Remembering Hiroshima: 70 years later

On a grey winter's morning, just a couple of days after Christmas, our latest tour of Japan took us to Hiroshima. Hiroshima was completely out of the way, far from most of our familiar Kanto-area haunts--although it did give us an excuse to visit nearby Itsukushima Shrine and Miyajima Island--but something drew me to the city. Hiroshima is an important part of 20th century world history, not only for Japanese but Americans as well; given the chance, I knew I had to visit and see it for myself.

On August 6, 1945--70 years ago today--the U.S. dropped the first of two atomic bombs on Japan, with the second dropped on Nagasaki on August 9. The first bomb was detonated around 600 meters (or, a little more than a third of a mile) midair above Shima Hospital, not far from the Hiroshima Prefecture Industrial Promotion Hall.

原爆ドーム: Genbaku Dome, also known as the A-Bomb Dome or Hiroshima Peace Memorial

The Industrial Promotion Hall, now commonly known as the A-Bomb Dome, was the only structure in the area still standing after the bomb blast, and today can be seen as it appeared in the aftermath of the explosion. The scaffolding surrounding the structure, as seen above, is temporary: maintenance is held every few years to keep what's left of the building standing. Rather than repairing and restoring the building to its former state, officials felt it important to keep the ruins preserved so that people today may still observe the effects of the bomb. It is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

As the plaque in front of the A-Bomb Dome explains, over 200,000 people were killed by the bomb's blast and fires, and a 2 kilometer (roughly 1.25 mile) radius of the city area was reduced to ash. The plaque doesn't mention the thousands more who were injured or who struggled with long-lasting aftereffects of exposure to the radiation. As someone who has never witnessed war firsthand on her home turf and who doesn't come from a military family, it can be convenient for me to think about wartime casualties only in terms of soldiers on the front lines--soldiers who take up their country's cause, knowingly putting their lives on the line to fight for their beliefs and way of life. But in Hiroshima, as during other wars, many of the wartime casualties were civilians going about their daily lives on that August morning. Prior to the bomb dropping, Hiroshima's population numbered about 350,000. To lose half of a city's population in a single attack is almost unfathomable.

The view of the A-Bomb Dome from across the Motoyasu River

As we walked through the Peace Park, we met one of the survivors of the bombing, a group of people referred to in Japanese as hibakusha (被爆者, literally "explosion-affected people"). She spends many of her days in the park talking to visitors and collecting signatures for her petition calling for a worldwide nuclear weapons ban. When she saw that we listed our home country as the United States, she excitedly said, "Oh, Americans!" and offered us cranes she had folded, thanking us in earnest for visiting the city and the park. Naturally, I was crying--as I still do when I think about our visit to the Peace Park--and she did her best to cheer me up, and made me smile. She was genuinely glad to have met us, and we her.

Visiting the Peace Park as an American was an emotional and difficult thing to do. Although neither I nor my family had no direct hand in the horrors that Hiroshima endured, I still felt a tremendous amount of guilt. I know some older Americans who still harbor negative feelings toward the Japanese (as well as some not-so-old ones), so I felt that we would be met with at least a little animosity when people found out we were Americans--or at the very least would be distant toward us due to our obvious Western appearance. I was surprised and comforted to learn that the opposite was true. A tenacious, uplifting spirit permeates the city, and its citizens are warm and welcoming.

A look at Hiroshima today from near Hiroshima Station

Today, Hiroshima is a thriving city of around one million people. They have a professional baseball team, the Hiroshima Toyo Carp (whose logo resembles my favorite MLB team's, so I had to buy a hat!), and they're known for their delicious Hiroshima-style okonomiyaki (leaps and bounds superior to Kansai-style okonomiyaki, in this humble foodie's opinion). 

