Seventy-one years ago on a bright, cloudless morning, death fell from the sky and the world was changed. A flash of light and a wall of fire destroyed a city, and demonstrated that mankind possessed the means to destroy itself.
Why do we come to this place, to Hiroshima? We come to ponder a terrible force unleashed in the not-so-distant past. We come to mourn the dead, including over a hundred thousand Japanese men, women and children, thousands of Koreans, a dozen Americans held prisoner. Their souls speak to us, they ask us to look inward, to take stock of who we are and what we might become.
It is not the fact of war that sets Hiroshima apart. Artifacts tell us that violent conflict appeared with the very first man. Our early ancestors, having learned to make blades from flint, and spears from wood, used these tools not just for hunting, but against their own kind. On every continent, the history of civilization is filled with war, whether driven by scarcity of grain, or hunger for gold, compelled by nationalist fervor or religious zeal. Empires have risen and fallen. Peoples have been subjugated and liberated. And at each juncture, innocents have suffered — a countless toll, their names forgotten by time.
The world war that reached its brutal end in Hiroshima and Nagasaki was fought among the wealthiest and most powerful of nations. Their civilizations had given the world great cities, and magnificent art. Their thinkers had advanced ideas of justice and harmony and truth. And yet the war grew out of the same base instinct for domination or conquest that had caused conflicts among the simplest tribes — an old pattern amplified by new capabilities and without new constraints. In the span of a few years, some 60 million people would die. Men, women, children, no different than us, shot, beaten, marched, bombed, jailed, starved, gassed to death.
There are many sites around the world that chronicle this war, memorials that tell stories of courage and heroism, graves and empty camps that echo of unspeakable depravity. Yet in the image of a mushroom cloud that rose into these skies we are most starkly reminded of humanity’s core contradiction; how the very spark that marks us as a species, our thoughts, our imagination, our language, our tool-making, our ability to set ourselves apart from nature and bend it to our will — those very things also give us the capacity for unmatched destruction.
How often does material advancement or social innovation blind us to this truth? How easily we learn to justify violence in the name of some higher cause. Every great religion promises a pathway to love and peace and righteousness, and yet no religion has been spared from believers who have claimed their faith is a license to kill.
Nations arise, telling a story that binds people together in sacrifice and cooperation, allowing for remarkable feats, but those same stories have so often been used to oppress and dehumanize those who are different.
Science allows us to communicate across the seas and fly above the clouds, to cure disease and understand the cosmos. But those same discoveries can be turned into ever more efficient killing machines.
The wars of the modern age teach us this truth. Hiroshima teaches this truth. Technological progress without an equivalent progress in human institutions can doom us. The scientific revolution that led to the splitting of an atom requires a moral revolution as well. That is why we come to this place.
We stand here, in the middle of this city, and force ourselves to imagine the moment the bomb fell. We force ourselves to feel the dread of children confused by what they see. We listen to a silent cry. We remember all the innocents killed across the arc of that terrible war, and the wars that came before, and the wars that would follow. Mere words cannot give voice to such suffering. But we have a shared responsibility to look directly into the eye of history and ask what we must do differently to curb such suffering again.
Someday the voices of the hibakusha will no longer be with us to bear witness. But the memory of the morning of Aug. 6, 1945, must never fade. That memory allows us to fight complacency. It fuels our moral imagination. It allows us to change.
And since that fateful day, we have made choices that give us hope. The United States and Japan forged not only an alliance, but a friendship that has won far more for our people than we could ever claim through war.
The nations of Europe built a union that replaced battlefields with bonds of commerce and democracy. Oppressed peoples and nations won liberation. An international community established institutions and treaties that worked to avoid war, and aspired to restrict, and roll back, and ultimately eliminate the existence of nuclear weapons.
Still, every act of aggression between nations, every act of terror and corruption and cruelty and oppression that we see around the world shows our work is never done.
We may not be able to eliminate man’s capacity to do evil, so nations and the alliances that we formed must possess the means to defend ourselves. But among those nations like my own that hold nuclear stockpiles, we must have the courage to escape the logic of fear and pursue a world without them. We may not realize this goal in my lifetime. But persistent effort can roll back the possibility of catastrophe.
We can chart a course that leads to the destruction of these stockpiles. We can stop the spread to new nations and secure deadly materials from fanatics. And yet that is not enough. For we see around the world today how even the crudest rifles and barrel bombs can serve up violence on a terrible scale.
We must change our mindset about war itself. To prevent conflict through diplomacy, and strive to end conflicts after they’ve begun. To see our growing interdependence as a cause for peaceful cooperation, and not violent competition. To define our nations not by our capacity to destroy, but by what we build. And perhaps above all, we must reimagine our connection to one another as members of one human race.
For this, too, is what makes our species unique. We’re not bound by genetic code to repeat the mistakes of the past. We can learn. We can choose. We can tell our children a different story, one that describes a common humanity, one that makes war less likely and cruelty less easily accepted.
