Every day Mito Kosei makes the same journey from his home to the Atomic Bomb Dome in central Hiroshima.
Once there, he leans his bicycle against a railing and carefully lays out a collection of posters, photographs and documents. And then he waits for the visitors that always come. He speaks to them in clear, measured English about the day back in 1945 that changed his, and his city’s, history. For the past 16 years he has spoken to thousands of visitors, educating new generations about the horrors of that day.
Mito’s hair is immaculate and grey. His eyes still shine and his smile is precise but warm. As a former English teacher, he has a tone that’s assured but also critical; age has not dimmed the pain of the past and he does far more than simply repeat the government line about what happened.
Aged 77, he is one of the youngest survivors of the world’s first atomic bomb. As he talks, he holds his faded ‘in utero’ survivor’s certificate (around 1,000 people a year still apply for this as it ensures some government support, but only two-thirds of applications are approved). His mother was pregnant with him when, on 6 August 1945, the Enola Gay, a Boeing B-29 Superfortress bomber, dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima.
The ‘Little Boy’ bomb exploded 600 metres above where Mito and I are standing – slightly missing its main target of the Aioi Bridge due to crosswinds (the bridge was chosen as its T-shape made it easy for pilots to identify). When Mito points out the actual hypocentre is a few hundred yards away at the Shima Surgical Clinic, I look up trying to imagine what happened. It’s impossible of course, as today Hiroshima is a peaceful, pictureseque city with a large park serving as its main memorial location. The sky has a scattering of cloud but is otherwise blue.
We’re talking next to the Atomic Bomb Dome, originally built in 1915 to host art exhibitions and famed for its European-style oval dome. Local produce, including oysters, woodwork and musical instruments were sold there – then, during the war, it was occupied by government officials.
When the bomb exploded, everyone inside the building was killed instantly but, as the force came from almost directly above, the central section of the building remained standing. Intense fire spread for a 1.6km radius, reaching temperatures of 4,000 degrees Celsius. Wind speeds topped 400 metres per second. Nobody knows for sure the exact numbers, but by the end of the year at least 140,000 people had died as a result of the blast.
Mito’s family had moved 7km away from the city a few months before due to government warnings about imminent attacks. His mother was home at the time while his father and grandfather had gone to work in the city. His father was just 650 metres from the centre of the blast but survived and lived into his 90s; his grandfather was pulled from rubble by students. He died a month later from radiation poisoning. Mito’s mother is now aged 102.
The city has long since been rebuilt and no radiation remains – it was either blown away or never reached the ground in the first place due to the bomb’s high-altitude detonation. Rather than become a desolate wasteland, within months oleander flowers were growing and the city was eventually restored.
Today, the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park is home to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum (www.hpmmuseum.jp; adults 200Y, high school students 100Y). It’s a harrowing journey, from the scalded child’s tricycle to the scorched clothes many victims wore. Perhaps its most well-known exhibit is a victim’s ‘shadow’ that was left by a bank entrance, though in reality the blast burned the surrounding stone white and left what appears to be a shadow. For those travelling with children, there’s a detour that avoids the most graphic displays.
The park has numerous tributes, including the moving Hiroshima National Peace Memorial Hall. The hall gives a panoramic view of the city after the bombing, created from 140,000 tiles – each tile representing a victim.
But it’s the dome that is the starkest reminder. When you first see it the crumbling brickwork and skeletal dome contrast so sharply with the beauty of the park that it’s genuinely shocking. At night, the illuminations make the contrast even more dramatic.
It’s a place I’d wanted to visit since studying Hiroshima as part of my A levels. The justification for using the bomb, the planning and its horrific effects; all this had stayed with me for decades. I’d remembered that the Enola Gay was named after the pilot’s mother, that the plane’s armour had been stripped to make it light enough to carry the bomb and that only a few of the crew actually knew what they were dropping. But what resonated was the thought that a single human action could cause such incomprehensible destruction and death.
When I saw the Enola Gay at the Smithsonian in Washington in the 1990s, it was an emotionless experience. Bags were checked, you were ushered through and had a fleeting moment to look at the bomber itself. Here, in Hiroshima, the experience is profound.
Spending time in the Peace Memorial Park gives you time to understand the scale of what happened, though all the images and videos can only ever offer the slightest sliver of true comprehension.
As I leave, Mito is still in his spot, talking to a couple of Australian women who are flicking through his scrapbooks. He’ll be back again tomorrow too, ensuring that the past lives on in Hiroshima.
To read Mito’s blog, visit http://blog.livedoor.jp/mitokosei/
Mito Kosei at the Atomic Bomb Dome
Aioi-bashi bridge
Hiroshima National Peace Memorial Hall. The clock symbol here is set at 8.15am, the time the bomb was dropped.
Hiroshima National Peace Memorial Hall
The Cenotaph
The ‘shadow’ victim, who was waiting outside a bank when the bomb exploded.
