This spring, ten students joined BLI Director Dr. