“Peace is our number one priority.”

“American B-29 bombers dropped leaflets all over the city, warning us that Nagasaki would ‘fall to ashes’ on August 8. The leaflets were confiscated immediately by the kenpei (Imperial Japanese Army). My father somehow got a hold of one, and believed what it said. He built us a little barrack up along the Iwayasan (a local mountain) to hide out in.

We went up there on the 7th, the 8th. The trail up to the barrack was rugged and steep. With several children and seniors in tow, it was a demanding trek. On the morning of the 9th, my mother and aunt opted for staying in the house. “Go back up to the barrack,” my father demanded. “The US is a day behind, remember?” When they opposed, he got very upset and stormed out to go to work.

We changed our minds and decided to hide out in the barrack, for one more day. That was a defining moment for us. At 11:02am that morning, the atomic bomb was dropped. Our family – those of us at the barrack, at least – survived the bomb.

We were later able to reunite with my father. However, he soon came down with diarrhea and a high fever. His hair began to fall out and dark spots formed on his skin. My father passed away – suffering greatly – on August 28.

If it weren’t for my father, we may have suffered severe burns like Aunt Otoku, or gone missing like Atsushi, or been lodged under the house and slowly burned to death. Fifty years later, I had a dream about my father for the first time since his death. He was wearing a kimono and smiling, ever so slightly. Although we did not exchange words, I knew at that moment that he was safe in heaven.”

“The Hellscape That I Saw That Summer When I Was Six Years Old

Konishi Shinichi

Pika! Don!
It was a fireball explosion that emitted a blinding light and a loud reverberation that shook the earth.
Nagasaki instantly became a wasteland, due to its air blast, heat and radiation.
The hellscape that I saw that summer when I was six years old has never faded from the recesses of my mind.
I would like to continue communicating my thoughts on the importance of peace by depicting the realities of the atomic bomb and the dignity of all life forms.
The origin of peace lies in the ability to share the pain of others.
The Gospel of Mark 12:31 reads “Love your neighbor as yourself.” It teaches us to be kind to others and cherish life above all things. It also greatly inspired the novels “Nyokoaijin” and “Heiwawo” by Dr. Nagai of Urakami. As a member of the Nyokonokai, I too am currently striving to relay this message of peace.”

“When the bomb was dropped, I was standing in front of the Madonna in white at the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Nagasaki, 4km from the hypocenter. I was on my way home from Sunday School studying for my first Communion, and had ritually prayed before the statue located at the center of the entrance. At that very moment, I was engulfed by a blinding light and fell on the ground.

There was a loud reverberation – a sound that I’d never heard in my six years of life. Shattered glass from the second floor rained down on me, and I was instantly covered in blood. The harsh contrast between the bright red blood and blinding white light has never since faded from my memory.

I later escaped to one of three air raid shelters near the church. Friends and family were concerned about my safety. I was one of the last ones to arrive – covered in blood, of course. The bleeding eventually stopped. Later on, a number of priests arrived. Although they were ostensibly healthy upon arrival, four died in the air raid shelter within an hour. Although I was very young back then, I will never forget the smell of burning flesh that permeated the air raid shelter. The summer heat made it especially unbearable.”

“March 1, 1951 is my birthday.
I am also a second generation hibakusha. I have never experienced war. I learned about the atomic bomb attack through hibakusha testimonies, video interviews, and photographs/artifacts from that time period.
That is my current situation.
My mother is 92 years old. She was exposed to the atomic bomb when she was 20, and lost both of her parents and three sisters in an instant.
Even to this day, she does not speak about the bombing.”

“It has been 72 years since the atomic bomb was dropped on Nagasaki. The cruel and inhumane nature of this weapon has been proven, time and time again.

Naturally, I have believed in and prayed for the abolition of nuclear weapons, but I carried no doubts about the “peaceful” use of nuclear power, and believed that it was a power source that was worth pursuing.

I came to discover after the Fukushima nuclear crisis in 2011, however, that there is no such thing as a “foolproof” solution when it comes to nuclear power usage.

At this point, I have come to believe that nuclear power usage – and nuclear weaponry, of course – should be terminated.

My hope is that we are able to revisit and adopt the provisions of the much-debated Nuclear Weapons Convention, and in addition, the world is able to come to a consensus to abolish nuclear power usage so that we can continue to sustain this beautiful planet.

