The Japan Chronicles: Part 6

Hiroshima. Globalize This.

It only seemed fitting that it was raining the evening we arrived. We got lost in the downpour as we searched for our hostel in Miyajima – coastal town in Hiroshima Prefecture – wandering in the wrong direction (getting lost seems to be the story of our Japanese life). The Backpackers Hostel we stayed at was definitely a hostel, teeming with tired, but smiling foreigners relaxing in the laidback island atmosphere provided by the generous and enthusiastic owners. We got a much needed night of rest in the camp-like bunk beds that were separated from the rest of the enormous room by floor to ceiling sheets – my first experience with this brand of hostel – and in the morning we headed out in the fog to see Itsukushima Shrine in the water off of Itsukushima Island, supposedly it’s one of the three most beautiful sights in Japan. We were told by one of the hostel owners that if we woke up early enough the tide would be low and we would be able to walk out to the shrine. We didn’t wake up early enough.

We were in Hiroshima city by 10a and it struck me as strange that it so much resembled any other minor metropolitan area. I imagined the city would be a slow-moving black and white silent film, but the train terminal was bustling in the morning hours. Immediately we made our way over to the A-Bomb Dome (Hiroshima Peace Memorial), which used to be a city exhibition hall, designed by Czech architect Jan Letzel in 1915 and is left as a reminder of what happened and that although the city is rebuilt, there is still a pride for what the area once was and what happened and how the people were strong at the time and survived. After walking around the skeleton of the building, we stumbled upon one of the survivors that the guy at the hostel told us about. She was sharing her personal experience with a crowd of people, explaining to everyone the amount of horrific destruction that was unleashed on Hiroshima’s people with a click of a button. We had only caught the tail end of it, but we were lucky enough to have been approached by Mito Kosei, an in-utero survivor who was more than happy to share his story. I don’t mean to say that he was jolly over the events of that fateful day, but he told us that by telling his story he hopes that we, as listeners will retell it, and our listeners will pass it on and so on and so forth until we all come to an understanding that this never should have happened in the first place and that we will never let it happen again. Mito heavily emphasized that it is important to forgive, but never to forget, for by forgetting it means we dismiss the significance the event had on humankind and our world. He provided us with personal family history (and you can read his mother’s memoirs), gave us information on the actual bomb dropping and aftershock that the museum didn’t provide, and took us on a small tour to a cemetery and the hypocenter. Then he showed us a place that had great okonomiyaki that we definitely ate after touring the museum.

The Hiroshima Peace Museum was overwhelming to say the least. Even thinking about it right now is hard. There was a building just devoted to the information on the creation of the atomic bomb and decision to bomb Hiroshima and Nagasaki even though everybody knew Japan was going to surrender. Then after being bogged down with all that information that I haven’t studied since high school came the personal accounts and artifacts that was probably the most heartbreaking thing I’ve experienced in I can’t even remember. Being in the museum had the same sort of affect on me that the Vietnam Memorial did when I was a teenager; I knew (and still know) virtually nothing about the Vietnam conflict other than it was a quagmire much like the Middle East is now and we had no business being there, much like any invader in any time and place in history. Regardless, seeing those names opened something inside me and I found myself silently weeping as I walked along, call it compassion; call it shock at the horror of what humans are capable of. The museum gave more than names, though; there were articles of clothing, watches, shoes, home decorations, and then there was hair and skin and teeth that loved ones who witnessed the death kept for those who were away to show there was still something left of their son, daughter, brother or sister, mother or father. It was really hard to handle, and I was just reading about it. There was a room that was recreated to look like Hiroshima after the drop, with decimated buildings and wax figures walking towards a well with skin falling off their bones. Survivors were told not to give water to those badly burned because it would only hasten their death, so many people were (and are still) haunted with the regret of having to refuse their neighbors relief; much of the water/wells were contaminated because people died as they were trying to get a drink.

Politics make me sick, and that’s all acts of war are, politicians flexing their muscles with innocent people paying the ultimate price.

Despite all the dark history Hiroshima holds within its borders, it looks optimistically to the future and stands as a symbol of peace to the world. The people, as well as the city, are beautiful, and the okonomiyaki is probably the most fantastic thing I ate in Japan (and that’s saying a lot because Japanese food in Japan is something truly magical).

After some discussion, we decided that Mt. Fuji would be ridiculous to squeeze in as it would cost us around 8,100 yen ($85ish) in extra transportation fees and accommodation, and we wouldn’t even get there until just before midnight. I don’t regret it; another time, another trip. We got on the train headed back to Osaka. Back to the capsules.