Moving Forward from Hiroshima
Of course, we visited the notable atomic landmarks, but the more seemingly mundane imagery and references to observationally non-bomb related life were also powerful instructors when considering the connectivity and artificial divides of all humanity. We sat at the Southernmost stop of Bus Route 6, next to a car manufacturing facility after losing ourselves in the industrial and residential blocks, removed from the scripted monument and tourist spheres. That briny and summer smelling dock tinged with ozone from the nearby superhighway might as well have been Seattle, Liverpool, or any other coastal intermodal hub forced to compete their way into ever-extending markets.
We ate at a Korean restaurant where the man and woman turned us away the night before as it was five minutes until the stated kitchen closing hour and they needed to get home to family, yet we were welcomed back earlier the next evening and treated with beyond courteous service and comical conversation. The Japanese woman I was travelling with told me stories of while she studied abroad in Switzerland which included her being confronted by a Chinese national for “her country’s rape” of his home, Nanking. She detailed how his accusatory tone defused while sharing her family secret that she is actually of Korean descent, a heritage which her parents and subsequently her siblings were forced to abdicate to complete their Japanese assimilation and avoid discrimination. The layers of irony in this situation and her paternal reclamation to make that moment more comfortable by placating some stranger at some college party was a reminder of the power with which we cling to, and at times disregard, the constructs of division humanity has raised throughout history. We had breakfast at a McDonalds out of novelty where menu items were being sold under the name of “Guaranteed Victory” in reference to the ongoing Olympic Games in Rio. We were left curious as to whose victory Ronald is rooting for…
We were just two people sitting on one park bench near the river drinking morning iced coffee from 7-Eleven at about 2000 PDT, peering into the blue and lightly clouded 38° C sky not more than 1km from the 10,830° F hypocenter of the bomb that detonated at 815 JST on 6/8/1945, 8/6/1945, or 六日 八月 二十和 depending on how you tell the time.
Wondering…
Have any of the numbers accurately justified, vilified, or even quantified the eternal cost of this Pandora”ic” track?
And when was that lid lifted to the degree it couldn’t be put back? From the time before chalk was put to board, until one bomb ended 170,000 lives — there must’ve been at least onetime in which some man could have closed his eyes, felt the shift in breeze, and chosen another tack.
What about now, in this time — where’s my ship going and can I trust my course without hindsight?
Maybe I can’t know if I’m plotted true, but I can surely feel when I’m freely floating adrift —
and I’ll be damned alive if I’m to keep sheets to wind without setting things right.
While viewing the monuments and museums, seemingly infinite images of pain and horror emerged, yet they were void of unexpectedness or shock as must’ve been experienced on “the day;” less acknowledged yet equally moving an independent protesters’ raw and inflamed displays calling for an end to nuclear armament. Still deeper depths of solemnity were conjured by revisiting these memorials after the Japanese flag was lowered and the twisted steel and broken concrete were quietly painted in yellow floodlights. This haunting hour grew longer shadows and echoes than were allowed by mid-day glare and touristic bustle. While walking the darkened pavement and knolls we were accompanied by the jingling of small bells, a reminder that we were possibly surrounded yet protected from lingering or vengeful spirits by the small Omamori my partner had ensured she took from my bag back at the apartment and silently pressed into my palm before we crossed the dori into the memorial grounds. The small purple prayer pouch embroidered with the silhouette of a rat was procured the day before on the summit of Misenyama on Miyajima from the shrine of the eternal holy flame of Kobo Daishi from which the eternal Peace Flame of Memorial Park was lit. And in this image, an eternal flame burning in the darkness, stands The Aioi”an” Crux.
The Enola Gay called forth hell on Earth, but from those fires Hiroshima now stands sacrificially reborn with a mandate from heaven.
Taking reprieve a few blocks from the museum in Otis, a vegetarian “Tex-Mex” diner which emphasizes sustainable diet, forward and inward thinking is evoked in a way which mimics the overarching sentiment this ethical terminus of a city promotes as a whole. Trying a new vegan cheese while listening to the roars of Zion’s greatest Lion, musing upon the soulful Zen of Leonard Cohen, and reading wall scrawled maxims like, “keep the same groove,” reminds us that these messages are not now, and never were, new. From the Shamans, Brahman, Yogis, or Buddhas; from Dalai Lama, a certain Pope, or Christ; from the nameless or the famous conscientious objectors, activists, and/or guitar and pen-wielding prophets of peace — there is another way… And now just as always, all it will take is for every person on Earth to make a seemingly impossible choice of self-restraint and delayed satisfaction for the purpose of prioritizing posterity and collective well-being.
Hiroshima’s power is deceptive unless experienced first hand. This city stands not as a tragic reminder of what was the past, but rather an inspirational harbinger of a more peace-filled destiny.
We are challenged to pass the growing pains of manufactured and unnecessary scarcity which defined all previous history and enter a new era for which we are not yet evolutionarily hard-wired. The spirit of Hiroshima affords us a window into our final destination, even though it was achieved by means of a harder path which is paved with countless irresponsible choices.
Shall we continue to needlessly compete with each other on our way into this new era until the earth and rivers run inhabitable red and the rain falls poisonous black, forcing us to resignedly concede to a different way of life only after experiencing the consequences of another and greater manufactured hell- or can we embrace and respect each other enough to reach the same peaceful end by more graceful means?
Peering through tears into stony downcast eyes of a failed Guardian Angel, Ringing the Bell of Peace and smiling at the beauty of seemingly infinite resonance, and drifting through a hundred thousand breeze blown paper cranes-for-peace at the Children’s Memorial transforms a seemingly difficult choice into one which is so simple.
“Too many words already — Not enough Action!”
— Leonard Bernstein
(Signature for Peace at the Atomic Bomb Museum in Peace Memorial Park of Hiroshima, Japan)