Yamada Kazumi”

“I was born in Manchuria near Harbin and raised there until I started primary school. My family lived in the outskirts, and the closest Japanese primary school was too far away for a daily commute. So my parents sent me to Nagasaki to live with my grandmother.

My grandmother owned a general store, and we lived there with my aunt and uncle. On the morning of August 9, I was playing shogi (Japanese chess) with a friend at home as we had no classes that day. We got into a bickering match, and my friend went down to the river for a swim. I went off on my paper route to cool my head. On my way back home, I noticed several villagers looking up at the sky.

“Rakkasan, rakkasan (parachute, parachute),” they said. I glanced up but saw nothing. I continued on my way. As soon as I walked into a shaded area tucked behind a knoll, there was a bright flash. Everything turned white. There was no sound or air blast, from what I remember – just scorching heat. “This is how I’m going to die,” I thought.

When I opened my eyes, the villagers who had just been peering up at the sky a moment ago were suffering severe burns. A thatched rooftop was on fire. Crazed cattle were storming around in circles. I headed back home, terrified. As I approached my home, I began to pass by more burn victims. Some were bluish-white and looked as if they were uninjured from far away – that is, until I realized that their skin had been completely peeled off their upper bodies, piled up at the waist. A heavily injured factory worker with a detached eyeball stopped me. “Bouya, kono kataki tottekureyo (Little boy, avenge this tragedy).”

I found out later that my friend whom I’d been playing shogi with died in the river. There is a fine line between life and death. If I’d been peering up at the sky with the other villagers for a second longer, my fate would have been the same.”

“I am a third generation hibakusha; however, I have not been very cognizant of this throughout my life. Still, there are visible scars all over Nagasaki from the time of the bombing, such as charred walls. I hope that visitors to Nagasaki will pass on the stories of terror involving the atomic bomb.”

“Kuroita Kiharu”

“Due to the atomic bomb attack on August 9 at 11:02am, our school lost the precious lives of 207 students and seven staff members, and our campus was burned to the ground. Our school instantly became a pinnacle of pain and suffering, of hopelessness.

Still, our school Junshin has stood the test of time and exists to this day, in 2017. What do we stand for? What has been our duty for all of these years?

Indeed, we survivors are beholden to the responsibility to live on and tell these stories of war, and ultimately, communicate to others the virtue of peace. We do this by rising every morning for the Rosary Prayer and by singing the Senbazuru hymn – both rituals and gestures that portray the dignity of peace.

World peace is derived from individual peace, or peace found within. The virtue of caring, the virtue of forgiving, the virtue of loving – we strive to cultivate and sustain all of these virtues within our own hearts.

God, the embodiment of Love, has created all of us in his likeness. As we pray from day to day that we as humans are able to reconstruct ourselves to embody love and peace, we hope to do what little we can to continue fulfilling our cherished mission.  2017, June

Junshin Middle School/Junshin All Girl’s High School Sr. Chiyoko Higashi”

“Please learn the history. To keep us from creating any more hibakusha, to preserve this green earth.

Saito Sumito
2017.6.24″

“My mother passed away last December. She lived for 101 years and 27 days. At the funeral, her seven grandchildren crowded around her. “Grammy, you can finally see them again. They’ve been waiting for you.”

My mother had three children prior to the atomic bomb: a 10 year old, a six year old, and a three year old. She was working at a coal distribution company near Nagasaki Station when the bomb was dropped. She was crushed underneath the dilapidated building but miraculously found by her younger sister, who pulled her out of the rubble. My mother’s left ear had been torn off and she had to hold it up against the side of her head. “How are the kids?” she asked incessantly as the two of them headed back toward her house in Urakami.

Sure enough, her house was in smithereens. However, my mother later found her entire family safe and sound in a nearby air raid shelter. This was extremely rare for someone living in this area. “Don’t you go around telling your neighbors that everyone survived the bomb,” my dad warned his children.

Within a week, however, all three children began to develop dark spots on their skin and vomited massive amounts of blood. They died shortly after. My father’s health also deteriorated and he passed away on September 17.

For the 68 years between the bombing and her funeral, my mother never once forgot about her previous family. She was never openly critical of the atomic bomb or war, but she was a strong-willed woman who despised any act of discrimination.”

