 Sakue
Shimohira
Good afternoon, my name is Sakue Shimohira.
I would like to express my sincere gratitude to everyone from
Japanese and overseas NGOs, and the people of Nagasaki, for
attending the 3rd Nagasaki Global Citizens' Assembly for the
Elimination of Nuclear Weapons, and listening to my experienc
es. To tell the truth, I'd like to lock away that painful
and sorrowful scar at the bottom of my heart, and not talk
about it. But 61 years after that unforgettable day, I feel
that I must pass the story on. We, the atomic bomb survivors,
will one day all be dead. I speak to you in the belief that
accurately telling the facts is the testament to my life.
The Pacific War started
in December 1941, when I was six years old, and finished
when I was ten. It fills me with sorrow to think that if
only that war hadn't happened, that hideous atomic bomb
would never have been dropped. The toughest things for we
children were that there was nothing to eat, and that we
had to go to school barefoot because we had no shoes. But
we did our best under the government's slogan of "Forget
your wishes until we've won."
However, the fighting
intensified, and we started to lead our lives in dugouts
or air-raid shelters. On that unforgettable day of August
9th 1945, the air-raid sirens started ringing out from early
in the morning, and we children rushed to our regular dugout,
around 800 metres from the epicentre of the blast. Many
other children were hiding inside the dark hole. Presently,
we heard a voice saying, "Air-raid warning lifted,
air-raid warning lifted." Some of the children rushed
outside, but seven or eight of us, including my sister and
I stayed in the shelter.
That was the moment
it happened. There was a flash of light, and the very second
that it appeared as though the hole was illuminated from
corner to corner, a violent gust of wind blew in; we were
blown off our feet, dashed against the rocks, and I fainted.
Somebody slapped my head, and I regained my senses. I was
shocked: the air-raid shelter, which should have been empty,
was full of people with charred bodies; people with ripped
flesh, covered in blood; people whose eyeballs had burst
out of their sockets; people whose burns had swollen their
bodies by two or three times. Everywhere people were wailing,
"Give me some water, help me!" I was scared, paralyzed
with fear and unable to move. All I could do was scream,
"Mummy, help me!" My younger sister had been sent
flying by the blast, and I had no idea what had happened
to my friends. My elder sister's child had also been sent
flying. Eventually the three of us were reunited, and huddled
together screaming for help. But no help came. We could
hear a voice crying, "Hey! Who's there? Somebody kill
me!" We looked and saw one of my older friends, Sakurai,
sprawled on the ground; his stomach was burst and his intestines
were hanging out. The shelter stank of charred corpses,
and we vomited as we waited for help. At last we heard a
voice from outside asking, "Hey, is there anyone alive
in there?" We replied that we were alive and yelled
for help. My foster father had come to rescue us. He helped
us outside, and again I was shocked: not a single house
was left standing. There was nothing but a mountain of charred
corpses and rubble. We found the charred corpse of my elder
sister at our house. My mother's corpse was lying next to
that of a lady neighbour. My dazed brother, a medical student
at Nagasaki University, came to look for us with the help
of his friends. He was pleased that we had survived, but
on August 11th he left us with the words, "I don't
want to die, I don't want to die," before growing as
cold as ice.
The three of us who
survived fled to the countryside with the help of some relations.
The bonds between our parents, brothers and sisters had
been torn apart. Some barracks were constructed on the burnt-out
fields of Nagasaki towards the end of 1945, and we started
to live there together with our other surviving neighbours.
It was an existence without electricity or food. All that
was left were bleached skeletons. A faint glow could be
seen in the evenings - phosphorous emanating from the bones
of the dead. Those who had managed to survive were unable
to live or die in a humane manner, being forced to struggle
with an utterly unknown disease. My younger sister tried
her best, but defeated by poverty and disease, and longing
for our mother, she finally ended her life by throwing herself
under a train. I was irreconcilable as I cried out to her,
tears running down my face, "Why did you have to die?
Why couldn't you fight harder?"
Faced with the choice
of finding the courage to die or the courage to live, my
sister unfortunately chose the former. But I chose the courage
to live. Now I am genuinely happy to have lived, and truly
hope that future generations will also live, whatever troubles
they may face. It has been said that 'a human life is heavier
than the Earth itself.' I want you to understand the suffering
of the many people who have passed away whilst refusing
to die in the name of war.
Let us pool our wisdom and try to build
a world with no wars and no nuclear weapons, so that nobody
is ever exposed to these weapons again. In order to achieve
this, it is my heartfelt hope that the atomic-bombed city
of Nagasaki sends out a message to people everywhere that
human beings and nuclear weapons cannot exist together.
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