Hiroshima

by Georgia Tendall

As anyone who possesses an interest in history will know, the city of Hiroshima on Japan’s Honshu Island has its name firmly rooted in tragedy. The devastation that occurred in August 1945 following the impact of an atomic bomb is inconceivable. When I visited Hiroshima in March last year, I witnessed a kind of resilience that manifested itself in the entire framework of the city. Almost entirely rebuilt, it is hard to imagine the horrors that this thriving city faced nearly seventy-four years ago.

 I remember instantly noticing the flavourless modernity of the buildings surrounding me. A beige-toned brush coloured this metropolis: an antiquated token of post-war reconstruction. The only remaining architectural relic is what was once known as the Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall. Today, it is known by several other names, most notably the Hiroshima Peace Memorial. The building’s towering domed skeleton serves as a warning: history must not be repeated. Yet it also acts as a symbol of peace, rebirth, and endurance.

Immortalised within the walls of Hiroshima’s Peace Memorial Museum are a selection of smaller artefacts that, to an extent, survived the attack. After absorbing the vast quantity of information involving the timeline of events, the scientific explanations, and the historical context, the sight of a burnt out tricycle had a profound impact. It was not an image that was easy to digest, and nor should it be.

The next day, my friends and I ventured fifteen miles southwest of Hiroshima City, where a mountainous island known colloquially as Miyajima sits offshore. My head brimming with quiet contemplation, I boarded the ferry in search of revival. As the boat approached land, the Itsukushima Shrine, Miyajima’s UNESCO World Heritage Site, crept into view. Perched in the shallow water, the shrine’s vibrant orange torii gate cuts a striking silhouette. After disembarking, we meandered through the lanes, stopping at almost every shop along the way. We delighted in this authentically Japanese atmosphere for a while, until our bubble was burst by the looming Starbucks sign that appeared ahead. Troubled somewhat by the nagging sense of guilt that we, as tourists, were indirectly participating in the rampant Westernisation of the East, we continued onwards with residual unease.

In close proximity, the magnificence of the torii gate became quickly apparent. It truly felt like it served its purpose as a passage to the sacred—made only more enchanting by the wild deer that roam the island, said to be ancient messengers from the gods. The deer were tame—too tame, in fact, for many of the more wary visitors who scurried past, clutching their possessions tightly. Peeping through the trees on our left we discovered the Five-Storied Pagoda. An icon of Japanese design, the pagoda resembled everything I expected from Japan. Tall, thin, and painted the same shade of vermillion, its five tiers are stacked atop one another, each separated by upturned eaves, as is typical of far eastern architecture.

With the cluster of shrines behind us, we began our eager ascent toward the summit of Mount Misen, through the dense forest. Stumbling up the rocky path, I became oddly inspired as I pondered the various Studio Ghibli-esque spirits that could inhabit it. There was certainly a sense of magic in the air, and it propelled me forwards. I only needed a melancholic piano accompaniment to complete the experience. At the summit, the azure blue water below formed the perfect backdrop to the peaks and valleys of the island, combining to create a truly dynamic panorama. A few too many photos were taken, before we raced the setting sun back down to sea level and commenced the hunt for a nice hot ramen. 

That evening, we wrapped up warm and cycled to the nearest onsen—a traditional Japanese public bath. It is customary in Japan to bathe like you would at home, meaning no bikinis or swimming costumes allowed. Naturally, this took a little while to adjust to, but I soon shrugged off any lingering anxiety and allowed myself to get wholeheartedly immersed, both literally and figuratively. I only wish we could have gone again. Red-faced and bleary-eyed, we mounted our bikes and ventured home, the cool sting of fresh air just managing to keep us awake.

Hiroshima is a city laden with scars: powerful remnants of a violent past, woven into its durable fabric. But scars are proof of regrowth—they are, by definition, a mark of healed injury. Yet, just a short train journey can totally transport you from the harsh reality of the city and its history to an alternate realm where nature thrives in spite of mankind’s vices. Hiroshima presents a curious mix of old and new, life and death, pain and prosperity, and it is unforgettable. ■

Adventure

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