That afternoon, the sun gently shone on the streets of Nagasaki, despite the intense heat typical of early August. From my hotel not far from Oura Cathedral, I began my journey on foot to the tram stop. My steps took me not only to a place, but also to a retracing of a stirring history: the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum and Peace Park.
We had prepared a full-day tram pass and a city map—simple tools that were incredibly helpful in navigating this city. From the Oura Cathedral stop, I took Nagasaki Denki tram No. 5 toward Hotarujaya, then transferred to tram No. 1 toward Akasako. This route passed through the city center and the shinkansen station where we had arrived earlier. Soon, we arrived at the Atomic Bomb Museum stop, signaling our approach to our main destination.
From the stop, a walk of a few hundred meters led us up a slight incline. While not far, the uphill path combined with the heat of the sun made us a little breathless. The road was fairly quiet, with only the occasional vehicle passing by. Old buildings stood on either side, silent but possessing a distinct aura.
At a T-junction, I paused in front of a bronze statue in a somewhat exotic style, reminiscent of ancient Egyptian sculpture. As I approached, I discovered it was the Vision of Peace, a symbol of friendship between Nagasaki and St. Paul, Minnesota, United States—two cities that have been sister cities since 1955. The statue stood silently, as if watching over those who passed through the alleys of memory to the museum.
Not far from there, we arrived at a spacious complex with an open courtyard. There stood the Nagasaki National Peace Memorial Hall for Atomic Bomb Victims, a name that was enough to make one’s chest ache. In the courtyard, a golden statue depicts a man with four children and doves—icons of peace that seemed to invite anyone who came to contemplate. The atmosphere was quiet, even the sound of footsteps felt loud.
The entrance to the museum was on the left. As soon as I stepped inside, a blast of cool air from the air conditioner greeted me—a stark contrast to the heat outside. Near the entrance was a vending machine selling cold drinks. I bought a juice for 130 yen. As I savored the refreshing drink, I thought to myself—in Japan, vending machine prices are surprisingly stable. Three decades ago, they weren’t much different.
One thing that struck a chord: wheelchairs were available near the entrance, and anyone could use them on a trustworthy basis. No attendants, no forms—just take one and use it. A system that demonstrated the trust the Japanese people have in their visitors.
We then entered the hallway on the left and took the elevator to the top floor, where the lobby and ticket counter are located. Admission to the museum is only 200 yen. As soon as we entered the first exhibition room, the atmosphere changed drastically. From the bright light outside, we entered a dimly lit room that exuded a somber and reflective aura.
On the front wall, a message was emblazoned in Japanese and ten other international languages—English, Korean, Chinese, French, Russian, Arabic, Portuguese, Dutch, Spanish, and German. That one sentence hit me hard:
“Nagasaki must be the last place exposed to an atomic bomb.”
Unfortunately, it’s not yet available in Indonesian. But its meaning is powerful: a call to action that no other city in the world suffer a similar fate.
I paused for a moment in front of a wall clock whose hands stopped at 11:02—the exact time the atomic bomb was dropped on Nagasaki on August 9, 1945. According to the description, this clock was found in a house near the Shinto shrine in Sakamoto-machi, about 800 meters from the epicenter.
Not far away, I saw part of the ruins of Urakami Cathedral, Nagasaki’s largest Catholic church, which had been completely destroyed by the bomb. The fact that Nagasaki was the city with the largest Catholic population in Japan stunned me. Ironically, an area inhabited by a peaceful community was the target of such destruction. But that’s history; it’s not always fair.
In one of the main rooms stood a replica of the “Fat Man” atomic bomb. It looked simple, like a large, expressionless cylinder. It was hard to believe that such immense destruction began within its uncomplicated, massive body. Here I learned that the Nagasaki bomb contained Plutonium-239, unlike the Uranium-235 used on Hiroshima.
The museum also displays the moments leading up to the bomb’s drop. Apparently, Kokura was the primary target, but due to thick clouds and poor visibility, the pilot switched to Nagasaki. That split-second decision changed the fate of a city.
In the center of the room, an inverted pyramid-shaped installation adorned with photographs of world figures such as Einstein, Truman, Stalin, Churchill, and Roosevelt—figures who shaped the course of history leading up to the tragedy.
Another section of the museum displays a map of the nuclear-weapon states: America, Russia, China, England, France, India, Pakistan, Israel, and North Korea. The number of missiles they possess is clearly displayed, a reminder that the threat of nuclear war is far from over.
I continued walking and saw various artifacts from the bomb victims—melted glass bottles, burned coins, and other personal items no longer recognizable. There was also a room with recorded audio and video testimonies from hibakusha (atomic bomb survivors). Their voices, soft yet powerful, pierced my heart. They were not just victims, they were witnesses of our time.
One particularly touching story is that of Dr. Takashi Nagai, a doctor who survived but lost his family. Despite being ravaged by radiation, he continued to dedicate his life to treating victims and researching radiation therapy. He died in 1951 of leukemia—a silent, soul-shattering sacrifice.
Without realizing it, more than two hours had passed. Our tour of the museum had to continue to Peace Park, a place no less fraught with meaning. We returned to the foyer, returned the wheelchair, and walked slowly to the tram stop. There was still much to remember and reflect on.
