Nagasaki Peace Park

Start with the sound. Cicadas in the trees, if it is summer. The soft clatter of a fountain somewhere ahead. Footsteps on pale stone, and voices that seem to drop a little lower here than they do on the street below. Nagasaki Peace Park sits on a gentle rise in the Urakami district, in the north of the city. Many people arrive by escalator or by a long flight of steps. Climbing toward the top feels like leaving the ordinary city behind.

This is the place to understand one morning. On the ninth of August, 1945, at two minutes past eleven, an American bomber released an atomic bomb over Nagasaki. It exploded in the air above this valley. The weapon was a plutonium bomb, and its crew called it Fat Man. Three days earlier, a different bomb had destroyed Hiroshima. Nagasaki became the second city, and so far the last, to be struck by a nuclear weapon in war.

Here is a detail many visitors never hear. Nagasaki was not the first choice that day. The primary target was the industrial city of Kokura, further north. Haze and smoke hid the ground over Kokura, and the crew could not see their aiming point. With fuel running low, they turned toward Nagasaki. Even there, clouds covered much of the city. A gap opened over the Urakami valley — and that is where the bomb fell, away from the original aiming point near the harbour.

Now walk toward the far end of the long central plaza. The figure in front of you is the Peace Statue, made of bronze and nearly ten metres tall. It was created by the sculptor Seibo Kitamura, who came from Nagasaki Prefecture, and it was finished in 1955. The man sits with one leg folded and the other ready to rise. He is heavy, muscular, calm. He looks less like a monument to grief and more like a guardian.

Look carefully at his hands, because each one carries a message. The right hand points straight up, toward the sky. It is a warning about the threat of nuclear weapons, which came from above. The left arm stretches out level, palm down, as a gesture of peace and calm. The eyes are gently closed. According to the usual explanation, he is praying for the souls of those who died. The folded leg means quiet meditation. The other leg means readiness to stand and help the world.

In front of the statue, you will often see flowers, small notes, and strings of folded paper cranes. In Japan, the folded crane is a traditional symbol of long life and hope. After the war it also became a symbol of peace. Schoolchildren from across the country fold thousands of them and bring them here on trips. The colours shift through the year — bright reds, yellows and blues against the dark bronze. Sometimes they are fresh. Sometimes they are faded by rain and sun.

Every year on the ninth of August, this plaza fills with chairs. Survivors, families, officials and guests from abroad gather for the Peace Memorial Ceremony. At two minutes past eleven, a bell rings and the crowd falls silent. The mayor of Nagasaki reads a Peace Declaration, a statement addressed to the world, calling for an end to nuclear weapons. If you come on an ordinary day, try to picture these rows of people. The space was designed to hold them.

Now turn back toward the entrance and find the Fountain of Peace. Its spray opens in a shape that many people say looks like the wings of a dove, or a crane. The fountain has a specific and painful meaning. After the explosion, many injured people wandered through the burning valley asking for water. Many died without receiving any. The fountain was built in their memory, as an offering of the water they did not get. A stone nearby carries words written by a young survivor about that thirst.

Here is another detail that surprises many people. Before the bomb, part of this hill held the Urakami branch of Nagasaki Prison. It stood very close to the hypocenter, the point on the ground directly below the explosion. Everyone inside, prisoners and staff, was killed. Today, low foundation walls from the prison buildings have been uncovered and preserved in the park. They are easy to miss. Look for rough lines of old stone at ground level, quieter than any statue.

Along the sides of the park, you will find a scattered collection of sculptures. They were given by cities and countries from many parts of the world. Each one is different in style and material. Some are abstract. Some show mothers and children, or figures reaching upward. Together they turn the park into an open-air gallery about peace. Take a slow walk past them and read the small plaques. You will notice how many different nations chose to send something here.

If you have time, walk south down the hill to the smaller park below. That area marks the hypocenter itself. A tall, plain, dark monolith stands at the exact point under the explosion. Around it, the city goes about its normal life — trams, apartment blocks, people with shopping bags. Nearby stands the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum, which tells the story in close detail. It is worth giving it real time, because many of its objects are hard to look at quickly.

The district around you has its own long story. Urakami was home to a large community of Japanese Catholics. Their ancestors kept their faith in secret for generations, during centuries when Christianity was banned in Japan. Their cathedral, not far from here, was badly destroyed in the explosion. It was later rebuilt. For many local Catholics, the bombing became part of a much older history of suffering and survival. That history gives this valley a particular quiet weight.

Before you leave, stand for a moment at the top of the steps. Look out over the rooftops of the valley. Green hills rise on every side, the same hills that once held in the heat and blast of that morning. Listen again — to the fountain, the cicadas, the voices of a school group nearby. Life came back to this ground. As you walk down, you are walking through a neighbourhood that was rebuilt, house by house, by people who chose to stay.