Dave Griffith posted his great Hiroshima essay Pictures of the Floating World on his site today, in one of those Scribd-type crazy formats.

Related:

• How to: commemorate the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki

At 75 he continues his crusade against nuclear weapons at missile silos across the United States, armed with a hammer and a pair of bolt cutters. He usually wears a clown suit, in homage, he says, to St. Paul’s words: “We are fools for Christ’s sake.”

[...]

Subsequent protests led to Father Kabat’s spending more time in prison than out, raising questions about the effectiveness of his approach.

Liz McAlister, who married Philip Berrigan, has an answer. “We live in a culture where we want to measure everything to know how successful things are,” Ms. McAlister said. “It’s beautiful to see people who don’t spend time wondering and worrying about that and are willing to do what they think is right regardless of the consequences.”

Photo: Carl Kabat at the 2008 Catholic Worker National Gathering in Worcester.

A recent poll found that 61% of Americans think the bombing was “the right thing” to do. There are two ways to look at this. Was the bombing an effective way to bring WWII to an end? Was the bombing a horrible crime?

I think the answer to the second question is “Yes.” As to the first, Wikipedia is a good place to start. Hiroshima: Was It Necessary? is another introduction.

For another take on disarmament, one expressed by several passersby today, see Randy Newman’s “Political Science.”

Related:

• How to: commemorate the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki

One year in South Bend we held a Nagasaki commemoration and our signs were confusing to passersby. A short, clear sign might be NAGASAKI / 1945 / MOURN THE DEAD.

Here’s a leaflet with a Catholic focus you can customize.:

• .doc
• .odt
• PDF

Worcester, 2004

South Bend, 2006

Worcester, 2009

If you have constructive suggestions, or this info is helpful, please post a comment.

In a 1980 antiwar protest, these priest brothers, Daniel & Philip, attacked missile warheads at a G.E. plant.

Contestant Roy, a building inspector from Rancho Cucamonga, California, correctly, albeit ungrammatically, questioned, “What is Berrigan?”

I come from Taiwan, or Takasago, as one would call it back in the days of colonization under the Empire of Japan before the end of World War 2. Taiwanese people who are of my grandmother’s generation were educated to be Japanese; for example, the late pastor of my church, like many Taiwanese who were drafted by the Imperial Armed Forces at that time, was to be one of the kamikaze, the suicide pilots who were crashing their fighters into the carriers of the Allies. People of that age often talk to us about the times of the Japanese occupation and the Pacific War. Although they resented the unnecessary War they had to fight and complain about the occasional cruelty of the Japanese, they described the Japanese rule as a period of order and stability, in which even during the extreme of hardship near the end of the War, rarely did riots arise and corruption of the administration were unusual. It seemed that everyone in the neighborhood cooperated to remain organized for the War. I always wonder how this kind of disciplined behavior was attained.

After reading John Hersey’s Hiroshima, I think I know a bit more about the way of the Japanese. Although the emblem of the Japanese Empire is the glorious chrysanthemum signifying the Royal Family, common people refer to themselves as sakura, the cherry blossoms, which bloom brilliantly in the spring for a very short time, usually only a few days, and then fall to the ground. A respectful Japanese is one that suffers tragically, or even sacrifices oneself, for the cause of the greater organization (e.g., the Empire, or, as is observed in the modern, post-War society Japan, the kaisha, the Japanese idea of the “firm”), just like the sakura flowers. Any performance less than this is considered a shame in the Japanese mind.

In Hiroshima, one of the parishioners Father Kleinsorge was taking care of, Fukai-san, refused to be rescued from the fire caused by the atomic bomb explosion, and insisted on staying at the site. “Leave me here to die.” (p. 27 ff.). After some more ado on the part of Kleinsorge to carry the reluctant Fukai-san out of the fire, he still ran back to it. Hersey wrote: “the last the priests could see of him, he was running back toward the fire.” I could almost see that, if the book Hiroshima is ever to be made into a movie, at this point, thousands of sakura petals would be falling down behind the running Fukai-san, paying tribute to his tragic death. Although this scene might be absurd in the sterile ruins of post-atomic Hiroshima, it is metaphorically appropriate in the Japanese mind, and a familiar ending scene in many Japanese tragedies.

A story in the Reverend Tanimoto’s letter to his American friend also gives us some insight into this Japanese way of thinking. Dr. Y. Hiraiwa of Hiroshima University of Literature and Science, and his son, a student at Tokyo University, were buried under their burning two-story house and could not move even a few centimeters. The son thought they were going to die anyway and suggested that they make up their mind up to consecrate their lives for the country”, and they gave Banzai, the Japanese way of paying homage, to Tenno, the Japanese Emperor, “Tenno-heika, Banzai, Banzai, Banzai!” (“Your Majesty the Emperor, ten thousand years of longevity!”) Tanimoto then quoted the later-rescued Dr. Hiraiwa, “Strange to say, I felt calm and bright and had a peaceful spirit in my heart, when I chanted Banzai to Tenno.” “What a fortune that we are Japanese! It was my first time I ever tasted such a beautiful spirit when I decided to die for our Emperor.”

