Nagasaki Peace Park, Near the Hypocenter
(We were all requested to write a few words about some aspect of our experiece that touched or impacted us. This is what I wrote.)
Listening to a man who was thirteen at the time of the bombing of Nagasaki, I am struck by this intesity and for a moment I forget myself. He seems to be deaf, and is telling his story through rich and emotional mime to a small group of pilgrims. He waves away cameras and gifts. Graceful and staccato movements blend together. His hand flies alone and high above where we are sitting now, some 40 meters from the column marking the hypocenter of the blast. He shows us a tiny speck falling. The plane banks away. Both hands come together then burst outwards. He indicates expanding rings, sweeps his hands left, right, all directions. Buildings topple. The blast catches him in the chest and throws him back. He points to his eyes and waves his hand. He can’t see. He flexes one arm, then pumps both back and forth in front of him. He is strong, and runs. He sweeps his arm in a broad motion in front of him, showing us that everything has been flattened.
His arms are okay, he shows us, but others (he makes chopping motions) have lost theirs; their skin is coming off their hands; their eyes have melted and run down their cheeks.
Small fires grow and gather into one, a tremendous conflagration, and smoke rises high and balloons outward into the sky.
He mimes drinking, wolfing a bowl of noodles (I can smell them, hear him slurp), then waves his hand in front of his face. He counts on his fingers one, two, three, four and more days. No food, no water.
He makes almost no sound, just an occasional plaintive noise escapes his throat. His style is engaging and visceral. He needs no words to convey his experience; of being trapped and hungry; of the heat from the flames. Words would get in the way, would dilute the potency of the telling. Several times I am brought near tears. He could go on all day. One by one, his audience bows, palms together in gratitude and something else. Sympathy? Sorrow? They move on, and I join them. It is hot and muggy, and I feel a headache coming on, but what is that to seventy-four thousand people dead in an instant, as many more burned, maimed, starving, subject to radiation? I leave with a weight of grief in my heart for the suffering caused by the bombing, by war everywhere. I leave with questions. What will happen when there are no more hibakusha (survivors or, literally, “explosion affected people”) like this man? Who will tell his story? Fundamentally, what will I do with this precious gift of life? What can I do for peace?
In Gassho,
Rob Taylor
Listening to a man who was thirteen at the time of the bombing of Nagasaki, I am struck by this intesity and for a moment I forget myself. He seems to be deaf, and is telling his story through rich and emotional mime to a small group of pilgrims. He waves away cameras and gifts. Graceful and staccato movements blend together. His hand flies alone and high above where we are sitting now, some 40 meters from the column marking the hypocenter of the blast. He shows us a tiny speck falling. The plane banks away. Both hands come together then burst outwards. He indicates expanding rings, sweeps his hands left, right, all directions. Buildings topple. The blast catches him in the chest and throws him back. He points to his eyes and waves his hand. He can’t see. He flexes one arm, then pumps both back and forth in front of him. He is strong, and runs. He sweeps his arm in a broad motion in front of him, showing us that everything has been flattened.
His arms are okay, he shows us, but others (he makes chopping motions) have lost theirs; their skin is coming off their hands; their eyes have melted and run down their cheeks.
Small fires grow and gather into one, a tremendous conflagration, and smoke rises high and balloons outward into the sky.
He mimes drinking, wolfing a bowl of noodles (I can smell them, hear him slurp), then waves his hand in front of his face. He counts on his fingers one, two, three, four and more days. No food, no water.
He makes almost no sound, just an occasional plaintive noise escapes his throat. His style is engaging and visceral. He needs no words to convey his experience; of being trapped and hungry; of the heat from the flames. Words would get in the way, would dilute the potency of the telling. Several times I am brought near tears. He could go on all day. One by one, his audience bows, palms together in gratitude and something else. Sympathy? Sorrow? They move on, and I join them. It is hot and muggy, and I feel a headache coming on, but what is that to seventy-four thousand people dead in an instant, as many more burned, maimed, starving, subject to radiation? I leave with a weight of grief in my heart for the suffering caused by the bombing, by war everywhere. I leave with questions. What will happen when there are no more hibakusha (survivors or, literally, “explosion affected people”) like this man? Who will tell his story? Fundamentally, what will I do with this precious gift of life? What can I do for peace?
In Gassho,
Rob Taylor
posted at 8:51 PM
3 Comments:
Beautiful description of the wordless story. Thank you.
The Women in Black stand, weekly, on the corner busy intersection in my town. We stand in silence for non violence. Today, as I stand, my heart bears witness to the "blast". Your sharing gives me content for that witness. Monica
Such emotion captured so beautifully - if only all the world could understand and experience in such a way.
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