By Ephraim Agbo
On August 9, 1945, at exactly 11:02 a.m., the city of Nagasaki changed forever. In a blinding flash and an instant of unimaginable destruction, the United States dropped Fat Man—a plutonium-based atomic bomb—over the city. It was the second time in history that nuclear weapons had been used in war, just three days after Little Boy had been dropped on Hiroshima.
Eighty years later, the people of Nagasaki paused to remember. For the first time since that day, the twin cathedral bells rang together, their sound carrying across the city in solemn unity. The city fell into total silence as the Peace Bell tolled, marking the exact moment the bomb struck. Survivors, dignitaries, and citizens gathered in Peace Park to honour the dead and warn the living about the horrors of nuclear war.
A Moment That Must Not Be Forgotten
The Fat Man bomb was even more powerful than Hiroshima’s Little Boy. In seconds, entire neighbourhoods vanished. Tens of thousands were killed instantly; thousands more would die in the days, weeks, and months to come from burns, injuries, and the slow agony of radiation poisoning.
Japan remains the only nation ever to experience nuclear warfare firsthand—a fact that weighs heavily on those who survived. Many at this year’s memorial spoke about the importance of memory in a world where new wars, such as those in Gaza and Ukraine, dominate headlines.
One attendee put it bluntly:
“It wasn’t all that long ago. People may start thinking of it as something from the distant past. That’s why we must never forget. Politicians talk about nuclear weapons as deterrence or for peace, but such things should never be tolerated.”
From the Ashes: A Survivor’s Voice
Among the speakers was Terumi Tanaka, now 93, a Nobel Peace Prize-winning activist and one of the last living witnesses to the bombing. In 1945, he was a 13-year-old first-year junior high school student, living just over three kilometres from the blast.
“I was at home reading a book,” he recalled. “We heard the sound of a plane, but I never imagined it would attack. Suddenly, there was an explosion. Everything turned completely white. I rushed downstairs and crouched down—then the blast and wind came.”
Three days later, Tanaka set out to find relatives who had been closer to the hypocentre.
“It was beyond anything I’d ever imagined. Entire communities were gone. There were so many dead bodies, horribly wounded people lying with no help. To keep going, I shut off my emotions and became numb.”
He found some family members burned beyond recognition. Others, who seemed uninjured, died days later from acute radiation sickness.
The Moral Burden of Memory
Every year, water is offered at the memorial—symbolic of the desperate cries of victims in 1945, who begged for water as they lay dying. At this year’s ceremony, those offerings felt especially poignant, with many participants openly linking the lessons of Nagasaki to the nuclear threats of today.
Last year, a group representing survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki won the Nobel Peace Prize for their work to abolish nuclear weapons. Tanaka’s own activism is rooted in the belief that the only safe number of nuclear weapons is zero.
“Nagasaki must be the last city to ever suffer this,” he insists.
From Devastation to a Call for Peace
The ceremony closed with a song performed by local schoolchildren—voices of a generation that knows war only through the stories of survivors. Their music carried a simple message: peace is not a passive wish; it is an active responsibility.
From the ashes of 1945, Nagasaki has rebuilt itself into a thriving city. Yet the memories of that day remain sharp, not as relics of the past, but as urgent warnings for the present. In a world where nuclear weapons still exist—and where tensions between nations continue to rise—Nagasaki’s annual remembrance is not just a local event.
It is a global plea: Never again.
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