平和の鐘: Bell of Peace

Although the city has rebuilt and recovered, many of the bomb survivors living in Hiroshima and elsewhere are still faced with daily struggles. Very few nursing homes exist solely to provide specialized care for hibakusha, and the waiting lists to live in such places are years long. In a recent survey conducted by NHK World, many hibakusha reported that they aren't able to share their wartime experiences with others, some citing apathy and disinterest among younger people. The harsh reality of the situation is that in a few decades, no one in the world will remember experiencing the events of World War II firsthand, and all we will have left are monuments, photos, videos, and survivors' stories. I hope that Japan--as well as the rest of the world--recognizes that the hibakusha and their stories are an important part of our modern world history, and takes steps to properly honor and care for them in their final years.

As a world citizen, you too can do your part: if you're ever in Japan, make sure to visit Hiroshima and the Peace Memorial. Give the Bell of Peace a ring, and let its low, soothing din resonate through you and to the far reaches of the park. Hiroshima is an important part of our world's cultural heritage, and the lessons learned there should never be forgotten. As it's inscribed on the plaque in front of the Peace Bell: "Let all nuclear arms and wars be gone, and the nations live in true peace!"

Photo Friday #8: Mount Fuji! フォト金曜日＃８：富士山！

フォト金曜日＃８：富士山！Photo Friday #8: Mount Fuji!

In my past Photo Friday posts, I've only shared pictures from Tokyo and Kyoto. Admittedly, that's where I've spent most of my time in Japan, but there's much more to the country than those two cities! With that in mind, today's post takes a trip out of town, with a look at one of Japan's most famous sights:

富士山: Fujisan (Mount Fuji)

A UNESCO World Heritage Site, Fujisan (or Mount Fuji) is located about 80 miles southwest of Tokyo, and can be seen from there on a clear day. With its iconic snow-capped peak, travel to Mount Fuji and its prefectures of Yamanashi and Shizuoka spikes during its official climbing season in July and August. However, views of Fujisan aren't limited to summer hikers: the view in the photo above is similar to one that many tourists will get to see themselves, especially if a trip on the Tokaido Shinkansen is on their itinerary.

Even during Japan's Edo period (1603-1868), Tokyo (then called Edo) and Kyoto were major cities in Japan. The coastal road connecting the two important cities was known as the Tokaido (東海道 : literally "East Sea Road"), and back then, travel along the road was mostly by foot. With the appropriate government documentation, a traveler could walk--or be carried via kago, the jinrikisha's predecessor--from one end to the other, provided the 514 kilometer (or 319 mile) trek wasn't too daunting. Along with the JR Tokaido Main Line, the Tokaido Shinkansen route loosely follows the original Tokaido road...although thanks to shinkansen speeds of up to 300 km/h (186 mph), the journey from Tokyo to Kyoto now takes hours rather than weeks.

Hokusai's "The Great Wave off Kanagawa"

As with the Edo period, Fujisan is easily the most recognizable landmark on today's modern Tokaido route. Not only is it hard to miss as Japan's tallest point at 3,776 meters (12,388 feet--or 2.3 miles), its likeness has also been reproduced countless times in art and photographic prints. Perhaps the greatest contributor to the worldwide appreciation of Mount Fuji comes from artist Katsuhika Hokusai (1760-1849), whose ukiyo-e series "36 Views of Mount Fuji" (富嶽三十六景) helped make Mount Fuji a household name. The series' most popular print is actually its first piece, "The Great Wave off Kanagawa," pictured here. (I have a poster of it hanging in my old bedroom at my mom's house in central Indiana, so I think it's safe to say that Hokusai's art is far-reaching.)

Fujisan's sheer magnitude and beauty has called to people from all walks of life--not just artists and writers--for centuries. The area is believed to have great spiritual power, and the mountain is sacred to the Japanese Shinto and Buddhist religions. Aokigahara (青木ヶ原), a dense forest at Mount Fuji's northwest base, is also (in)famous for being a popular place to commit suicide, and the ghosts of the victims reportedly haunt the trees.

Other modern-day controversies plaguing the area are concerns about garbage littering Mount Fuji's paths, illegally discarded by hikers and others, as well as questions involving when the volcano will erupt again, with at least one estimate naming this year as a possibility. It's easy to forget that Fujisan is indeed an active volcano, as its last eruption was recorded centuries ago in December 1707.

