Nagasaki - the city of prayer
Located on the shores of a broad natural bay on Kyushu's west coast, the city of Nagasaki boasts a laid-back, cosmopolitan atmosphere, numerous architectural reminders of its history as a gateway to the outside world during Japan's period of closed borders, and a nighttime view from nearby Mount Inasa that has been counted among the world's top three along with Shanghai and Monaco.
Sadly, it remains best known outside of Japan for the tragic events that occurred here in the final days of the Second World War, when it became the second city after Hiroshima to be struck with an atomic bomb. What may be equally striking for visitors today however, is the way it has been able to recover from such an unimaginable calamity, and continues to move forward in a spirit of positivity, openness and faith in humanity.
For this overnight visit - my first to Nagasaki - I set out to learn about the impact of its tragic war history, while also celebrating its legacy of faith and endurance, embodied in its many places of worship.
Day 1: Memorial sites
For visitors coming from Tokyo, Nagasaki can be reached in two ways: by train, taking about seven hours with changes at Hakata and Takeo Onsen stations, or in under half that time - as I chose - by domestic flight to Nagasaki Airport. Stepping off of the airport limousine bus into the bustling city center, it was bewildering to imagine so apparently normal a place becoming the scene of such a devastating event as that which befell the city on August 9, 1945.
For the inhabitants of Nagasaki on that day, the morning had begun like any other - people went about their business as usual, with many school children having been mobilized to work at munitions factories located throughout the city, then one of the largest seaports in western Japan. What no-one on the ground that day could have known was that a second atomic bomb, even larger than the one used just three days earlier in Hiroshima, was already speeding towards them - the original target of Kokura having been rejected due to poor visibility.
At 11:02 AM, the bomb equivalent to 25 kilotons of TNT detonated in mid-air about 500 meters above the city's Matsuyama district, levelling everything within a 2.5 kilometer radius, sending a vast plume of ash, debris and contaminated dust high into the air over the surrounding mountains, and taking the lives of between 40,000 and 70,000 people by December of that year.
Jumping on one of the city's charming trams from just outside Nagasaki Station, I took a 15-minute ride north to my first stop of the day at the Nagasaki Peace Park. Located on a low hill overlooking the city center, the park was built to express the wish for peace and the determination that no other city should meet with the same fate. At its heart is the 9.7 meter tall Peace Statue, created in 1955 by sculptor Kitamura Seibo with the aim of embodying the mercy of the Buddha.
Noted for its atmosphere that is at once serene, dignified and somehow commanding, the statue strikes a highly symbolic pose: eyes closed as if in prayer, the right hand pointing to the sky to emphasize the threat of atomic bombs, while the left gestures off to the side indicating peace.
Added to the south side of the park in 1969, the Nagasaki Peace Fountain gracefully frames the Peace Statue between two rows of jets, inside a circular pool ringed with steps. The fountain itself can be interpreted as an offering of sorts to those who survived the initial blast only to succumb later to terrible burns and other injuries, many consumed by terrible thirst when there was no water to be found.
Among the other monuments inside the park, I was also struck by the Nagasaki Bell, erected in 1977 to comemorate 33rd anniversary of the bombing. Supported by four simple metal poles, the bell itself is topped with four childlike figures that float in midair as if flying - representing the women and schoolchildren mobilized to work at the city's munition factories, many of which were destroyed in the blast.
Leaving the Peace Park behind, I took a leisurely 10 minute walk west and across the Urakami River to my second stop, the Shiroyama Elementary School. Located on the crest of a hill some 500 meters west of the blast center, the school had been used as offices and a staging area of sorts for mobilized volunteers, with 31 teachers and about 120 students on site at the moment of the attack - the majority of whom were instantly killed.
Today, the school can be approached by either of two uphill paths - the one facing east towards the city center is called the Nagai Slope in honor of Dr. Nagai Takashi, a radiologist and catholic who assisted survivors in the immediate aftermath despite being severely injured, publishing several books relating to the day's events and his own experiences in the years following the war.
