It is visually hard to tell that a bomb was ever dropped from a trolley ride through the streets of Hiroshima. Upon arriving at the Genbaku Dome-mae station, the temporary illusion of a bomb-free history dissolves.
The plethora of photos that exist of the Genbaku Dome, the only structure left standing after the world’s first atomic bomb attack, does no justice to the structure, which shows damage from all sides and angles. The rest of the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park, where the dome and museum are located, is almost silent. Although it was very green the September day we visited, one can only imagine the burnt trees that surrounded the remnants of what was once the Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall the day after the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. Although the structure was not entirely destroyed, as some buildings had been, everyone inside on August 6, 1945 died instantly in the fire that raged in its interior. The ability to see the dome from most areas of the park, including from the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum situated within the park, makes the reality of that not-so-distant day linger. This is the very little that was left standing. This is the destruction we are capable of.
The walk to the museum feels like an outdoor museum in itself. As a group of students on a University-sponsored trip to Japan, we were previously exposed to the bustling streets of Shibuya and the diverse cuisine in Osaka, but nothing as emotionally impactful as this. Yes, parks can be as educational as museums, but this one is significantly deeper, translating into emotion-evoking structures and dedications an impact that can be difficult to do justice through words. Walking past the Memorial Tower Dedicated to Mobilized Students is solemn for anyone in their middle school, high school or college careers – it pays tributes to students who died on August 6 while aiding the Japanese military under the Student Labor Service Act of 1944, which mandated military involvement at a young age.
Another emotional blow, a moving prelude to the museum to come, is the Children’s Peace Monument. While it memorializes children who lost their lives on August 6, it also acknowledges the children who survived the bomb. Many of these surviving children lost family members as a result of the attack, in addition to being left without homes or developing illnesses from the radiation.
One such child is Sadako Sasaki, a survivor of the bombing who would pass away from consequent leukemia 10 years later. Her famed story of folding paper cranes in the hospital comes to life around the monument, where cases protect long chains of paper cranes. According to Hiroshima for Global Peace, around 10 million paper cranes are given as offerings each year. The older cranes are recycled and repurposed.
Past the Children’s Peace Monument is the Flame of Peace. A backdrop to former U.S. president Barack Obama’s visit to the memorial in 2016, the flame has been burning since August 1, 1964, only to be put out once the world is free of nuclear weapons. Right after it comes the Cenotaph for the A-bomb Victims, a structure that frames a view of the dome and the flame. More than a memorial, it contains a running list of all known victims of the bomb, protected from anything above under the shell shape of the monument.
The museum itself is a stark contrast to the lively greenery and the joyous schoolchildren who were waving to our group as we walked. Of course, the entrance is unassuming, with a space to obtain tickets and audio guides like any other museum. Once past the entryway to the exhibit, the first room takes you to the start of Hiroshima’s timeline with the bomb: life before the bomb. Although the photos are in black and white, it doesn’t take much imagination to fill in the missing colors to bring them to life, even if just for a few seconds. It is difficult to piece together daily lives and routines moving through such old images, but these are a temporarily pleasant exception — until you walk into the next room: the aftermath.
Were it not for the dome, it would be hard to discern that these photos are of the same areas pictured before, now almost obliterated. Rubble is too generous a word for what remained in some photos – it all more closely resembled piles of dust. These images surround a projector table that shows the bomb detonating in real time, beginning with an aerial view of the lively Hiroshima, interrupted by the drop of the bomb, and then reduced to ashes. The silence in the room then becomes louder, and save for the occasional chatters, it stays that way.
Although there are many chapters depicted in the museum, with each one marked by a common theme, it all ultimately comes together to show the reality of the bomb’s effects. From art that depicts people’s perspectives during the bombing, walls tinted with black rain and photographs, to items and clothes that used to belong to children and adults alike, walking through the museum can be overwhelming. However, it is the captions and written accompaniments that strike hard, causing the once-cheerful schoolchildren to comfort their tearful classmates. Loved ones who left for their jobs and returned home to rubble. Children who became the head of their family in an instant. The bent tricycle that once bore bright colors or laughter. There was one story of one boy who, due to health reasons, had to repeat a grade level in school. The children in his grade level would die on August 6, while those in the grade level he was supposed to be in survived, making for a cruel story of misfortune leading to a tragedy.
The destruction the Genbaku Dome and surrounding park immortalize is not just a reminder of one of history’s largest tragedies, but a call to recognize the devastation humanity is capable of. In doing so, it also underscores the moral imperative to prevent such a disaster from happening again. By preserving the remnants and stories of the bombing and welcoming visitors of all ages and walks of life, the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park stands as a testament to resilience and a warning against complacency – such horrors were not inevitable, and we must strive to ensure that such unimaginable pain becomes an impossible reality in the future.
Photo courtesy of Geoff Henson, licensed under CC BY-ND 2.0