Hiroshima

I awake with an admittedly well-deserved hangover, that, coupled with the fact that this is my last full day in Japan, sees me in a melancholy mood as I board the shinkansen for Hiroshima. At the station kiosk I equip myself with Pocari Sweat, a can of cold coffee and a bag of peanuts labelled “The Best Traveller’s Friend” and wait for my train. As always, the train is on-time and the epitome of comfort and I am soon snoozing my way towards Hiroshima.

It’s another beautiful autumn day and the sky is bright blue as I emerge from Hiroshima station and begin my walk across town. My first stop, the Shukkie-en garden, is a circular-tour garden from the Edo period and its name means shrunken scenery. It uses a number of techniques to appear larger than its actual size. The original garden was created in 1620, but it was destroyed in the events of 1945 so has been lovingly and painstakingly reconstructed since. It’s a lovely walk on such a sunny day and before long, the hungover wretch that boarded the train in Osaka has been revitalized and is alive once more. I enter the Art Museum via the park and it’s virtually deserted, so I get the exhibits all to myself and can spend long minutes contemplating Dali’s Dreams of Venus.

I pass Hiroshima-jo and marvel at the reconstruction job. The castle, originally built in 1589 was utterly destroyed by the atomic blast, but
it’s hard to tell that from the rebuilt towers and moat that stand there today. In fact there’s little evidence that, just over sixty years ago, the ground I’m now standing on was scorched earth; that is until I reach the twisted wreckage of the A Bomb Dome. Originally the Industrial Promotion Hall, the skeletal dome has been maintained ever since the blast, at which it was at the very centre. Old photographs depict the scene: the dome stands alone with nothing but wreckage visible in every direction. It’s a basic and stark memorial, one that allows no softening or euphemisms; Hiroshima was once utterly destroyed and no-one here intends to forget it.

Across the street stands the Children’s Peace Monument, depicting a little girl holding aloft an origami crane. It’s a tribute to little Sasaki Sadako who folded the cranes in the hope that if she made one thousand of them, she’d be cured of the leukemia she contracted in 1955 as a result of exposure to radiation. Although she died before reaching her goal, her classmates continued the effort and her hopes are now immortalized in steel. Other memorials include a clock, stopped at 8:15 and surrounded by rubble from the blast and the Memorial Cenotaph, a smooth arch, through which the A Bomb Dome and Park are visible [pictured].

I make my way back the station, no doubt thinking the same thoughts that thousands of others have thought before, having witnessed Hiroshima’s dual testaments: to Man’s capacity for destruction, and to the power of hope and the ability to rebuild.