Over on the opposite side, the second path is called the Peace Slope, and is today known for two fascinating examples of hibakujumoku, or trees damaged by the waves of force and heat unleashed by the bomb. At its base stand a pair of tall camphor trees that sprouted from an older tree felled by the blast, while at the top is a particular karasusansho or prickly ash tree, which despite being badly damaged by waves of intense heat, stripping away its bark and leaving deep scorch marks, somehow survived and sent out new buds after the end of the war.
Soon after, a muku or scabrous aphananthe tree happened to spring up quickly beside it, supporting the damaged trunk with a fork in its own branches and creating a highly resonant symbol of overcoming hardships together. The tree itself would later be declared dead amid a cold wave in January of 2016, but was carefully sealed to prevent rot and can still be seen in the school's Prayer Hall, while a replica stands in its original place.
Recrossing the river and turning slightly to the south, my next stop was at Nagasaki Hypocenter Park. Here, where the land used to slant southwards until it was leveled by the blast into the flat ground we see today, the exact point above which the bomb detonated is marked with a simple black monolith, surrounded by a series of concentric rings.
Although it was said at the time that nothing would ever grow in the intermediate area within the survivors' lifetimes, in fact about 30 plants had shown signs of life within only a month later, and today it is a lush and green spot with around 50 cherry blossom trees, creating a powerful metaphor for the resilience of nature.
Also displayed within the park are a number of monuments conveying the reality of the blast and its effects, including a single preserved pillar of brick and stone retrieved from the former Urakami Cathedral - the largest Christian church in Japan at the time of the attack, which largely collapsed leaving only a single section of wall.
Located at the crest of a hill overlooking Hypocenter Park, the Nagasaki Atomic Bomb Museum covers the events of the bombing in a thoughtful and necessarily provocative fashion, while its stately exterior conveys a sense of dignity and reflection.
Inside, the exhibition takes a varied approach to illustrating the background and events of the attack, with several large and well-executed displays including a replica of a section of wall from the collapsed Urakami Cathedral, and a 3D projection providing an orientation of the blast site, explaining among other things how the steep hillsides surrounding the city confined the worst of the blast's effects to the narrow Urakami Valley.
Next, visitors can examine a wide range of materials recovered from the site, from fragments of buildings and street-level construction work whose scars bring home the terrifying power unleashed by the atomic bomb, to personal effects - many with their own poignant stories to tell, of lives horribly interrupted, unfathomable human loss and unimaginable resilience in the face of such devastation.
The exhibition closes with another long display charting the continuation of nuclear testing and proliferation through the 20th century and beyond. Before leaving the museum behind however, I recommend a look at its little rooftop garden, and a stop in the pleasant cafe.
Befitting the museum's serious subject matter, the Peace Cafe is a bright, peaceful, slightly minimalist space looking out into a little enclosed courtyard through floor to ceiling windows. A visit here is far from gloomy however - from its friendly staff to a hearty, Hawaiian-inflected menu, the cafe felt like a little island of positivity, giving me a welcome chance to absorb what I had seen before continuing to explore.
Located just a few steps from the museum's rooftop garden, the Nagasaki National Peace Memorial Hall for the Atomic Bomb Victims is both a beautiful work of modern architecture and a uniquely powerful monument to the many lives lost on August 9, 1945.
Designed by architect Kuryu Akira - the designer behind a series of innovative museum buildings - the structure is mostly concealed underground, with visitors entering by a long staircase leading through an elegant circular pool. Inside, the space is surprisingly spacious, with a broad atrium branching off into a series of corridors and other rooms.
At its heart is the Remembrance Hall itself - a high ceilinged room with an avenue formed by tall pillars drawing our gaze to a registry shelf in which the names of those who died from the bomb's effects are enshrined. Separately, the hall also functions as a library of sorts, housing thousands of written accounts by survivors of the explosion and its aftermath. These can also be read in English using one of several computer terminals, while a well furnished activity space allows younger visitors to listen to audio recordings and leave behind their own messages of peace.
