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In Remembrance of Hiroshima – Tricycle: The Buddhist Review

“All things, O priests, are on fire.”

Monks sitting zazen. Hushed recesses of a temple. Summer morning in 1945. Birds chittering. Drone of an airplane.

“The eye, O priests, is on fire; forms are on fire; eye-consciousness is on fire; impressions received by the eye are on fire….”

Last breath of silence. Precarious equilibrium. In the temple: teetering universe of silence, poised on tip of silence earlier than the sudden—  


Buddhist temples stood at floor zero in Hiroshima. Cloistered for hundreds of years behind white stucco partitions within the boisterous Nakajima district, amongst banks, road entrance markets, sake bars and retailers, the temples supplied oases of quiet and contemplation. Gardens of combed sand. Ponds of irises and goldfish. Monks within the Pure Land temples, the Tendai, and Zen temples would have roused earlier than daybreak. By 8:15 on the morning of August six, these within the Zen temples would have accomplished formal oryoki breakfast; some could have been raking leaves in courtyards, or performing kitchen chores; possibly they’d resumed sitting on their zafus, within the respiration stillness of zazen. Beyond the walled temple compounds, unsuspecting individuals of Hiroshima jammed trolley vehicles, or settled by open home windows at their workplace desks, or queued at distributors’ stalls, or walked alongside the sunlit thoroughfares beside the Motoyasugawa River. Soldiers flagged vans by checkpoints. Hundreds of faculty children, mobilized to assist demolish picket buildings and widen streets by town, huddled in work crews because the airplane poised on its tip of silence earlier than the—  


Monks in Buddhist temples vaporized immediately. Vanished in a sky wrenched open, a white noise of deafening gentle.

From the “Fire Sermon” of the Buddha: “The ear is on fire; sounds are on fire…the nose is on fire; odors are on fire…the tongue is on fire; tastes are on fire…the body is on fire; things tangible are on fire —”

A lightweight flash not of satori; a light-weight flash of atoms cleaving aside. Enlightenment: hurling shockwave. Bone-melting furnace of exploding gentle.

“The mind is on fire; ideas are on fire…mind-consciousness is on fire; impressions received by the mind are on fire —”


It’s the autumn of 1997 and I’m in Hiroshima. I sit on a bench underneath maple timber, on the epicenter of the blast, and I look straight up into heaven. That sky is the place the God of my childhood Sunday faculty classes doesn’t dwell. That sky is the place the solar burst in cataclysmic bloom, unfolding its million lotus petals of thermonuclear hearth.

Conspicuously American, I’m sitting within the Peace Park. I’ve traveled from Kanegasaki, seven hours north of right here by bullet practice, the place I’m presently dwelling and dealing and the place I typically sit zazen at Taiyo-ji Zen Temple.

Now in Hiroshima I’m watching a couple of wives and husbands wheel child strollers. Here the place town lay charred flat, some highschool ladies seek the advice of and giggle then disperse; a jogger passes; pigeons wagtail huffily and peck the sidewalk. The odor of stale mud emanates from the river. Traffic and metropolis noises mingle with the distant tong of the struck Peace Bell. Women employees sweep ginkgo leaves. A vagrant grabbles round a trash pail for cigarette butts. Heaped on the wrought iron fence lie tribute wreaths and garlands of folded paper cranes.

I had not initially deliberate to go to Hiroshima. Then I understood I wanted to make this pilgrimage. In 1982, once I joined almost one million individuals in a historic march by the streets of Manhattan in help of the Nuclear Weapons Freeze, an aged Japanese girl from a busload of Hiroshima survivors handed me a banner. It pictured the bomb-demolished shell of town’s Industrial Promotion Hall. Now, seated on this bench, I watch ravens flocking it. They’re black because the black rain that sizzled over Hiroshima after the fireball dissipated. The birds roost at vacant home windows of the rubbled brick edifice. They perch on the tortured metal armature of the dome. This construction, nicely-recognized from postwar pictures, has been declared by the United Nations a World Cultural Heritage Site, enshrined endlessly as a memorial and emphatic warning to future generations. 

The Hiroshima Peace Memorial as we speak | Photo by Rap Dela Rea

Every particular person working inside this shell of a constructing on that August morning of 1945 disintegrated within the warmth glare of the Doomsday Bomb. Hundreds of dazed survivors from surrounding neighborhoods, blinded, their pores and skin barbecued, shrieking, ran or fell into the river only a few yards from the place I’m sitting, they usually drowned. I’ve not fortified myself emotionally. Seeing this constructing has slammed me within the chest. It requires twenty minutes, maybe longer, to recompose myself as soon as the tears start.

The unimaginable scope of human struggling.