The pastor then recorded another incident: While the bomb
exploded, a heavy fence fell upon a few girls from the high school
Hiroshima Jazabuin. They could not move and the smoke was choking them to death. “One of the girls began to sing Kimi ga yo, the national anthem, and others followed in chorus and died.” To these incidents, the Reverend commented, “Yes, people of Hiroshima died manly in the atomic bombing, believing that it was for the Emperor’s sake.” This is probably why Father Takakura (formerly Kleinsorge) said, “If a Japanese hears the word ‘tenno heika’ [His Majesty the Emperor], it is different from a Westerner hearing them — a very different feeling in the foreigner’s heart from what is felt in the Japanese person’s heart.”

Once the people associated their death to the Tenno and the Empire, either by giving Banzai to the Emperor or singing Kimi ga yo, death seemed to be only a sacrifice for the greater organization to survive, and did not seem to be so formidable anymore, for the Empire would appreciate their death as a tree would value the falling of its petals. Thus a Japanese death, when connected with submission to the larger entity, transformed into a beautiful blossom of sakura.

Petals fall every so often, and when they fall, they do it without a noise. Japanese also die when they are supposed to, without questioning why, without crying in pain. Tanimoto noted, as many others also did, that he “never heard anyone cried in disorder, even though they suffered in great agony.” The people who were dying, “died in silence, with no grudge, setting their teeth to bear it. All for the country!” Mrs. Nakamura thought about the bomb, and the consequent deaths and suffering as a historical inevitability, “It was war and we had to expect it.” She would then add, “Shikata ga nai,” which approximately meant, “It can’t be helped”. Hersey took this to mean that she saw the bomb as “a natural disaster — one that had simply been her bad luck, her fate (which must be accepted), to suffer.” The account of the bombing by Toshio, the then ten-year-old son of Mrs. Nakamura, was surprisingly matter-of-fact, as if the bomb were just as common an event as a visit to a zoo: “In the morning, I was eating peanuts. I saw a light. I was knocked to little sister’s sleeping place. … We went to the park. A whirlwind came. At night a gas tank burned and I saw the reflection in the river. … [His friend] Kikumi’s mother was wounded and [his friend] Murakami’s mother, alas was dead.” Indeed, Japanese see death as much a biological inevitability as life, comparable to familiar facts such as flowers falling from a tree.

This glorification of sacrifice encouraged the Japanese people to dedicate themselves to one another and to the organization to which they belong, even at the expense of great pain on their own part. Hersey used a peculiar phrase, when he described Dr. Sasaki’s response during the explosion of the atomic bomb, to express the extra bravery due to this sort of encouragement: “He ducked down on one knee and said to himself, as only a Japanese would [emphasis mine], ‘Sasaki, gambare! Be brave!’” Even Father Takakura, a German converted Japanese, “had taken on this Japanese spirit of enryo — setting the self apart, putting the wishes of others first”, and was considered by his German colleagues to be too rüsksichtsvoll, too regardful.

After the bombing, pastor Tanimoto experienced two times the Japanese shame of being a survivor. The first time he was running back to inner Hiroshima, hoping to meet his family. There were people trapped by the ruins screaming for help, and the heavily wounded limped toward the outskirts of the city, as the Reverend ran past them. “As a Christian he was filled with compassion for those who were trapped, and as a Japanese he was overwhelmed by the shame of being unhurt, and he prayed as he ran, ‘God help them and take them out of the fire.’” The second time was a few days later, as he went back to rest after helping some heavily wounded: “he tripped over someone, and someone else said angrily, ‘Look out! That’s my hand!’ Mr. Tanimoto … [was] ashamed hurting wounded people, [and] embarrassed at being able to walk upright….” Probably because of this sense of shame, the Japanese do not use the term “survivors” to refer to those who went through the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings, but instead used a more neutral term, “hibakusha”, or “explosion-affected persons”. This same sense of shame might also be the factor that caused Fukai-san to run back to the fire and the Navy man to commit suicide (p. 16). In the Japanese mind, surviving a disaster is like resisting the destiny, which is in turn against the spirit of sakura.

The spirit of sakura, the cherry blossoms, entails the Japanese virtue of self-sacrifice of individuals for the benefit of the higher organization, the glorification of such tragic but heroic sacrifice, the justification of the inevitability of death and suffering, and the shame which will be a burden on the shoulders of anyone unable to achieve such goal when the circumstance requires. This is a spirit deeply rooted in the Japanese culture and dictates the behavior of the Japanese people.

Dr. Fay’s comments (excerpt): Very interesting. You bring to your topic a most illuminating personal background.

With 20th-century hindsight, Brecht retells the life-story of Galileo Galilei. As Eric Hobsbawm points out in his book The Age of Extremes, 1914–1991 which I am now reading, no one in our times can be so sure of the liberating promises of rational progress anymore. Galileo’s 17th-century contemporaries did not have the benefit of retrospection: They were riding the wave of the Renaissance, pregnant with the prospect of rationalism’s triumph (if only temporary) in the 19th century after the revolutions.