From the Peace Memorial Hall, I made my way about 800 meters south east of the blast site to Sanno Shrine. Located at the top of another low hill, the shrine was founded by the city's feudal lord in 1638, it's name - meaning "king of the mountain" - reflecting its importance to the community.
While the shrine's main hall and other surrounding buildings were destroyed in an instant, the support pillar of one torii gate somehow defied the impact of the blast to remain standing. 80 years on, the "One-Pillar Torii" has been adopted as a popular local symbol and has been left just as it was - knocked about 30 degrees from its original position.
Just a few steps away stand two impressive camphor trees flanking the entrance to the shrine's main precinct. Said to be at least 500 years old, the two trees were also severely damaged in the blast, leaving little more than stumps burned black by intense heat. Despite all expectations, two months later both trees sent up new leaf buds and - with help from the local community - have survived to the present, both designated by the city as natural monuments.
With some time to kill before my final stop of the day, I took a stroll along the waterfront - pausing for another beautifully decorated cafe latte at Attic - an attractive Italian-style restaurant and cafe - while looking across the harbor towards Mount Inasa, from where I planned to catch the sunset and the famous view of the city lights - said to be one of the three best nighttime views in all of Japan.
With the light beginning to fade, I took a 15 minute tram ride north along the harbor and past the mouth of the Urakami River to the lower station of the Mount Inasa Ropeway, from where a quick ride brought me to the summit at an elevation of 333 meters. Here, the main attraction is the observation deck - a three storied cylindrical building offering a 360 degree panorama over the city and the hilly coastline to the west.
After braving the cold for a few minutes, the sun began to slip behind the clouds and the city below lit up in a sea of twinkling lights - the fabled night view completely living up to its reputation, and bringing my first day in Nagasaki to a perfect close.
Day 2: Places of worship
I began my second day in the city just a short distance from the Peace Park at the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, more commonly known as Urakami Cathedral. Nagasaki's Urakami district had been a site of Christian missionary work ever since the latter part of the 16th century, with its inhabitants suffering much persecution from 1587 when Christianity was outlawed until almost three centuries when the ban was finally lifted. Even the location of the cathedral itself - built on the site of a village headman's compound where suspected Christians had been interrogated and forced to recant their beliefs - is highly resonant.
Following the repeal of the Christianity ban in 1873 and a construction project spanning 20 years, the cathedral was finally completed in 1914, resulting in one of the grandest romanesque churches in South East Asia, known for its twin 26-meter spires containing a unique pair of angelus bells imported from France. While one of the bells was blown far away by the atomic bomb, one remained intact and was later retrieved from the rubble to ring out over the city on Christmas eve of the same year.
After enjoying a few quiet moments in the cathedral's peaceful interior, I took a half-hour journey by tram to the city's historic southern part.
With the opening of the country to the world in 1859 after centuries of near-isolation, western merchants and tradesmen flocked to Japan to seek their fortunes. In order to provide accommodation and services to the influx of foreign residents, the surrounding districts of Umegasaki, Tokiwa and Oura were reclaimed from the sea and established as foreign settlements. Here, the streets were lined with western-style homes, hotels, businesses and even consulates, creating an exotic and vibrant atmosphere.
Standing proudly at the top of the hill is one of Japan's oldest surviving churches, the Oura Cathedral, completed in 1864 by missionaries Louis Theodore Furet and Bernard Thadee Petitjean to serve the growing population of foreign merchants in the city. A parish house, seminary and catechist school were also built within the grounds, while the main structure was greatly expanded upon in 1879, doubling its original size to what we see today.
Regarded as one of the most important examples of Christian architecture in Japan, the cathedral boasts a beautiful stucco-coated exterior and a distinctive octagonal spire. Its interior - largely unchanged since its original construction - with high, rib vaulted ceilings in the gothic style, carved masterfully from wood rather than the stone often seen in Europe.
