Origami Cranes in the Peace ParkAlthough the museum was deeply disturbing, and the park was touching, its at the hypocentre that I truly felt what happened. A tall black obelisk sits at one end of the park, marking the place where the bomb was detonated. Concentric circles of alternating grass and concrete spread away from it. To the left is a large statue of a woman, a mother, cradling an infant in her arms. The agony on her face is excruciating. Miraculously, trees encompass this little park, a designated prayer area. It is here in the quiet setting that tears fall for the 74,000 who died and more for the 75,000 who survived. I can’t imagine the horror of that time, despite the images from the museum. I came to Nagasaki and was afraid that I would be too jaded to feel anything, but the emotions are too strong. Settled on a bench, I watch the few people walk through the hypocentre. It’s much less crowded here than at the Peace Park or museum, and has the feel of a church. Visitors move reverently, slowly and are visibly moved by the simple marker of the Hypocentre.
For all the horror in Nagasaki’s recent past, it has grown into a lively city. The city has a courageous core that is uncovered in only a few hours, but after three days I leave wanting more. How, in 60 years, did Nagasaki transform itself from a nuclear wasteland to a modern city? In the days following my morning to the peace area, every corner I turn, temple I enter, and bridge I cross it hits me. I am in Nagasaki, site of the second atomic bomb dropping. Nagasaki has cured my cynicism and pessimism. No matter how bad life seems, it can always get better.
