But in the past decade or so, documentary efforts like Sakaguchi’s 1945 Project and Chappell’s The Last Survivors of Hiroshima have become increasingly common-a testament to both survivors’ willingness to defy the long-standing culture of silence and the pressing need to preserve these stories as hibakusha’s numbers dwindle.Īerial views of Hiroshima before (left) and after (right) the bombing This misconception, coupled with a widespread unwillingness to revisit the bombings and Japan’s subsequent surrender, led most hibakusha to keep their trauma to themselves. Due to a limited understanding of radiation poisoning’s long-term effects, many Japanese avoided (or outright abused) those affected out of fear that their ailments were contagious. Survivors’ reluctance to discuss their experiences stems in large part from the stigma surrounding Japan’s hibakusha community. “They’re very protective of their stories. “When you have a silenced group like that, they have a very internal culture,” she explains.

After five hours of people watching, she struck up a conversation with the daughter of a survivor, who agreed to introduce her to eight hibakusha.Įlizabeth Chappell, an oral historian at the Open University in the United Kingdom, encountered similar difficulties after setting out to catalog atomic bomb survivors’ testimony. “I sat at the Nagasaki Peace Park for hours trying to differentiate between tourists and locals who were visiting to pray for a loved one-they often wore juzu, or prayer beads,” says Sakaguchi, who immigrated to the U.S. Then, in 2017, the Brooklyn-based artist decided to visit Japan herself in hopes of meeting someone who knew a hibakusha-the Japanese word for those affected by the August 1945 attacks.

When photographer Haruka Sakaguchi first tried to connect with survivors of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, her cold calls and emails went unanswered.

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