Not long after the church was completed, it became the site of a fascinating late episode in the story of Japan's Christianity ban when a dozen hidden Christians from Urakami village revealed that they had continued to practice the faith in secret for 200 years. Following the event, which came to be known as the discovery of the hidden Christians, leaders from many such secret communities came forward, only to face arrest, exile and imprisonment as the Christianity ban was still in effect for Japanese citizens. Protests from the missionaries of Oura soon caused an international outcry over the treatment however, in turn leading to an outright reversal of the ban in 1873.
Taking a short walk downhill and to the north east, I soon arrived at my next stop, an intriguing Chinese-style building set within a redbrick enclosure. First built in 1893 with assistance from the then Qing Dynasty government as a place of worship and education for the city's Chinese immigrant population, Koshibyo remains the only Confucian Shrine built by Chinese artisans outside of China.
Confucius, to whom the shrine is dedicated, was born 2500 years ago in what is today Shandong Province and would later come to be seen as a paragon of wisdom from former times, the body of works attributed to him ultimately forming the bedrock of Chinese political philosophy until the early 19th century.
The shrine's elaborate architecture not only stands out from its more typical urban surroundings, but is unusual in its own right as a hybrid of sorts between northern and southern Chinese styles. Despite their broad similarities, shrines in the northern tradition tend to be somewhat grander in scale, with multiple courtyards and a wide central axis, reflecting the influence and hierarchy of the imperial court. In contrast, shrines in the south tend to be more compact, emphasizing the functional use of space and a sense of intimacy.
A ten minute tram ride from the foot of the hill, my next stop was at another of the city's international landmarks, the Meganebashi Bridge. Named for its resemblance to a pair of spectacles when reflected in the water below, this famous double arched bridge was the first Chinese-style structure of its kind in Japan, and is ranked as one of the country's three finest bridges alongside the Nihonbashi Bridge in Tokyo and Kintaikyo Bridge in Iwakuni.
Built by the second generation Chinese monk Mokusunyojo in 1634, the bridge caused something of a sensation, and by 1700 several other Chinese-style bridges had already popped up along the Nakashima River - always located at roads leading to temples. Almost three centuries later, it would be a major influence in the distinctive Nijubashi or double bridge of the Tokyo Imperial Palace.
A four minute stroll uphill from the bridge brought me to my final sightseeing stop in the city, at Sofukuji - a temple of the Obaku school of Zen Buddhism, it was built in 1629 by immigrants from China's Fujian Province and contains many architectural features common to the Obaku school and more broadly to the south of China during the Ming Dynasty, from its vivid red exterior to its distinctive pillars and railings.
Stepping through the elaborate Ryugumon Gate, or Dragon Palace Gate, the sounds of traffic seemed to recede into the distance as I took in the surrounding temple buildings. Of these, two that especially impressed me were the inner Daiippomon Gate and the Daiyuhoden or Buddha's Hall - both sharing, at least to me, an almost indescribable sense of strength and dignity, further enhanced with the patina of age. Both, I later discovered, are today registered national treasures and - even more interestingly - were first made in China before being disassembled and brought here.
It would soon be time to leave the city behind, but not before winding my way back towards the harbor to try one of its signature meals. Set in a unique five story building with eye catching Chinese design elements, Shikairo was founded in 1899 by Chin Heijun. Keen to drum up business from the growing Chinese student population, he came up with a novel signature dish called champon, designed to appeal to the native and immigrant palette alike.
Taking its name from the Fujian word meaning to eat a meal, the dish combines pork bone broth similar to that found in Hakata Ramen from nearby Fukuoka City with vegetables, pork and seafood, all of it cooked in hearty, if cholesterol-unfriendly lard - delicious stuff indeed, and a perfect way to recharge after a busy morning of sightseeing.
After enjoying my meal and the view over the harbor through wide bay windows, it was time once again to retrace my steps to the airport and begin my journey home. Reflecting on my two peaceful days in Nagasaki, I found much to recommend in its unique mix of history, atmosphere and tranquility - providing an glimpse into underseen chapters from the country's past, the chance for a quiet pause in an otherwise hectic itinerary, and much food for thought.
