Skip to main content

White Light, Black Rain

White Light, Black Rain opens with scenes from present day Hiroshima. The vibe of the city is upbeat and very western. Random young people on the street are asked one question - do they know why August 6 1945 is a very significant date in history. No one knows. All it takes for a nuclear bombing and its aftermath to pass into oblivion from public memory is sixty years.

Then we meet with the survivors themselves who tell their stories with amazing grace and stoicism. There are no tears or hysterics as they recall in graphic detail the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and how it altered their lives for ever. We meet a woman who has had six unexplained miscarriages, another one who has tumors erupt randomly on her body, a man whose flesh had melted away from his ribs to where he can see his heart beating.

There is pain that goes far beyond the horrifying physical mutilation that they have lived with all their lives. They are called the "Pika-Don" people (survivors of the A-bombing). No one knows what diseases they have, how they may manifest themselves or how they can be healed. No one wants to be around them fearing contagion. Their children find it hard to find marriage partners due to fear of genetic defects that could be passed down the generations.

When you listen to the interviews with the survivors you begin to wonder if an event as horrifying as the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings elevates pain and suffering to an inhuman and therefore unfathomable level. We neither have the words nor the sensience to communicate and comprehend what happened.

The images of the victims being nursed to health in the hospitals are too gruesome to watch. Some of those images are the survivors that the movie introduces us to. You do not have the option of recoiling from the sight of melting flesh and eyeballs missing from their sockets. You are forced to see the remnants of the human being talk to you about how it was to be that stomach churning photograph taken sixty years ago.

Then we meet the team that dropped the bombs over Hiroshima and Nagasaki. At least on the surface there does not seem to be a lot of guilt about what they caused to happen though some voice their regret quite candidly. For the rest, it was mission like any other except the damage was far greater than the norm. War is inherently about death and destruction and this one was no different. Ultimately, it was what caused the war to end.

You see footage of the jubilation in America after Japan surrendered. You also see people go about their daily lives in modern day Nagasaki and Hiroshima. In 1945 perhaps not enough was known about the extent of damage for people to be able to react appropriately. In 2007, in Japan the significance of day far back in 1945 has been lost due to the passage of time.

In end you are left wondering if the most unspeakable horrors of the past are better forgotten or remembered and how do you truly honor and acknowledge the pain of the victims and survivors.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Part Liberated Woman

An expat desi friend and I were discussing what it means to return to India when you have cobbled together a life in a foreign country no matter how flawed and imperfect. We have both spent over a decade outside India and have kids who were born abroad and have spent very little time back home. Returning "home" is something a lot of new immigrants like L and myself think about. We want very much for that to be an option because a full assimilation into our country of domicile is likely never going to happen. L has visited India more often than I have and has a much better pulse on what's going on there. For me the strongest drag force working against my desire to return home is my experience of life as a woman in India. I neither want to live that suffocatingly sheltered existence myself nor subject J to it. The freedom, independence and safety I have had in here in suburban America was not even something I knew I could expect to have in India. I never knew what it felt t

Cheese Making

I never fail to remind J that there is a time and place for everything. It is possibly the line she will remember me by when I am dead and gone given how frequently she hears it. Instead of having her breakfast she will break into a song and dance number from High School Musical well past eight on Monday morning. She will insist that I watch and applaud the performance instead of screaming at her to finish her milk and cereal. Her sense of occasion is seriously lacking but then so is mine. Consider for example, a person walks into the grocery store with the express purpose of buying detergent because they are fresh out of it and laundry is only half way done. However instead of heading straight for detergent, they wander over to the natural foods aisle and go berserk upon finding goat milk on sale for a dollar a gallon. They at once proceed to stock pile so they can turn it to huge quantities home-made feta cheese. That person would be me. It would not concern me in the least that I ha

Under Advisement

Recently a desi dude who is more acquaintance less friend called to check in on me. Those who have read this blog before might know that such calls tend to make me anxious. Depending on how far back we go, there are sets of FAQs that I brace myself to answer. The trick is to be sufficiently evasive without being downright offensive - a fine balancing act given the provocative nature of questions involved. I look at these calls as opportunities for building patience and tolerance both of which I seriously lack. Basically, they are very desirous of finding out how I am doing in my personal and professional life to be sure that they have me correctly categorized and filed for future reference. The major buckets appear to be loser, struggling, average, arrived, superstar and uncategorizable. My goal needless to say, is to be in the last bucket - the unknown, unquantifiable and therefore uninteresting entity. Their aim is to pull me into something more tangible. So anyways, the dude in ques