(10 years ago Chris Steele-Perkins visited Hiroshima with writer Miyako Yamada to document the stories of Hibakusha - Japanese survivors of the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
This is the eighth of a series of posts in which we'll share their recollections of the horrifying events that occurred 70 years ago.)

Mr. Sunao Kanesaki. Born 1916. 28 years old at time of Hiroshima bombing.

Sunao Kanesaki is 88. In 1906, he was born in Fukushima-cho, Nishi Ward, Hiroshima City. Fukushima-cho was an impoverished district, where his sisters worked in brothels to support the family. A clinic Kanesaki worked very hard to build developed into the Fukushima Co-op Hospital, now a vital facility for meeting the health care needs of the community. In one corner stands the A-bomb Drawing Memorial. It was built through the efforts of the Society to Return to the Neighborhoods A-bomb Drawings Made by Survivors. This movement placed drawings in neighborhoods around the hypocenter to give people a deeper awareness of how the victims died.
How did the tragedy unfold in Fukushima-cho that day? How did poor people survive in those days, and did it all vanish because of the bomb? Kanesaki’s painting expresses his anger.
“I witnessed a living hell that day. I can never forget that.” Sitting in a wheelchair, he began to speak bluntly in the thin voice of an elderly man.
“On August 6, 1945, work started at 8:00. I had been mobilized to work at a munitions plant in the city outskirts, about 20 km from the hypocenter. My shop inspected the equipment used for take-offs and landings from aircraft carriers. It was a strange factory—standing all by itself as if in a desert.”
Then it was 8:15.
All of a sudden, the windows on the Hiroshima side turned completely white. Like dozens of bolts of thunder and lightening cracking all at once like the ribs of an umbrella stabbing the earth from the sky. A bright-red mushroom cloud rent the blue sky. Suddenly, the blast struck us, kicking up whirlwinds of sea sand, turning the inside of the factory into a desert-like place. It was like a sandstorm tornado. I yelled and threw myself on the ground. In a while I got up and ran to the factory office. The desks and the phone had been destroyed. My colleagues who had not gotten out in time had been injured by flying glass and wood. Bleeding from face and body, they shakily fled the building. This is how severe the shock was even 20 kilometers from the center.
The whole of Hiroshima was being blanketed in white smoke.
My wife and little children were at home in Fukushima.
Receiving permission to go home, I rushed out of the factory carrying a cloth-wrapped package. But no trains were running—everything was chaos. I ran single-mindedly along Route 2. On the way I passed army trucks leaving the city piled with rag-like bodies half hanging off the bed. At that, I despaired. “My family must be dead.” My legs grew rubbery and I could hardly walk.
At Kusatsu-cho, four kilometers from the hypocenter, the houses were collapsed and black rain began to fall on me. Fallen trees and telephone poles made walking very hard. I finally made it to Asahi Bridge in Koi-machi. On the other side of the bridge was Fukushima-cho, but the Defense Guard told us not to cross and wielded quarterstaffs to stop us.
‘They can’t stop me!’ I thought as I darted past the quarterstaffs and started over the bridge. I had to get past fallen railings and growing fires. My house was 100 meters away. I finally stood on the embankment across the river and looked at my neighborhood. It was smashed, as if squashed by a giant. I sat down on the bank. Under the bridge lay a crowd of black-burnt people—my neighbors, transformed. At the sight of people caring for the injured, I took heart: “Some people made it!”
Fortunately, my house was still standing, though leaning. But my wife and child were gone. I called their names and searched around the neighborhood, all for naught. I heard calls of ‘Help! Help!’ I looked in the direction of the voice and saw a woman whose body was torn and broken, sad, white eyes pleading desperately. For a second, I wavered. But then I left that place.
Remorse haunts me even now. Why did I fail to help her? I should have grasped her hands, comforted her, let her die in my arms. I will never forget that person. In that moment, I put searching for my wife and child above the needs of that person. I put my family first, though I knew not whether they were even alive! I cannot forgive myself.

The flames came to Fukushima-cho
I am not a religious person. But I prayed then. “Please God, if my family are alive, please tell me.” Just then, the name of a school came to me like a revelation.
Itsukaichi Yahata Elementary School. It was more than ten kilometers away. I half-crawled along, dragging my painful legs. Reaching the school at dawn, I found my wife, our four-year-old, and our two-year-old. They were injured, but safe. We all wept.”
After the war, Kanesaki joined the survivor and resident rights movement. As a community artist, he depicted A-bomb experiences and the lives of survivors in drawings and paintings. Perhaps rage and grief drove his creative energy. His wife died a few years ago. Now his somewhat immobile solitary life is supported by community home care workers and volunteers. Kanesaki mustered all his strength to squeeze out the following words:
“The Japanese people don’t think seriously anymore—they don’t directly confront the truth. The danger of nuclear war is very high. We have to leave our children blue skies. We cannot tolerate nuclear weapons for any reason.”