Adapted from a true experience, with names changed to maintain the anonymity of the characters
The bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki has always haunted my thoughts and stirred within me deep feelings of unsettlement. I first heard it in a history lesson in my youth. I vividly recall the descriptions of those who survived the initial detonation- it was said that their flesh hung loosely from their muscles, and some had eyeballs dangling by the lone optic nerve. Those who lived to tell the tale suffered the agonizing effects of radiation. Many of the succeeding generation literally felt the pain of their fathers, the scars of the past engraved on body deformities and impaired mental development, a gift from radiation which hung ominously over the cities for many years to come.
Being an American, I was well aware of the ‘infamy’ of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Without warning, the Japanese had attacked the unsuspecting sailors and their ships, effectively destroying most of what constituted the harbor. The lives of these young men and women were lost in a chaotic episode of ‘blood and fire’, their bodies sinking to the depths of the sea. But the carnage of the attack paled greatly in comparison to the thousands who perished from‘Little Boy’ and ‘Fat Man’, the nuclear weapons thrust upon men, women and children who had little to do with the war.
It was with such a mindset that I vowed never to visit the Arizona War Memorial until I had first seen Hiroshima or Nagasaki. This was in spite of the fact that I had lived in Hawaii for over 8 years, and Pearl Harbor was but a 45 minutes drive from where I stayed.
I had such an opportunity to do so early in 2001. Having some business to do in Hiroshima, I made it a point to pay a visit to the Peace Memorial Park.
It was a somber place, almost sacred. As I walked the grounds, I noticed that hardly anyone spoke. Approaching the centre of the park, I saw the cenotaph which listed all the names of those who died as a result of exposure to the bomb. A heavy heart was all that I left with, a silent grimace of inner pain and sorrow for those who had suffered a cruel fate.
Returning to Hawaii, I did not visit the Arizona War Memorial for 2 years.
One sunny July afternoon, I received a call from my office in the university in which I worked.
‘Mr. Stevens, would you mind hosting a visiting Shinto priest from the Meiji Shrine? He just arrived and would like to be shown the Arizona War Memorial.’
I paused to contemplate this invitation. I was reluctant to visit the memorial, the memory of Hiroshima still deeply engraved in my heart and mind. Furthermore, the Shinto priest only knew how to speak Japanese, and I, English. Nevertheless, my professional instinct urged me to take up the offer, and I asked the secretary if she could find my good friend, a professor of the Japanese language, to accompany us.
We travelled to the memorial with me driving and the two men in the backseat engaged in conversation in fluent Japanese. As I turned round a bend the memorial came into view, and immediately a hush fell over both. Not wanting to break the silence, I drove on.
We arrived at the memorial late in the afternoon, with the sun midway on its descent and a quiet breeze blowing from the sea. Stepping inside, we looked down at the transparent floor and saw beneath our feet the remains of the USS Arizona. The sunken destroyer lay at the bottom of the sea, the bodies of hundreds of sailors still remaining within its stronghold of rusted metal and coral. Retrieving the bodies would mean the surfacing of environmentally-damaging oil, and hence the absence of any effort to reclaim them.
We trudged in silence along the whole length of the cabin, a somber mood similar to that in Hiroshima descending upon us. It was a short visit, and as we left the memorial, the priest stopped and prayed. His face bore a look of serenity, with a hint of sadness of pain.
Driving back in the car, I asked my friend, ‘So, how did you feel going back there again?’
My friend replied simply, ‘Ah, that was my first time.’
I was shocked. I had been living in Hawaii for 8 years, but he, 30. All this while he had never gone to see the war memorial.
‘What a sad thing my fathers did to these poor sailors,’ my friend said.
‘Ah, but what about Hiroshima and Nagasaki?’
There was a slight pause, after which he said, ‘I was at Hiroshima when it happened. I was 6 when my whole family was killed. The ambulance picked me up, my clothes all shredded by the bomb blast.’
Silence occupied the car the rest of the way to the university.
A swarm of emotions overcame me, and when I returned to my office after bidding the priest and my friend adieu, I stopped work to pause and reflect on what had just transpired. In my anger and shame, I had extrapolated the war to the present. I had literally waged a personal battle against those whom I deemed to be guilty of greater atrocity. And yet, these men who literally suffered the effects of the war showed no signs of vengeance. My mind flashed back to the quiet observation of old American and English men in Hiroshima, bowing their heads silently before the cenotaph in the Peace Park, eyes closed and bodies still as if in fervent prayer for forgiveness. No doubt some had cousins, relatives or even brothers and sisters who were lost on the fateful day of Pearl Harbor.
As I sat thinking in my chair, my gaze fell upon the picture of my family on the right corner of my desk. My mind flashed with the light of inspiration, dispersing the cloud of regret and confusion I had.
The wars of the past are past. The present is where I live now, and I had a future ahead of me. My duty was not to linger on the wrongs of my forefathers, but to leave a legacy which my family and future generations would be proud of.
Walking to the window of my room, I gazed out to the sea and saw the memorial in the distance, a lone white structure sitting on waters crystal blue.
I left my office early that day, and returned home into the arms of my loving wife and children.
THE END
