On 6th Aug. of every year, Hiroshima becomes a city of mourning. And
one full of reminders — some delivered politely, some pointedly — of
the most extreme dangers of modern warfare.
Seventy
years ago, the city was incinerated by an atomic bomb, its population
halved by the new and terrifying American weapon nicknamed Little Boy.
On
Thursday, political leaders, aging survivors and ordinary citizens
gathered at 8:15 a.m. to mourn the moment when the city unwillingly
became part of the world’s introduction to the nuclear age. The bomb
dropped on Hiroshima, together with another that hit Nagasaki three days
later, killed more than 200,000 people, most of them civilians.
At
a ceremony near the onetime industrial exhibition hall that has been
preserved as a skeletal monument to the attack, Prime Minister Shinzo Abe renewed a longstanding Japanese pledge to seek worldwide elimination of nuclear weapons.
The mayor of Hiroshima, Kazumi Matsui, accused “selfish” nuclear
powers, including the United States, of standing in the way of that
goal.
Mr.
Abe and other dignitaries placed wreaths in front of the Hiroshima
Peace Memorial Park’s eternal flame, where a placard reads: “Rest in
peace. We will not make the same mistake again.” A minute of silence was
punctuated by the ringing of a temple gong.
The
memorial was witnessed by the United States ambassador to Japan,
Caroline Kennedy, who was only the second American envoy to attend such a
commemoration. Her predecessor, John V. Roos, first did so five years
ago, on the 65th anniversary of the bombing, in a shift that was seen as
symbolic of the Obama administration’s commitment to advancing the
cause of nuclear disarmament.
But
a visit to Hiroshima by President Obama himself, which many in Japan
hoped would follow, never came — much less an apology by the United
States for dropping the bombs. The desire for an apology has persisted
here even as Japan struggles to come to terms with atrocities committed
by its own forces during World War II.
Mr.
Abe is also pursuing unpopular policies on two issues linked closely in
the public’s mind with the bombings: national defense and nuclear energy.
Small groups of demonstrators gathered at the edge of the ceremony
grounds to protest moves by his government to pare back postwar
restrictions on the military and to restart nuclear power plants idled
after meltdowns at a plant in Fukushima in 2011.
Kohei
Oiwa, an 83-year-old bombing survivor, sat silently through Mr. Abe’s
remarks at the ceremony but criticized him bluntly afterward. He
condemned legislation now before Parliament that would allow Japanese
forces to fight overseas, in limited situations, for the first time
since the war. And he criticized as hypocritical the government’s
repeated pledges to help rid the world of nuclear weapons. Japan, he
noted, accepts the protection of the United States, its former enemy
turned close ally, including the deterrent provided by the American
nuclear arsenal.
“Abe’s peace is a phony peace,” Mr. Oiwa said as he waited in line to lay a bouquet of flowers in front of the eternal flame.
Such
sentiments are widely shared by other survivors. After the ceremony,
the leaders of seven groups representing survivors delivered a letter to
Mr. Abe demanding that he withdraw the proposed legislation on military
deployments. Yet while there are still close to 200,000 officially
recognized survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, their average age is
over 80, and their numbers are quickly dwindling.
The
mayor, Mr. Matsui, also took clear if indirect aim at Mr. Abe. In his
official “peace declaration,” he criticized a desire often expressed by
the prime minister and other conservatives to change the pacifist
Constitution imposed by the victorious United States. Three generations
after the conflict, they argue, Japan should be less constrained by its
consequences.
Mr.
Matsui, however, said, “It is demanded that the path to true peace
indicated by the pacifism of the Japanese Constitution be spread to the
world.”
Hiroshima,
which rebounded vigorously after World War II, is now a thriving city
of 1.1 million people, and most of its residents are less overtly
political. Kazue Ichikawa, 77, who came to the ceremony with her
daughter and granddaughter, said she was in the yard of a Buddhist
temple that served as a wartime primary school when the bomb exploded.
It was just far enough away that she and her classmates were spared.
“The force knocked me over a gravestone,” she said.
She
said that she had not recounted her experiences to anyone outside her
family, but that she was considering volunteering at the Hiroshima Peace
Memorial Museum “to inform others of my granddaughter’s generation.”
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