The conventional wisdom blames the Church for trying to limit the progress of science, and counts it fortunate (or, inevitable) that reason’s march cannot be halted, if paused by the “martyrdom” of Copernicus and the recantation of Galileo (traitor of science! they cry, reluctantly). Brecht, a socialist, cannot bear to totally demolish this rationalistic paradigm upfront, but still questions it as any thinking person in the 20th century has to. The current production has images from Visible Earth (in part courtesy of Caltech) for the backdrop, but equally appropriate, if anachronistic and less subtle, there could have been a mushroom cloud, an utterly disappointing scene for gung-ho believers of absolute rationalism.

Following Brecht, I would also not go so far as to say that the Church had it right all along, but rationalism and blind (we now know) progress certainly did not. No, the Church definitely cannot smugly say “I told you so”. Perhaps she did not express herself in quite the right way? (Think “pyre”.)

Can we, both as Christians and as scientists, learn from history? “What are we for?”, Brecht’s Galileo asks: Are we scientists to be “inventive dwarfs for hire”, working for the highest bidder? Or can we have “science in the service of humanity” (attributed to Marie Curie)? “human-scale science”? “socialist science”? (That last one, sadly, is now a loaded phrase, as so many other things have become, thanks to the 20th century.) Is it possible for the scientist to work, not for fame or profit, not even for the gratification of gratuitous “curiosity”, “reason”, or “science”; but as a bird makes a nest, as a tree bears fruit, as a beaver builds a dam, as bees make honey? Or is this one of the human activities where it bound to be more complicated than that? Is it asking too much? or indeed, too little?

I am still trying to understand the last century. (Can one speak of “coming to terms” with it?) It is as if humanity, or at least a large part of it, after learning how to read, write, and take the square root, has now graduated from school and reached adolescence. He (allow me a gender-specific pronoun, which is not entirely inaccurate) then proceeds to squander the inheritance which his parents and ancestors stored up, all in a very short time, spending it in a self-destructive way, however instantly gratifying.

Sounds familiar? Perhaps, one day he will find himself down with the pigs (honorable beasts!) and suddenly change his mind (μετάνοια). I just hope it won’t be too late to go back to his dad. What would his brother, living in the South, say? “Dad, I have always worked for you, but you never cooked a little lamb for me. This chap, he spent all his money at the brothel, but now you give him all this bling-bling and throw a big party for him!” I now know slightly better how the prodigal son will feel upon hearing this.

Maybe he will eventually settle down, have a small family, and start thinking for his children. One can only hope. Time to read HH John Paul II’s letter Fides et Ratio again! By the way, the pig knuckle at Daquise is nice (pace vegetarian Mike).

Another, more secular, vigil was held in South Bend earlier in the day.

The group, most wearing black, held signs reading “From Nagasaki to Lebanon / Mourn the Dead.”

Pictured: Mike Schorsch. Photo by Mike Benedetti. More photos.

The event was sponsored by the South Bend Catholic Worker and the Catholic Peace Fellowship. It began with the reading of a meditation, reprinted below.

(The South Bend Tribune covered this event. Last year when the Worcester Telegram & Gazette saw fit to cover a similar event in Massachusetts, they saw fit to “balance” the coverage by interviewing a WWII-era man with a poor understanding of the facts. The Tribune, to its credit, did not do this.)

A meditation by Mike Schorsch, on the 61st anniversary of the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, August 9, 2006

“Here are the beginnings of the age to come; here we see it reflected as in a mirror.” With these words, an ancient sermon describes the Transfiguration, the moment when Jesus revealed himself as God to his disciples. The “age to come” the sermon speaks of is the age of God’s peace, and the reflection is describes is found in the love and light of Christ.

On August 6th, Catholics celebrate the feast of the Transfiguration.

On August 6th, 1945, America became the first and only nation in the history of the world to use nuclear weapons against civilians.

On August 9th, 1943, Franz Jägerstätter, an Austrian peasant, a husband and father, was beheaded for refusing to fight in the Nazi army. Despite the objections of his bishop, Jägerstätter insisted that Christ was calling him to resist, to have no part in Nazism or its works.

On August 9, 1946, America dropped its second atomic bomb. Between the two bombings and their after effects, hundreds of thousands of civilians were killed.

With profound sorrow we remember these thousands. We also remember the thousands killed in Iraq, in Palestine, in Israel, and in Lebanon. We pray for all of their souls, and for their families.

We pray for our times, that they will reflect the love of Christ, and not the cold, dispassionate hatred of the atom bomb. We pray for the “age to come,” that it will be one of souls transfigured by Christ’s peace—souls like that of Franz Jägerstätter.

We pray to the God of mercy for mercy, and to the God of peace for peace, and we ask for a time of transfiguration in this season of fury.