On August 6, 1945, at the age of six, I was exposed to the atomic bomb at my home in the town of Yoshijima-hagoromo, 1.7km from the hypocenter. That morning, under a clear, beautiful blue sky, the air-raid alert was lifted at 7:31a.m., and life was about to begin as usual.

Memories of that day that cannot be erased even if I try

I found a Benkei crab at the entrance to the bomb shelter in my garden and squatted down to catch it. Suddenly, after the flash of light, I heard a cacophony of a great many loud bangs erupting over one another and I was blown into the air-raid shelter. At that moment, my surroundings were pitch black, and I huddled on the floor, braving the dust and pebbles that were blowing in my face, praying that the situation would soon be over.
  Eventually, the blast wind began to subside, and I felt the surroundings grow faintly brighter. Cautiously crawling outside the shelter, I saw that every building in our town had been flattened by the blast, leaving a vast expanse of rubble as far as the eye could see.
  My father, who was standing in the yard in his undershirt, was standing there stunned, burned and charred black from the intense heat rays that had been hitting him all over.
  My mother, with severe burns from her left shoulder to her elbow, was tearing off roof tiles with her hair disheveled and a look of desperation, standing atop the collapsed roof. This was because my four-year-old brother and two-year-old sister were buried alive beneath her. With my mother carrying two young children, both covered in blood, at her sides, I followed behind, supporting my father, who was badly burned all over. We began our evacuation, aiming for the aid station at the Yoshijima Army Airfield, about 3 kilometers from our home.
  I climbed over the piles of debris and stepped out onto a wide street, where I found a line of people who had been severely burned, their entire bodies bright red. People formed a silent line of evacuees, with the skin peeled from their bodies hanging from their hands like tattered rags, heads bowed as they moved forward. It was a scene of devastation beyond anything imaginable in this world. Here and there, people could be seen on the side of the road, trapped in the rubble, calling for help, and others who had run out of strength and were just dying. When we went out to the riverbank, we found many dead bodies floating on the surface of the river, which had come from upstream.
  After a while, my father's face, which had been burned all over, became swollen, and his eyelids were completely closed, rendering him blind. It was almost evening when we finally arrived at the aid station at the airfield while helping my father as best we could. The place was crowded with many victims, but the treatment was limited to applying oil to prevent the surface of the burns from drying out. At this time, my young brother and sister had already died in my mother's arms and never received medical treatment.
  We were able to enter a small air-raid shelter in a corner of the airfield, where my father fell asleep and passed away before the dawn on August 10.

Death of two brothers

  On August 11, after a miraculous reunion with my second brother, who had been missing since the bombing, the three of us—my mother, my brother, and I left the air-raid shelter and walked 20 kilometers to the village of Miyauchi, where we had been evacuated. I was able to sleep soundly on the tatami mats for the first time in a long time and soon recovered my strength, but my older brother began to suffer from fever, vomiting, and diarrhea. In hindsight, it may have been acute A-bomb sickness. However, he was diagnosed with typhoid, and we three were quarantined in the hospital, where my brother passed away on August 30, with my mother taking care of him.

Mother's death

In September, my mother began searching again for my brother, a seventh grader, who had disappeared after leaving for building demolition work. 10 or so days later, she finally found some of his remains in a small box and a piece of paper that had "Died on September 14" written on it. My mother broke down in tears and could not stand for a while.
  After that, my mother looked for a job and was hired as a factory worker at a company in Hiroshima City, which required a two-hour commute by train each way. Around this time, her health visibly began to decline. Even though she was feeling unwell, she continued to work without a day's rest while taking medicine, and in the early morning of November 7, 1953, she passed away while suffering from a severe headache.
  I somehow felt that the fact that my mother's health did not improve even eight years after the war might be due to the effects of the atomic bombing, but in the end, the cause of death was given as "probably a cerebral hemorrhage and heart attack due to overwork."
  At that time, I was in the third year of junior high school. My relatives took me in, and upon graduating from high school, I was able to find a job and become a part of society, and here I am today.

My thoughts

  The feelings of hatred and anger toward the inhumane atomic bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima for the first time in human history will never disappear. However, peace will never come from hatred. Though the hatred and sorrow can never be forgotten, I believe it is my mission today to transcend them and to continue telling my A-bomb experience to the next generation for the abolition of nuclear weapons and the realization of lasting peace in the world.