It’s astonishing to think about all the things throughout the vary of my imaginative and prescient—buildings, bridges, timber—obliterated in a mere quarter-second. People like these individuals ambling previous me as we speak, smiling, speaking…

Nearby, near the Atomic Bomb Museum, I uncover a hummock of origami paper cranes, hundreds of them heaped in brilliant pastels. They festoon the bottom of the “Children’s Peace Monument.” This shrine commemorates the hundreds of infants, toddlers, and faculty children who died when “Little Boy”—a fiendish nickname the American navy conceived for the uranium bomb—dazzled the sky above them in that deadly prompt earlier than their world collapsed. The shrine additionally commemorates a little bit lady, Sadako Sasaki, who perished from leukemia attributable to atomic radiation within the brute aftermath of Little Boy. Sasaki endeavored to fold a thousand paper cranes for peace earlier than she died. According to Japanese customized, an individual who creates a thousand origami cranes receives one want. She wished for a world free of nuclear weapons. I look at tags affixed to lengthy strands of gaily particolored, festive origami cranes—prayers for peace from kids all through the world. I discover none from the United States.

I enterprise contained in the Atomic Bomb Museum, braving its displays. Torn, blood-smeared jackets of kids. A cement wall bristling with glass shards hurricaned by the blast. A boy’s fingernails that slid off his maimed fingers earlier than he died, preserved by his mom. Photos of the flattened metropolis of ash. Photos of comatose women and men, of victims gasping in hospitals, their our bodies torched to carbon. A white wall drabbled by streaks of the radioactive black rain. It seems to be like an execution wall stained by blood of liquid tar, the blood of humanity’s festering coronary heart… Broken wrist watches stopped at exactly 8:15 a.m., the second when Hiroshima erupted as hell unto the earth… A bicycle just like the mangled skeleton of a prehistoric beast… A piece of a financial institution’s entrance wall, seared completely with a human shadow flash-printed by the bomb explosion when it turned the particular person’s flesh to superheated mist… A shattered bell from a Buddhist temple.

Outside the museum, shaken, I web page by a thick visitor ebook signed by guests from everywhere in the world. France. Germany. Canada. Belgium. Brazil. India. Nigeria. Egypt. China. Poland. Again I see no names from the United States. It happens to me that I’ve by no means met an individual in America who’s visited Hiroshima.


During World War II, my dad, Gene Ruhl—a nineteen-yr-previous rural child removed from the cloistered hills of our native Appalachia—endured two years as a gunner’s mate on the USS LST 743, witnessing demise and dive-bombers within the South Pacific. He manned the boat’s entrance machine weapons when troops landed on the exploding seashores of New Guinea, the Admiralty Islands, the Philippines, and the jungle shores of Borneo, air slit with shrapnel and flares. After two years of preventing to wrest sweltering, mosquito-ridden islands from the Japanese, the following cease was Japan itself. American troops dreaded the invasion, anticipating unparalleled slaughter. My father shared that dread. “We thought it would be a bloodbath. Our fleet was off the coast of Japan, getting ready to go in.”   

On the night of August 6, 1945, rumors unfold by the LST. Then information came to visit Armed Forces radio. A couple of days later newspapers arrived within the ship’s small library. Gene took one to his bunk, the place he realized the United States had detonated a futuristic science-fiction bomb. Its goal, the Japanese industrial metropolis of Hiroshima, had merely vanished. A couple of days later, one other of the brand new bombs dropped on Nagasaki. Abruptly, the struggle within the Pacific ended.

Soon after, because the American occupation started, my father and his buddies bought shore depart and walked by the Japanese port metropolis of Sasebo. “All we’d been hearing for years was how terrible the Japanese were,” my dad advised me. “But we went into Sasebo and my God – the kids were so cute and the people so friendly, and you’d think, ‘This is the enemy?’” He all the time chuckles when he relates this, wagging his head in disbelief. “It made you realize, people are just people, all over the world.” He strolled the streets together with his buddies, freely giving Hershey bars, taking photographs of beaming kids and Shinto shrines. Then my father and a buddy hopped into an Army jeep and hitched a journey to Nagasaki. 

When they arrived my father gaped incredulously at a large lowland of scathed and flattened rubble. The metropolis and its individuals had been swept away, clear to the cinder-grey horizon, as if by a mop. 

Years later my dad advised me, “Every politician, every one of these damn loudmouth congressmen, and every president who rattles on about winning a nuclear war should be made to go out and look at what one of those bombs can actually do. The destruction—it’s practically incomprehensible. And hell, the one they dropped on Nagasaki was just a little pop-gun compared to what they have now. It’s just unbelievable.”


“And with what are these on fire?” requested the Buddha. “With the fire of hatred, with the fire of…death, sorrow, lamentation, misery, grief, and despair are they on fire.”

Excerpted by permission of the creator from Appalachian Zen: Journeys in Search of True Home, from the American Heartland to the Buddha Dharma (Nov 2022) by Steve Kanji Ruhl, Monkfish Book Publishing Company, Rhinebeck NY


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