The truth is, I don’t really want to talk about or even remember that day. But as A-bomb survivors grow older, I feel a deep sense of responsibility. If we do not share our stories now, on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of the atomic bombing, we will soon disappear from this world, and with us, the truth of that day will be lost. I believe that only survivors can convey the reality of the atomic bombing, and I feel a strong duty to pass on these memories to the next generation. On August 6, 1945, the day the atomic bomb was dropped, my family lived in Horikawa-cho, in the heart of Hiroshima. At that time, the rest of my family, except for my father, lived in Osuga-cho, my mother's hometown, which was located 1.6 kilometers from the hypocenter.
My father was a doctor. At the time, doctors were forbidden to leave their homes without permission, so he stayed at home and was on his way to make a house call when he was accompanied by a nurse.
When I think back to that day, I remember the vivid, cloudless sky and the stifling heat, even early in the morning. I was at my mother's family home, feeling relieved that the air raid warning had been lifted, when it happened. A brilliant flash, like lightning, filled my vision, and I was stunned into a daze. By the time I regained my senses, everything around me—inside and out—had turned pitch black. I found myself trapped under the house, but miraculously, I only suffered a few scratches. My grandfather, who was exposed to the bomb at the same distance but outdoors, wasn’t as fortunate. His entire body was burned, and his skin was charred and peeling, making him look like a ghost.
When I came to, Hiroshima was a scorched wasteland. I couldn’t comprehend what was happening around me, but I saw countless people, horribly burned, writhing and screaming in agony. My mother was nowhere to be seen, and I called out her name, crying. Eventually, I made it to my mother's family home in Onomichi, where my relatives and I took care of my bedridden grandfather. It was summer, and the smell of his burns was unbearable. My job was to remove the maggots that had infested the peeling skin on his body, using a pair of tweezers.
He died within a week.
When my mother, her body terribly burned and dragging herself along, sought help from a fellow doctor in Asa-gun Midorii-mura, she found my father lying in bed when she arrived there. My father had been only about 0.5 kilometers from the hypocenter when the bomb exploded, so there was no way he could have survived. He passed away on August 9. My mother cremated his body in the scorched field, placed his ashes in a bottle, and returned to Onomichi. His body did not burn completely, and she had to leave the lower part of his legs behind. Not feeling well herself and fearing for her safety, she hurried back to Onomichi. After the atomic bomb, my life was filled with suffering—endless hardships, struggles in my marriage, issues with my children—everything about my life changed.
After the atomic bombings, we Hibakusha experienced something never seen before. Nuclear weapons are devastating, but even now, fifty years later, they continue to cause suffering to those who survived. Only those who have been in such a position can truly comprehend the terror of radiation. Japan is the only country to have experienced the atomic bombings. I wonder how much the Japanese people, and people in other countries, understand the reality of these bombings.
To the children of the next generation, I want to speak about the value of peace, the cruelty of war, the horror of the atomic bombing, and the reality of its devastation. As long as I live, I will do everything in my power to convey these truths and work toward the abolition of nuclear weapons.
T |
