arasa- dirtbag

メッセージボードどまんなかにすしおさん。

https://anond.hatelabo.jp/20230801140703

I have seen some posts about the Barbie case from people who were not involved in the case and were not born in Nagasaki or Hiroshima, and I am a bit aware of this, so I have to say something.

I say this because I was born in Nagasaki, am a third generation A-bomb survivor, and grew up hearing firsthand the stories of those who experienced the atomic bombings.

I know it's a little bit too much for me, but I'm going to say this because there are very few survivors left.

In Nagasaki, children grow up hearing stories about the atomic bombing. They were stuffed for nearly an hour in the gymnasium of an elementary school in the middle of summer when there was not even an air conditioner or a fan. It was hard for me anyway.

I think it must have been even more painful for the old people who told the stories, but there was no way an elementary school kid could imagine such a thing, and I had forgotten most of the stories I had heard. I have forgotten most of the stories I was told. I can only remember one or two at most.

Another thing is that at this time of the year, the hallways are lined with grotesque images that would drive the PTA crazy in other prefecture. I hear that the A-bomb museum has been bleached out and many of the horrifying and extreme exhibits that traumatized visitors have been removed.

When I was in elementary school, there was one photo that I just could not look at. It was a picture of Taniguchi Sumiteru (谷口稜曄). If you search for it, you can find it. It is a shocking picture, but I would still like you to see it.

I couldn't pass through the hallway where the photo was posted, so I always took the long way around to another floor to avoid seeing the photo.

Now I'm thinking that my old man, who headed into the burnt-out area to look for his sister, couldn't turn away or go another way.

There would have been a mountain of people still alive and moaning, not just pictures, and a mountain more who would have given up at the end of their suffering.

He walked for miles and miles, towing a handcart through the narrow streets of rubble-strewn Nagasaki, looking for his sister.

My grandfather must not have been a child at the time, but of course there were elementary school students who did similar things. Not that there wouldn't have been. There were. I heard the story from him, and I still remember it.

A young brother and sister found their father's body in the ruins of the fire and burned it themselves. They didn't have enough firewood to burn him out, and when they saw his brain spilling out, they ran away, and that was the last time they ever saw him again.

I can never forget the story I heard when I was a kid, and even now it is painful and painful, my hands are shaking and I am crying.

I keep wondering how the old man who escaped from that father's brain could have been able to unravel the most horrible trauma imaginable and expose it to the public with scars that will never heal.

Now I think I know a little more.

The reason I can't help but talk about my grandfather and that old man, even if I have to rehash my own trauma, is that this level of suffering is nothing compared to the fact that their words will be forgotten.

My hands shaking, my heart palpitating, my nose running with tears and vertigo, it's nothing compared to the tremendous suffering they once had that will be forgotten.

So maybe it's the same thing.

My grandfather, who went through an unimaginable hell, lived to see his grandchildren born, and met his sister's death in the ruins of the fire.

In other words, my grandfather was one of the happiest people in the ruins of the fire.

My grandfather and that old man were, after all, just people wading in the depths of hell.

I think that the suffering that even people who had experienced unimaginable pain could not imagine was lying like pebbles in Nagasaki 78 years ago, and no one paid any attention to it.

Their suffering, which I can't even imagine, is nothing compared to the countless, tremendous suffering they witnessed, which they pretend never happened.

Memories fade inexorably with each passing human mouth. The memories that those people could never allow to be forgotten are almost forgotten.

The tremendous suffering of 78 years ago is mostly gone, never to be recounted.

Those who suffered the most from the atomic bombing died rotting in the ruins of the fire, unable to tell anyone about it.

Many of those who saw it with their own eyes kept their mouths shut and took it with them to their graves. Most of those who spoke a few words are still in their graves.

Compared to the words of the old men, my own words are so light. I would rather keep my mouth shut than speak in such light words.

But still, someone has to take over. I realize that even my words, which are so light, are only the top of the voices that are left in this world to carry on the story of the atomic bombing.

I know how it feels to think that I am the only one. Still, I hope that you will not shut your mouth. I know that I have closed my mouth because I thought I shouldn't talk about it, and that is the result.

Sometimes I almost choose to stop imagining the unimaginable suffering and live my life consuming other people's suffering for the fun of it.