Honoring Hiroshima’s Legacy and the Nobel Prize for Peace in a World Still at War
Honoring Hiroshima’s Legacy and the Nobel Prize for Peace in a World Still at War
The Call of Hiroshima: Then and Now
In early January, Adrian and I visited Hiroshima, a city that emerged from one of history’s darkest moments as a global symbol of resilience. The thousands of paper cranes fluttering across its memorials—each a wish for peace—are poignant reminders of how the city transformed tragedy into a plea for hope and renewal.
Among Hiroshima’s memorials, none capture this transformation more poignantly than the cranes, which trace their origin to Sadako Sasaki. Exposed to the atomic bomb at just two years old, Sadako developed leukemia a decade later. From her hospital bed, she began folding cranes, inspired by a Japanese legend promising a wish to anyone who completes a thousand. Though Sadako passed away before reaching her goal, her classmates finished the cranes in her honor, immortalizing her dream of healing and peace.
Today, they stand as testaments to resilience and the power of collective effort. As Hiroshima seeks to register Sadako’s cranes with UNESCO’s Memory of the World in 2025, her story reminds us that individual stories can ripple outward, shaping collective memory and inspiring action across generations.
Our time in Hiroshima became deeply personal when we sat down with Toshiko Tanaka, an 84-year-old survivor of the atomic bomb—a surprise encounter arranged by my friend, Chika Miyamori. Tanaka’s story—shaped by the trauma of that day and decades of advocacy—stayed with me, still threading through my thoughts. Like Sadako’s quiet efforts, Toshiko’s journey from silence to advocacy reflects the slow, deliberate work of building peace—a process that requires intention and perseverance, even when the outcome is uncertain.
When the Nobel Peace Prize was awarded last week to Nihon Hidankyo, a grassroots organization of atomic bomb survivors, I found myself thinking back to that visit. Fittingly, the organization’s logo is a paper crane—symbolizing resilience and the power of small acts. The lessons of Hiroshima are not sealed in the past; they are a blueprint for how we must engage with the world today. From Gaza to Ukraine, Lebanon to Sudan, and beyond, civilians remain trapped in cycles of suffering that defy comprehension. Hiroshima’s message is as urgent now as it was 79 years ago: every small act of compassion—through advocating for justice, amplifying the voices of the marginalized, refusing to be complacent, or simply listening with empathy—brings us closer to a world of peace.
Through Toshiko’s Eyes: Memory, Silence, and Survival
Over a meal of Hiroshima’s signature okonomiyaki, Toshiko began to share her story, her voice steady but weighted by memory. At 8:15 a.m. on August 6, 1945—just a few days shy of her seventh birthday—she was on her way to school, only two kilometers from Ground Zero. As the hum of an American B-29 bomber grew louder overhead, she glanced up—and then, in an instant, the sky erupted into a searing flash of light. Waves of blistering heat struck her body, scorching her exposed skin. Instinctively, she raised her right arm to shield her face, saving her eyes but leaving her arm, head, and neck seared with burns.
As she staggered home, Toshiko witnessed a landscape transformed beyond recognition. People moved in eerie silence, their skin charred and peeling in ribbons from their bodies, dangling like loose cloth. Children collapsed mid-step, their frail bodies giving out without a sound. Toshiko described the scene with a haunting metaphor: it was like watching tomatoes cooked in boiling water, their skins slipping away effortlessly.
The image lodged itself deep in my chest—a dull, tightening ache that radiated through my ribs. It wasn’t just for the children of Hiroshima, whose bodies fell silently, but for the children on my phone screen—small bodies pulled from the rubble, their fragile limbs coated in ash, trembling in terror. Their suffering clings to the air, sinking into my bones like a damp, inescapable cold—heavy and penetrating, settling deep into the marrow. It serves as a haunting reminder that no distance can shield us from the collective grief and devastation of human lives torn apart.
When Toshiko regained consciousness after days of drifting in and out, the sky was thick with ‘terrible smoke.’ It billowed from schoolyards and parks, where bodies—too many to bury—were reduced to ash in makeshift cremations. The air was heavy with a kind of loss that clung to everything, a grim presence that testified to the nearly 200,000 lives erased by the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki before the year’s end.
As we sat in Toshiko’s home, the comforting aroma of tea and sizzling okonomiyaki wrapped around us, cocooning us momentarily from the weight of her memories. The warmth of the meal, her kindness, and the intimacy of her storytelling created a sharp contrast—moments of quiet human connection set against the backdrop of tales of unfathomable suffering. That dissonance has stayed with me, a reminder that peace, though it can be found in the small rituals of care and hospitality, is delicate—fragile, always at risk of slipping through our fingers.
