'The
Hibakusha (literally, explosion-affected people) say simply “I have met
with the A-bomb”; to recite further details is too painful and complex.
Similarly, one is left utterly overwhelmed after a visit to Hiroshima's
Peace Memorial Museum.
Hiroshima was a
prosperous centre of learning with a population of 350 000; during World
War 2 it became a garrison town. As bombing intensified elsewhere in
Japan, school students tore down wooden buildings to create fire breaks.
About 8400 children aged 12—13 years were thought to have been outside
doing this in Hiroshima on the morning of Aug 6, 1945.
At
0815h—as several stopped, shattered, and partially melted watches
remind one—the bomb containing 50 kg of uranium was detonated 600 m
above Hiroshima. What happened next is portrayed in a harrowing set of
images and objects, as the 1 000 000 °C explosion consumed the central
kilometre of Hiroshima, burned skin as far away as 3·5 km, and
indiscriminately irradiated the population. Tattered, charred, and
blood-stained school uniforms and other objects tell individual stories
of that August morning. For instance, the mother who was only able to
identify her son's corpse because of his name etched into the metal
lunch box he carried. The lunch box and its charred contents—the ground
temperature reached 3000—4000°C—are on display. Other stories are told
with a tricycle, a sandal, a school badge, partially melted marbles,
among other items. These exhibits are so eye-wateringly intense that the
sombre silence of shuffling visitors is punctuated by muffled sobs.
Full-size image (98K) Corbis
Hiroshima, Japan, in 1945; this photograph was taken 3 months after the atomic bomb
Not
all 140 000 casualties died immediately. Many people were badly burned
or exposed to lethal levels of radiation and died in the following days.
Although the Red Cross hospital withstood the blast, it quickly ran out
of medicines. A section of the hospital's concrete wall with embedded
fragments of glass and pockmarked by debris is exhibited. There are few
photos: a news photographer in the city at the time was so upset by what
he saw that he only managed to take five images, explaining “my
viewfinder filled with tears”.
Since the
magnitude of the carnage is so great, a single person can provide focus.
In this sense, Sadako Sasaki is the Anne Frank of Hiroshima. Aged 2
years she survived the blast, but as her mother led her away from the
city, they were exposed to the black rain of atomic fallout. 10 years
later, Sadako developed leukaemia. During her illness, she began folding
origami paper cranes, in line with the proverb “fold 1000 cranes to
make your wish come true”. She only managed to make 644 cranes before
she died. The origami crane has become a symbol of Sadako's illness, the
horror of nuclear war, and hope for the future. Tens of thousands of
origami cranes, folded by children from around the world, surround the
Children's Peace Monument in the adjacent park.
What
message does this museum have for today? Visitors are educated in both
the science and politics of the atom. The result is increased awareness
of potential hazards: whether from damage to the Fukushima nuclear power
plant or damage to efforts to advance nuclear non-proliferation. The
horrors of any war are disturbing, but the scale of indiscriminate
destruction from atomic weapons and their latent effects are especially
chilling. As long as such weapons exist, civilian populations are under
threat from thermonuclear attack. The citizens of Hiroshima are keen
that the events experienced there and 3 days later in Nagasaki are never
repeated. Since 1968, the successive mayors of Hiroshima have sent
telegrams of protest to governments after each nuclear weapons test.
Copies of all 597 telegrams are displayed. The most recent one is to the
USA on July 20, 2011.'
a The Lancet, London NW1 7BY, UK
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