Today I met Sadako
It was October 2018 when I went for the first time to Japan. It was a sudden decision to go.
Of the many things I was able to visit, the one that left a deep mark in my mind was Hiroshima’s Peace Memorial Park.
Large boulevards, a timid but still warm October sun. The city looked beautiful, calm, silent, like it was waiting for something.
A man wearing a military style hat and white gloves pointed towards two large glass doors through which I could see a big clock.
The sign on the huge timekeeper said: “This clock tells the time since the last nuclear event took place on Earth – 10 days, 18 hours, 27 minutes and 58 seconds.”
Not good.
I went upstairs to see the letter that the scientists sent to the US government asking not to drop the bomb over a populated area. Albert Einstein’s signature was there among many others.
A gigantic red eye and then the smoke that raising, dissolved in mid-air taking with it dreams, ideas, loves, hope, and way too many lives.
I kept moving.
Students in colourful uniforms queued up near a large bell hanged under the Children Memorial: “This is our cry; this is our prayer for building peace in the world.” I waved the rope and the long bell toiled three times.
Hiroshima's symbol
Few more steps, and there it was, Hiroshima’s symbol, the cupola of what was once the chamber of commerce. Some students ran past me. Two stop and handed me a small, neatly folded paper bag, and then ran away giggling. Inside three small origami cranes a symbol of peace, the last wish of a nine-year-old girl. Sadako.
In December 1945 Sadako was two-year-old. She did not remember the explosion, but she was there. She grew up healthy and strong. When she was nine something happened. She convinced herself that making one thousand origami cranes would have saved her. It did not happen.
Even today her paper cranes take flight, they are beautiful, and I had three of them.
Takeko
Sadako was not the only child I met that day.
Takeko and Fusako were sisters. After the explosion many kids were called to help cleaning the debris. Takeko left her house on September 23rd, 1945. Leaving she said to her mother, “take care of our little brother, let me go to daddy.”
Fusako
The day after the explosion Fusako did not feel like eating potatoes. Mom gave her some rice, she ate it calmly, and then she said, “I’m going.”
Naoki
Among the children I met that day there was also Naoki. He was in the school courtyard when the bomb arrived. He was breathing badly but managed to get home, “do not cry, I knew we kids could not survive such a big war. Mom, please, take care of others.”
Itoshi
And then Hitoshi. He was older than the others.
“I was working at a construction site when the bomb went off. With my friends we went to the river, and to give us courage we started singing. I wanted to drink, but I didn’t as I saw oil floating on the water’s surface. I left and boarded a scorched cable car to go home. But it did not move. Finally, I got home. I left forever the morning after; it was early.”
The rage remains
Sadako and many others flew away on August 6th, seventy-seven years ago.
That evening the sushi did not have the same taste, and the shower did not wash away the sadness, or maybe it did.
But the rage remained. All of it.