“Love & Peace

I pray that every human spirit
Is able to thrive without being bound by
feelings of hate, envy or sorrow
I pray that we can all live
in an abundance of love and happiness…

Ota Itsuyo”

“Every year, on August 9, my grandmother used to hang up a boy’s school uniform instead of a lantern for the Bon Festival (a Japanese tradition to honor the spirits of ancestors). She bought a brand new one every year, and neatly tucked up the sleeves. I have come to find that she did this to honor her eldest son – my uncle – who was killed by the atomic bomb attack at age 16. Back then, parents bought their kids’ school uniforms a couple sizes too big so that they wouldn’t outgrow them, and folded up the sleeves so that they wouldn’t drape over their hands. Although she rarely talked about her eldest, my grandmother did this every year until the day that she died.

My father was also exposed to the atomic bomb, but he has no recollection of it since he was born in February of that year. Thus my brother and I grew up never really confronting the fact that we were second generation hibakusha. It was always a thing of our parents’ and grandparents’ generation.

Until I had my first child, that is. I had trouble conceiving, and when I was finally pregnant, I was in and out of the hospital due to multiple miscarriage scares. Inevitably, I started to think about my status as a second generation hibakusha. My parents didn’t even prepare ubugi (baby clothes), for fear that I would lose the child. “Kao wo mise ni kuru dake (the baby may just come to show us its face),” they said. Thankfully, that was not the case.

A month after my daughter was born, however, the doctor found a tumor in her stomach. We were told to wait one month for an MRI. My brother, who happened to be a pediatrician, was able to pull some strings and get us an earlier appointment. The MRI results revealed that the tumor had detached from the stomach and was moving around. The doctors couldn’t figure out why. We went straight in for an operation and removed the tumor, which was large and decaying. ‘This could have exploded in your child’s gut, causing her to go into shock,’ the doctor told us. ‘If you had been waiting a month for the MRI, she would have been dead.’ I will always remember the fear I felt of losing her, and the guilt.”

“Thank you for taking the time to read my message.
My mother is a hibakusha from Nagasaki.
As a second generation hibakusha, I have had both positive and negative experiences.
The negative is, I’ve been diagnosed with a disease likely caused by my mother’s exposure to the atomic bomb.
That being said, there have been many positive experiences.
Due to my disease, I have been able to share the pain of others. I have felt compelled to learn more about the atomic bomb and my mother’s history.
I have aspired to become a kazokushougensha (family member successor) and denshousha (legacy successor), and fulfilled my dreams.
I have been blessed with many opportunities to think critically about war and peace.
I am glad to have been born a second generation hibakusha.

Below is a lesson conceived from my past experiences.
“Peace and life are two precious things that can never be replaced.”

2017, June

Hiroshima Hibakusha Legacy Successor
Nagasaki Family Member Successor
Keiko Okinishi
Okinishi Keiko”

“I grew up in Nagasaki until the fifth grade, and later moved to Hiroshima. In both cities, it was a class requirement to visit the peace memorial. I remember being very fearful of the exhibits – they weren’t as subdued back then. There was a particular exhibit featuring a preserved hand that I was very afraid of. Things are different nowadays. Even the wax figurines in the Hiroshima exhibit don’t stand a chance.

As I was constantly surrounded by other hibakusha, I was not cognizant of my status as a second generation hibakusha until 2008, when I was diagnosed with a thyroid disease. My mother inquired if it had anything to do with her being a hibakusha. The doctor replied that there was a very strong possibility. My mother was distraught.

In an effort to console my mother, I started attending classes to study the effects of nuclear radiation. I wanted to learn the science behind the atrocity and reassure my mother that it wasn’t her fault. While I was hospitalized, I saw a television program about a photographer named Keizo Yoshida who was working on a long-term project photographing second generation hibakusha like myself. I reached out to him, and we met two years later. He revealed to me that 9 out of 10 second generation hibakusha refuse to get their portrait taken, fearing that they would be stigmatized by their coworkers, their loved ones. These statistics shocked me. Although I had never experienced prejudice due to my unique upbringing, I realized that many hibakusha descendants felt inclined to mask their identities. I also realized that if things continue on like this, the hibakushas’ stories will wear thin with time.

In 2013, I began to attend training sessions at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial to become a legacy successor for my mother. I heard my mother’s full story at the age of 48, when she mentioned “brother Chuzo” for the first time. Chuzo was a cousin of hers that she lost to the atomic bomb attack. My mother had never spoken to me about other family members that fell victim to the bombing up until this day.”