Hiroshima: A Side trip for me, my brother and Max

Visiting Hiroshima is an experience that leaves a mark on your soul, much like the Pearl Harbor memorial does, but in a way that feels uniquely profound.

When I first arrived at the Peace Memorial Park, the centerpiece that immediately caught my eye was the A-Bomb Dome, a haunting structure that stands as a silent witness to the events of August 6, 1945.

The A-Bomb Dome, once the Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall, is one of the few buildings that survived the atomic blast, albeit in a skeletal, ruined form. Its crumbling walls and exposed steel frame are a stark reminder of the power of the bomb that obliterated the city in an instant. Standing there, I couldn’t help but think about the lives that were lost, the people who were going about their daily routines, unaware that everything was about to change forever.

This building, now preserved as a memorial, is a symbol of both destruction and resilience. It’s one of the most striking sights in the park, its twisted, ghostly remains contrasting with the vibrant life that has returned to the city.

As I thought about this place and the memorials I’ve visited around the world- the way only a few concrete buildings stood strong against the atomic bomb is a haunting reminder of the destructive power of war.

The museum itself was overwhelming. The sheer number of people visiting reminded me of the crowds in Hawaii at the Pearl Harbor Memorial, all drawn by a need to connect with history, to understand the gravity of what happened here. But the exhibit that hit me hardest was the one with the children’s clothes. Seeing those tiny garments, knowing their stories, made it nearly impossible to keep my composure. The weight of what those children—and the city—endured is unimaginable. It’s a vivid, painful testament to the ultimate trade-off that President Truman had to make: kill 200,000 people to end the war, or let the conflict drag on with even more lives lost. I’ve had my share of tough days as a leader but nothing compares to the gravity of that decision

One story that really stayed with me was about a young girl named Sadako. She survived the initial blast, but later developed leukemia from the radiation. Her story, and the thousands of paper cranes she folded in hopes of recovery, is immortalized in the Children’s Peace Monument. It’s a heart-wrenching reminder of the cost of war, particularly on the most innocent among us.

The entire museum was a deeply moving experience, one that demanded a level of emotional control I wasn’t sure I could do. I had to make a conscious decision not to cry, though it wasn’t easy. The dark, windowless space felt suffocating at times, much like the somber atmosphere at the September 11 Memorial in New York City. Both places force you to confront the darkest aspects of humanity, but they also compel you to reflect on the resilience of the human spirit.

After such an intense visit, we decided to shift gears and grab some food. We went to this place that was unlike anything I’ve experienced—three stories of small cafés, each serving different variations of Okonomiyaki. It had the vibe of an American diner but with a distinctly Japanese twist. I’ll admit, the food was a bit strange to me, but I was there with my son and my brother, and that made it worth every bite. I’ll let you in on a little secret—I actually liked it. But don’t go telling anyone that!

In the end, my visit to Hiroshima wasn’t just about seeing another historical site; it was about connecting with a part of history that challenges us to be better, to strive for peace in a world that’s seen too much war. It’s a reminder that even in the darkest times, there’s hope, and there’s the possibility of a brighter future.