Later, as we walked through Peace Memorial Park, we felt the same quiet Toshiko had described—a silence heavy with memory and loss. The monuments stood like quiet sentinels, their presence solemn and immovable, bearing witness to lives stolen and histories that demand to be remembered. Standing among them, I felt the enormity of human suffering press inward—a familiar heaviness from other places scarred by violence. It stirred the same questions I’ve wrestled with before: How do we make sense of the depths of cruelty we are capable of? And how, in the face of so much darkness, do we find the strength to keep moving forward?
I’ve walked the grounds of Dachau and Auschwitz and investigated genocide and war crimes in Rwanda and Bosnia. But this recent trip to Hiroshima unearthed something even deeper. Despite all those tragedies, we were confronted with the inescapable truth that 'never again' has become an empty promise. The suffering I’ve encountered and documented was meant to teach us something enduring, yet today, cycles of genocide, war crimes, and mass atrocities persist with impunity, defying lessons we should have learned by now.
Dachau, Hiroshima, Bosnia, and Rwanda and countless other places have taught me that memory, while essential, is not enough. True peace demands courage, action, and the resolve to confront history's darkest moments. These stories are not relics of the past; they resonate in the present. As atrocities continue to unfold, the world seems increasingly willing to avert its gaze, numbed by the constant churn of suffering. This indifference allows these cycles of violence to persist, forcing us to recognize that reflection alone is not enough—we are called to act. And action, however small, is the only way to begin breaking these cycles and building something new.
It became clear that Toshiko’s story was more than personal pain—it was a plea, a call to empathy, understanding, and, most urgently, action. Both Dachau and Hiroshima teach that peace is not an inheritance; it is a daily choice, one we must continue to make even when the burden of history feels unbearable.
In the months after the atomic bombing, Toshiko recounted how survivors began experiencing alarming symptoms: strange purple spots, uncontrolled bleeding, relentless nausea, and vomiting that could not be stopped. At the time, no one understood that these were caused by radiation exposure—a tragedy compounded by the U.S. government’s denial of radiation-related illnesses to control the narrative around the bomb’s effects. Many who initially appeared unscathed later succumbed to agonizing deaths, their bodies slowly unraveling under the weight of radiation poisoning. Toshiko herself still battles lingering health complications—painful sores, cataracts clouding her vision, and abnormal white blood cell counts that serve as constant reminders of the invisible scars left by that day.
Toshiko shared one particularly haunting memory: her aunt, a woman in her twenties, left the house that morning and never came back—a disappearance that remains unresolved, hanging in the air like unfinished grief. This personal loss mirrors the thousands of stories from that day—families torn apart, their loved ones swallowed by chaos, never to be seen again. The bomb didn’t just steal lives; it left behind a hollow ache of unanswered questions, forcing survivors to wrestle with loss in a world that demanded they move forward without closure.
In a world shaped by loss and unanswered questions, survivors like Toshiko have folded their lives, piece by piece, like delicate paper cranes—patiently and with intention—into pleas for peace. Her journey shows how healing begins with small, deliberate acts.
The work of peace does not erase trauma but offers a path toward healing—as seen in efforts like South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, which laid a foundation for a fractured nation to rebuild. Whether personal or collective, peace-building allows individuals and nations to move forward, even when scars remain. In Rwanda, community-led gacaca courts sought reconciliation after the genocide, yet the country's increasingly authoritarian government raises concerns. True peace must be rooted in accountability and inclusivity, ensuring that justice is not sacrificed for stability.
The Transformative Power of Storytelling and Peace-Building
For most of her life, Toshiko Tanaka carried her memories of Hiroshima in silence. Japanese cultural norms—especially for women—discouraged open discussions of trauma, favoring quiet endurance over confrontation. Survivors feared societal prejudice, knowing that sharing their stories could affect not only their own lives but also their children’s future. As her daughter Reiko—now breaking cultural norms in her own way as an executive coach—explained, Japan’s high-context culture values subtlety and non-confrontation, which made it difficult for many survivors to openly process their experiences.
