if we didn’t have such an ugly defense. Whatever the reason, the quest for a world without nuclear arms makes Japan even more desirable to me now.