One Time, One Meeting

by Cooper Sheridan (Canada)

Making a local connection Japan

Empathy is a language of its own. The ability to understand, interpret and share feelings with another regardless of race, age, gender, religion, even language, itself! It's a beautiful realization that I came to experience more so than ever when I travelled to Hiroshima, Japan, for August 6th, 2019. It was there and then that I attended the annual Peace Ceremony marking 74 years since the first atomic bomb was used in an act of war. Pocketed in a small cauldron of land surrounded by rolling mountains and Seto Sea Inland Sea shoreline, Hiroshima is pleasantly green and lush, which is surprising for a city that was reduced to ash and ruble just 74 years ago. Standing at the centre of the city is the infamous "A-Domb" building. Although it was located just a few dozen metres away from the epicentre of the bomb, the uniquely-shaped structure withstood a majority of the blast. Now, all that remains is the skeleton of a building with melted and warped beams and piles of rust-coloured brick. It was the day after the Peace Ceremony, August 7th 1945. The August air was humid and the sunshine was stunning. Just outside of this ironically beautiful structure sat an elderly Japanese man in a spandex speed-bike suit. He wore glasses and had a slight hunch to his back. Like many of the elderly Japanese people I had met, he had an inviting smile. Although he was nose-deep in between the pages of a newspaper, I knew I could approach him as he sat on a small fold-out chair with his back on the brick wall that served as platform for the gate forming a perimeter around the A-Domb. He had a cardboard sign that read, in English, "Learn to Make Japanese Paper Crane." Beside his feet lay transparent fishing tackle boxes filled with origami paper and folded paper animals. I was intrigued. I straightened by back, stood tall and firmly said, "Ohayo Gozaimasu (Good Morning)!" He grinned from ear-to-ear and was delighted with my Japanese accent. In understandable but broken English, he encouraged me to sit in one of his foldout chairs and learn to make paper cranes. After taking me through the eight-or-so steps to required to make a paper crane, he explained to me what the crane signified. The paper crane is a symbol of hope to the Japanese people as it is believed that if you fold 1,000 of the bird-shaped figures then a wish of yours will come true. This was especially true for survivors of the Atomic Bomb as they battled chronic illness from the atomic weapons lingering abnormal affects. He then presented a laminated card to me that informed me he was an "in-utero" survivor meaning his mother was pregnant with him at the time the Atomic Bomb was dropped. He then asked me to follow him (again, in broken English). The man lead me on a short walk to the epicentre of the A-Bomb marked by a small plaque. He then walked me through his mothers footsteps on that fateful day as we crossed over bridges throughout the Peace Park and the beautiful city. It was hard to believe what happened as I walked through the action-packed and lively streets of modern-day Hiroshima. Despite the tragic events that lead us up to this moment, I felt a strange feeling of inner-peace as I walked with this man that I didn't share much in common with. Although we were years apart in age, distant in cultural values and religion, I could relate to this man. And he could relate to me. Part of being human is being able to put yourself in the shoes of another, even if they are no longer with us physically. We parted with a traditional Japanese saying that he taught me: "Ichi-Go-Ichi-E" or "One Time, One Meeting." Although I'm ashamed that I forget his name, I will take his lesson with me everywhere I go. A lesson of hope. A lesson of peace. A lesson of love. A lesson of empathy.