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I must talk about various things regarding the Barbie incident.

I saw a post about it from someone who is neither directly involved nor from Nagasaki or Hiroshima, and it made me realize that there are things I must say.

I was born in Nagasaki and grew up listening to stories from the survivors, being a third-generation survivor myself. Most survivors are no longer with us, so I feel compelled to speak up.

In Nagasaki, kids grow up hearing about the atomic bomb. We were packed like sushi in a gymnasium without air conditioning or even fans during the scorching summer, and we listened to stories about the bomb. It was incredibly tough for me.

I imagine it was even harder for the elderly who spoke about their experiences. As a child, I couldn't fully comprehend their pain, and now, I can hardly remember most of the stories I heard. I can only recall one or two.

Every year during this time, gruesome images that would make PTA elsewhere go crazy were displayed in the hallways. I heard that many of the horrifying exhibits that used to traumatize visitors at the Atomic Bomb Museum have been removed, and the museum has been considerably sanitized. I'm not sure about the current situation, but that's how it was when I was there.

There was one photograph that I could never bear to look at as a child – a picture of Tadashi Taniguchi. You can find it if you search, but it's a shocking image with a viewer discretion warning. Still, I want people to see it.

I couldn't walk down the hallway where that photo was displayed, and I always took a different route, avoiding it so I wouldn't have to see it.

Now, I think of my grandpa who went to the ruins to search for my sister. He couldn't look away or take a different path. The pain must have been unimaginable.

Besides photographs, there were many living people moaning in pain back then, and there must have been even more who succumbed to suffering.

My grandpa walked for miles, pulling a handcart through the debris-laden streets of Nagasaki, searching for my sister.

Even though my grandpa was not a child, I'm sure there were elementary school kids who did similar things. I don't just think they might have been there; they were there. I heard the stories from the people themselves, and I still remember them.

I can't forget the stories I heard as a child, such as the young siblings finding their father's burnt corpse in the ruins and cremating him. They didn't have enough firewood, and their father ended up half-burnt. They ran away after seeing the brain tissue oozing out, and that became their final farewell.

I can never forget those stories I heard as a child, and even now, they still bring pain and suffering, making my hands tremble and tears flow.

I wonder how my grandpa, who ran away from that father's brain tissue, could expose his unimaginable trauma and everlasting scars to the world.

Now, I feel like I understand a little.

Even someone like me, who experienced such unimaginable trauma, has gone through pain that I can't even imagine being compared to being discarded, forgotten, and ignored. Compared to what those people experienced, my suffering means nothing.

My trembling hands and the palpitations and dizziness I experienced are nothing compared to the tremendous pain that many others went through.

Memories fade irreversibly every time they pass through people's lips. The memories that I couldn't bear to be forgotten are almost forgotten now.

The unimaginable pain that existed 78 years ago has mostly disappeared, and we can no longer pass it on.

The people who suffered the most from the atomic bomb perished in the ruins, rotting away without being able to convey it to anyone.

Even those who saw it with their own eyes mostly took the memories with them to their graves. Most of them are now under the tombstones.

Compared to the words of the elderly, my words seem so light. I think that speaking with such light words would be better than keeping silent, as silence has led to this result.

I feel like I might occasionally choose to stop imagining the unimaginable pain and consume the suffering of others in an amusing way to live on.

Before I forget the pain and suffering of those elderly people, whose faces and voices I can no longer recall, I will leave this here.

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