Tanaka’s transformation truly began after her husband’s death from cancer, a personal loss that propelled her toward healing and connection. Seeking a way to channel her grief, she joined the Peace Boat, a global initiative that fosters dialogue and promotes peace by bringing together survivors of conflict. As Tanaka traveled to over 30 countries, meeting others who had endured war and displacement, her personal journey of grief evolved into one of shared resilience and advocacy. Much like a paper crane carefully folded, each conversation Tanaka had along the way contributed to a broader movement for peace—small, deliberate acts of connection that gained momentum across borders.
These encounters made her realize that her story was not just about Hiroshima—it belonged to a larger, global narrative of resilience and healing. Her decision to break her silence reflects the immense power of storytelling in dismantling indifference. Her story teaches us that sharing personal truths can help turn individual trauma into a global movement for peace—an insight especially relevant today, where narratives of suffering are often drowned by divisive political rhetoric. Like the cranes folded in Hiroshima, each story shared by survivors is a fragile yet powerful step toward healing—an offering that asks us to listen with care and respond with compassion.
The connections Tanaka built on the Peace Boat inspired her to reframe her story—not as a personal burden, but as a tool to foster empathy and understanding. At 70, determined to overcome cultural and linguistic barriers, she began learning English to reach a wider audience. Today, she speaks of the “chains of love and peace” she has witnessed throughout her life, embodying her belief that dialogue can break cycles of hatred and build bridges toward reconciliation.
Renewing Commitment Through Action and Compassion
Toshiko’s story reminds us that peace is not an abstract ideal but a deliberate choice we renew each day. Her plea to break the "chain of hatred" urges us to reject cycles of retaliation and instead build bridges toward reconciliation. The cranes of Hiroshima are not just symbols; they embody a lifelong commitment to peace—folded with intention and passed through generations. Each fold brings one closer to completion, reminding us that peace takes shape gradually, with small, deliberate actions.
In Liberia, it was not governments but ordinary women who helped end years of civil war, proving that peace-building often starts with individuals who refuse to give in to despair. These actions—and the inaction or indifference from the global community that so often surrounds them—demand more than historical reflection; they compel us to confront the harm we perpetuate today.
As I walked through Hiroshima, I felt the crushing weight of anger, grief, and unsettling truths pressing down on me. Knowing that the bombs dropped here—and in places like Gaza, Lebanon, Yemen, Iraq and beyond—bear the unmistakable mark of my country felt like a burden too heavy to carry. It is a legacy of devastation that completely overwhelms me —the painful reality that my country has repeatedly played a key role in in cycles of violence unfolding across generations.
Despite the lessons of past mistakes—from Vietnam to Iraq to Libya to the 20 year war in Afghanistan—the U.S. continues to arm and diplomatically support allies like Israel and Saudi Arabia, whose military campaigns and blockades devastate civilian populations.
These actions—and the silence that often accompanies them—demand more than historical reflection; they compel us to confront the harm we perpetuate today. Understanding history is one thing; carrying the weight of belonging to a nation complicit in such devastation is another. The sharper question is: How can healing occur without honest reflection and accountability from all parties involved—including, and especially, my own country? Our accountability cannot stop with acknowledging past mistakes; it must extend to the present, where our policies, military aid, and inaction continue to fuel widespread suffering. Whether through direct intervention or tacit support, the consequences of U.S. involvement ripple across generations, requiring us to confront our role with humility and resolve.
Justice is not just for the victims—it lays the foundation for a future free from fear. Reconciliation cannot take root without justice. Holding perpetrators accountable offers validation to victims, restores dignity, and rebuilds trust between communities. Accountability is not only a moral imperative but a practical necessity for breaking cycles of violence. Without it, unresolved grievances fester, creating the conditions for future conflict.
Hiroshima offers a powerful reminder that peace is not passive; it demands action, empathy, and accountability, pursued daily through deliberate choices. Through these efforts—both personal and collective—we create the possibility of a future where peace is not merely an aspiration but a lived reality. Just as Sadako’s cranes call us to fold peace into the fabric of our lives, each of us can take small, intentional actions—advocating for justice, amplifying the voices of the marginalized, refusing to be complacent, or listening with compassion. These choices, however small, ripple outward, shaping systems and communities, bringing us closer to a world where peace becomes the norm, not the exception.
In a twist of history, Kyoto was spared from destruction thanks to U.S. Secretary of War Henry Stimson, whose personal connection to the city—having spent his honeymoon there—altered its fate. This decision reminds us that even small, personal experiences can change the course of history.
Hiroshima’s lessons are not distant warnings—they are a blueprint for how we must engage with the world today. Just as each folded paper crane in Hiroshima reflects a wish for peace, our choices—small as they may seem—shape the future we build together.
