Man’s inhumanity to man
Hiroshima, Japan
I AM STANDING on a quiet side street in Hiroshima, Japan. A small granite monument indicates what happened right here, 1800 feet above my head. On this very spot, on Monday, August 6, 1945 at 8:15 in the morning, the atomic bomb exploded precisely where I stand, devastating the city of Hiroshima, instantly killing 80,000 people, hundreds of thousands dying later. This plaque marks ground zero, the hypocenter.
I easily found the bridge that was the intended target of the bomb, left largely intact that morning, a random crosswind affecting the bomb drop. I place my hand on the original pillar of the bridge that still stands today, sentinel to a horror the world had never seen before or since. I take photos of the iconic bomb dome, a building that somehow remained standing when everything else was flattened in the blast.
Dogs are valued in Mexican culture for friendship, companionship and protection. Spirit dogs are believed to guide the dead to their final resting place in the afterlife. I see a lot of wood, plastic or paper mache skeleton dogs as part of the Day of the Dead holiday decorations, perched on laps or benches, a treasured part of Mexican death and Mexican life.
The people I meet all have dogs and they love to talk about them. When I am asked if I have a dog, I happily show photos of my three dachshunds, the dogs I love unconditionally. I talk baby talk to my dogs, worry about their health and well being, try to make sure each one gets enough attention. I play games with them, give them mental stimulation. I want to enrich their little lives. I pet them, kiss them, sleep with them. They drink filtered water, listen to soft music at bedtime. I treat them like the children I never had.
I had to search for this marker indicating the precise location where the bomb detonated. The stone monument is not that large and is rather unassuming, especially considering what it commemorates. People ride by on bicycles, cars drive down the street. There is a parking garage next door. No tourists are here, just me.
I look up, thinking about the destruction that rained down on the people who lived here, people who were going about their day, eating breakfast, reading the newspaper, getting ready for work, getting kids ready for school. Just an ordinary day in an ordinary city. They had no idea what was about to happen to them, to their city, to the world. To our world.
Then the gates of hell opened wide.