A classically Japanese landmark, seeing Mount Fuji for the first time--even while speeding past on a shinkansen--is truly awe-inspiring. In future trips to Japan, I'm definitely hoping to get a closer look at Fujisan. I won't claim that I plan on climbing it--that's a bit ambitious for a non-hiker like me!--but I'd love to see it while relaxing at onsen in Hakone, or view it during a ride on the Mount Tenjo ropeway. Mount Fuji is such a culturally significant site that merely passing by at 186 miles per hour just doesn't seem to do it justice.

Photo Friday #4: Kinkaku-ji! フォト金曜日＃４：金閣寺！

フォト金曜日＃４：金閣寺！Photo Friday #4: Kinkaku-ji! 

April showers bring May flowers! Spring rain and thunderstorms have finally--well, hopefully!--replaced snow here in the midwest. On rainy, overcast days like these, I'm reminded of my first trip to Japan: during our stay in Kyoto in March 2013, it rained nearly every day. We didn't let that dampen our spirits, though; the rain kept many visitors away from Kyoto's picturesque shrines and temples, leaving us to enjoy their quietude and tranquility. As a plus, we were able to take a lot of great photos without throngs of tourists in them, like this one...

金閣寺: Kinkaku-ji (Golden Pavilion)

In a previous Photo Friday post, I wrote about Heian Shrine, a Kyoto landmark in the Okazaki area. It's been referenced in popular culture and is classified as an important cultural property of Japan. However, few places are as iconic and recognizable as Kinkaku-ji, seen in the photo above: it's Kyoto's most visited temple and its grounds are a UNESCO World Heritage Site, known worldwide for its opulent golden structure and Muromachi period gardens. Located a few miles north-northwest of Kyoto Station, it's easily accessible by city bus, taxi, or a healthy walk from nearby subway stations.

At the foot of the Kitayama Mountains, the site of Kinkaku-ji originally functioned not as a sacred place of worship, but as an expanse of rice fields. A wealthy politician named Saionji Kintsune purchased the land from a court noble and built Kitayama-dai--his sprawling family residence and shrine--there in 1224, but it fell into disrepair as his family's influence and wealth dwindled under the new shogunate. Saionji's descendants eventually sold the property to Shogun Ashikaga Yoshimitsu in 1397, who lived out his retirement amidst the tranquil reflective ponds. Ashikaga had grand plans for the compound as he worked to restore the estate to its former glory, constructing several buildings on the grounds, including the Golden Pavilion. He planned to cover the entire pavilion in gold leaf, but only managed to coat the top floor's ceiling before his sudden death in 1408.

In accordance with Ashikaga's will--as was often the tradition of these times--the area was then converted to a Zen Buddhist temple of the Rinzai sect and called Rokuon-ji (鹿苑寺, or Deer Garden), taking its name from Ashikaga's posthumous name. (Indeed, Rokuon-ji is the temple's official name, but since the Golden Pavilion is its most famous aspect, the nickname Kinkaku-ji is more commonly known.)

Like many other Kyoto temples, fires destroyed the buildings on the temple grounds through the years, most notably during the Onin War. The Golden Pavilion is the only remaining structure of Ashikaga's estate--and even it was destroyed by fire, most recently in 1950, when a crazed monk burned it down. When it was rebuilt in 1955, more gold leaf was added to the exterior. The gold leaf, while an obvious symbol of wealth and luxury, also carries a symbolic meaning: it's meant to alleviate and purify thoughts and effects of death.

Today the Golden Pavilion continues to function as a shari-den, or reliquary, housing sacred Buddhist relics within. The pavilion itself is not open to the public, but visitors to the temple grounds can peek inside the first story windows for a glimpse of statues of Ashikaga and the Historical Buddha. Visitors will also notice that each of the pavilion's three stories display distinct architectural styles, masterfully blending contrasting styles into one cohesive structure.

To me, Kinkaku-ji's architecture represents a lot of what I've observed of the whole of Japan and its culture: paradoxes and anachronisms are often seen side-by-side, but rather than seeming out of place, they reach a harmonious coexistence. It's something that isn't often seen here in the U.S., and I'll enjoy exploring these observations in future posts.