All over the world, grassroots organizations are doing remarkable work, providing aid, advocating for peace, and rebuilding communities shattered by conflict. These efforts remind us that ordinary people can make an impact. Toward the end of this piece, I will share a few of these organizations, offering concrete ways to support those working tirelessly in the world’s most vulnerable regions.
Around the globe, civilians endure suffering that reflects humanity’s repeated failure to break cycles of violence. As wars rage on, the need to choose peace over retaliation has never been more urgent. Survivors like Toshiko remind us that peace is not just an ideal—it is something we build through action, across borders and divides. Her story, like so many others, carries a simple but profound message: peace must become the norm, not the exception.
Finding Peace Within: Resilience, Illness, and the Strength to Witness
While my career in human rights and conflict resolution gave me insights into resilience, living with illness has unveiled a deeper truth: peace begins from within. It radiates outward, shaping how we meet life’s deepest challenges. Strength, I’ve learned, comes not just from action, but from the stillness required to bear witness, to hold suffering with compassion, and to nurture hope.
True peace is a shared human journey. It’s found in small, deliberate acts—offering kindness, listening with empathy, advocating for the marginalized, or choosing hope when despair beckons. These gestures, like the cranes folded in Hiroshima, weave together something larger—transforming suffering into connection.
Illness has shown me that bearing witness to pain demands patience and presence. It’s about holding space—for myself, for others, and for what is unresolved—finding meaning even in moments of deep difficulty. We cannot evade pain, but we can meet it with open hearts, knowing that our ability to endure with compassion forms the foundation of lasting peace.
Honoring Survivors, Pursuing Justice: The Nobel Prize and a World Beyond Fear
The Nobel Peace Prize awarded to Nihon Hidankyo reminds us that peace is not something we can take for granted; it must be actively pursued. Survivors like Toshiko Tanaka transformed their grief into advocacy, showing us that peace is built one deliberate action at a time. In today’s world of escalating war crimes and human rights abuses, their example calls us to resist despair and take action—whether through supporting civilians, providing aid, or standing up against injustice.
Upon receiving the Nobel Prize, Tomouki Mimaki, head of Nihon Hidankyo, drew a connection between Hiroshima’s past and the suffering of children in Gaza. His words remind us that suffering knows no borders, urging us toward empathy, accountability, and a commitment to break cycles of violence. Just as each folded crane in Hiroshima expresses hope, every small act of compassion—however modest—adds to the collective movement towards liberation and peace.
Reflecting on the conflicts I engage with through my work in Myanmar, the West Bank, and Afghanistan, I see how small, deliberate actions—like each folded crane—create ripples of change, fostering resilience and steering us away from destruction. In Hiroshima, every crane stands as a quiet yet powerful reminder that peace doesn’t arrive all at once; it unfolds gradually, one intentional fold at a time.
Suffering surrounds us—but so does the opportunity for peace. What will your paper crane be today? It doesn’t have to be grand—our actions rarely feel significant in the moment. But each crane folded with care, like every compassionate gesture, becomes part of something greater, slowly guiding us toward hope, healing, and peace.
The future is shaped by deliberate choices. What small step will you take today to help make peace the norm, not the exception?
Typically, I end with reflection questions, but today I want to offer some actionable ways you can support civilians affected by conflict. Below is a list of organizations working to assist civilians in various conflict zones, offering diverse perspectives on peace and justice.
International Rescue Committee (IRC) – https://www.rescue.org
Provides emergency aid, refugee resettlement, and healthcare services in conflict zones.Middle East Children’s Alliance (MECA) - https://www.mecaforpeace.org/
Provides humanitarian aid, education, and health services to children in Middle Eastern regions affected by conflict and occupation.
Palestine Children's Relief Fund (PCRF) – https://www.pcrf.net
Offers medical care and humanitarian relief to children affected by conflict, particularly in the Middle East.Red Cross / Red Crescent – https://www.icrc.org
Works globally to provide medical assistance, humanitarian aid, and protection to civilians in conflict zones.Save the Children – https://www.savethechildren.org
Delivers health, education, and emergency relief to children in war-torn regions.
The International Legal Foundation (ILF) – https://www.theilf.org/skafund
Provides legal aid to vulnerable populations in conflict zones to ensure access to justice.War Child – https://www.warchild.org
Focuses on the protection, education, and psychological well-being of children affected by war.
Medical Aid for Palestinians - https://www.map.org.uk
Delivers healthcare services and humanitarian aid to Gaza, Lebanon and the West Bank
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