The Birth of the End

I almost forgot what happened on this day some sixty-three years ago. I suppose it's easy for me to let it slip from memory, as it transpired some thirty-four years before my conception. I read about it in great detail - from historians and those fortunate enough to live through it - and heard its name called many a time in the classroom. I still wonder how we, as a species, came to commit such an act. Most of all, I wonder what happened to that cry of "never again".

Already, sixty-three years have passed since members of the United States military piloted a B-29 dubbed "Enola Gay" over the city of Hiroshima and dropped an atomic bomb onto it; three days hence, and the exercise would be repeated, this time on the city of Nagasaki. Had I borne witness to something like that, I could not begin to describe it in words, for they would not do justice to the horrors experienced. I read about the vapourization and the sky on fire and the everlasting sickness. I also read of the widely-held belief that these acts spared a million more lives, that they were necessary to foment a surrender from the Japanese, beliefs to this day I have trouble ingesting. Perhaps that's cognitive dissonance in action for you: finding some means by which to justify such an egregious act so that one may sleep a little more soundly at night.

What did the last sixty-three years bring us? I would have hoped this sort of event would have humbled us a little, made us privy to the dangers of trying to harness such an awesome amount of power for personal gain; alas, things have become much worse. Soon enough, America wasn't the only kid on the block with this toy, so it needed more; and so, its counterpart had to do the same. I can't imagine the number of times we came within a hair's breadth of my generation never existing - the same sword of Damacles remains dangling above our heads to this day, for there are more kids on the block with the same set of toys, enough to kill us all several times over. Funny enough, these kids feel the need to tell the rest of the kids on the block they are not allowed to have toys of their own, and threaten to raise their fists and hurl stones at them should they dare try.

I can't believe I walked into this. Will it get any better soon?

As I write this, I am reminded of a discussion I had with someone I met at a peace rally in Toronto some three years back. She belonged to an organization working towards a better world for all, founded on more cooperative principles than the materialism in which we immerse ourselves today. She mentioned her party recognizes the right of North Korea to develop nuclear weapons as a means to defend itself from foreign imperialism. I suppose it was the party's response to the hypocrisy inherent in America's deciding who can and cannot have these toys; nonetheless, hearing those words emanate from such a sweet voice sent a chill up my spine.

Have we come to such a point when we're condoning the development of nuclear weapons because one side has to defend itself from the other? Were any of the surviving residents of Hiroshima or Nagasaki consulted before this decision was made? Or are we willing to brush aside the reality that is total annihilation as we stockpile more and more toys for ourselves? If this party is hoping to build a better world for all of us, why are nuclear weapons - nay, why are weapons on the agenda, period?

In sixty-three years, we seem to have learned nothing constructive from this atrocious happening; rather we've succeeded in scaring and shoving each other to the verge of our collective doom. I, for one, have grown weary of the rhetoric I hear and see on the news about the dangers of a nuclear North Korea, or of a nuclear Iran: what about a nuclear Israel? what about nuclear Pakistan and India? or a nuclear United States, the only nation to this date having actually used one of these weapons on civilian lives? It's high time we, as people, as citizens of this planet, denounced these weapons, regardless of whose hands they may lie, for everyone's hands are the "wrong hands".

I'm sorry, I didn't mean to start pontificating. I told myself I would refrain from doing so, though I have a tough time doing so when writing an emotionally-charged piece such as this one. I cannot speak for the residents of Hiroshima or Nagasaki, nor can I do the same for anyone ravaged by war, for I have been fortunate enough not to have one thrust upon me. I'm hoping it stays that way; I'm hoping, as well, that this awful spectre is lifted from the shoulders of those haunted by it.

It may be said that, sixty-three years ago, we witnessed the birth of the end. Sixty-three years hence, I hope we witness the birth of the end of this madness.

Mahalo.