We see these stories in the hibakusha: the woman who forgave a pilot who flew the plane that dropped the atomic bomb because she recognized that what she really hated was war itself; the man who sought out families of Americans killed here because he believed their loss was equal to his own.
My own nation’s story began with simple words: “All men are created equal and endowed by our Creator with certain unalienable rights, including life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” Realizing that ideal has never been easy, even within our own borders, even among our own citizens. But staying true to that story is worth the effort. It is an ideal to be strived for, an ideal that extends across continents and across oceans.
The irreducible worth of every person, the insistence that every life is precious, the radical and necessary notion that we are part of a single human family: That is the story that we all must tell.
That is why we come to Hiroshima, so that we might think of people we love, the first smile from our children in the morning, the gentle touch from a spouse over the kitchen table, the comforting embrace of a parent. We can think of those things and know that those same precious moments took place here, 71 years ago. Those who died, they are like us.
Ordinary people understand this, I think. They do not want more war. They would rather that the wonders of science be focused on improving life, and not eliminating it.
When the choices made by nations, when the choices made by leaders reflect this simple wisdom, then the lesson of Hiroshima is done.
The world was forever changed here. But today, the children of this city will go through their day in peace. What a precious thing that is. It is worth protecting, and then extending to every child.
That is the future we can choose; a future in which Hiroshima and Nagasaki are known not as the dawn of atomic warfare, but as the start of our own moral awakening.
広島だけが特別ではない。あらゆる文明は争いの歴史に満ちている。歴史の転換点において、罪のない人たちが苦しみ、多くの人たちが犠牲になった。その犠牲となった人たちの名前は、時が経つと忘れ去られた。
第二次大戦は、広島と長崎で終わりを迎えた。数年の間に6000万人もの人達が亡くなった。
空に上がったキノコ雲の中で、私たちは人類の大きな矛盾を突きつけられる。物質的な進歩が、こういったことから目をくらませる。どれだけたやすく私たちの暴力を、より高邁な理由のために正当化してきたか。
科学によって、空を飛び、病気を治し、科学によって宇宙を理解しようとする。そのような科学が、効率的な争いの道具となってしまうこともある。
私たちは今、この広島の真ん中に立ち、当時に思いを馳せている。子供たちの苦しみを思い起こし、子供たちが目にしたこと、声なき叫び声に耳を傾ける。
言葉だけで、そのような苦しみに声を与えるものではない。私たちには共有の責任がある。我々は、一体これから何を変えなければならないのか。
争いを避けるための様々な制度や条約もできた。制約をかけ、交代させ、ひいては核廃絶へと導くためのものだが、世界中で目にする国家間の攻撃的な行動、腐敗、残虐行為、抑圧は、「私たちのやることに終わりはないのだ」ということを示している。
私たちは、人類が悪事をおこなう能力を廃絶することはできないかもしれない。私たちは、自分自身を守るための道具を持たなければならないからだ。しかし我が国を含む保有国は、他国から攻撃を受けるから持たなければいけないという「恐怖の論理」から逃れる勇気を持つべきです。私が生きている間にこの目的は達成できないかもしれない。しかし、その可能性を追い求めていきたい。このような破壊をもたらすような核保有を減らし、この「道具」が狂信的な人たちに渡らないようにしなくてはならない。
私たちの心を変えなくてはならない。争いに対する考え方を変える必要がある。外交手段で解決し、争いを終わらせる努力をしなければならない。
暴力的な競争をするべきではない。私たちは互いのつながりを再び認識する必要がある。同じ人類の一員としての繋がりを再び確認する必要がある。つながりこそが人類を独自のものにしている。
世界はこの広島によって一変しました。しかし今日、広島の子供達は平和な日々を生きています。なんと貴重なことでしょうか。それを全ての子供達に広げていく必要があります。この未来こそ、私たちが選択する未来です。この未来こそ、最悪の未来の夜明けではないということを、そして私たちの道義的な目覚めであることを、広島と長崎が教えてくれたのです。
被爆者を抱きしめるオバマ米大統領の姿は、印象深かった。原子爆弾を実際に使用した唯一の国の指導者が、被爆国の犠牲者を悼んだ象徴性は心に響く。
その演説は高邁な理想に溢れてはいた。しかし、世界最大級の核兵器備蓄量を誇る国の最高司令官であることに変わりはない。
唯一の被爆国でありながら核廃絶よりも日米同盟の強化にひた走る安倍晋三首相の姿勢も見苦しい。自ら提唱した「希望の同盟」にふれ、「日米が力を合わせて世界に希望を生みだすともしびになる」と同盟の新たな姿を世界へアピールした。「希望の同盟」とは、米国の核の傘下で核使用を容認するものでしかない。首相は「希望の同盟」による世界貢献が、「広島、長崎で原爆の犠牲になったみたまの思いに応える唯一の道だ」と述べたが、アメリカの手伝いをして、世界中に自衛隊を派遣するのが、世界平和に貢献すると本気で思っているようだ。
戦争の悲惨さゆえに憲法9条を堅持してきた国の代表として、せめて記念すべきこの日に同盟強化を喜ぶスピ-チは聞きたくなかった。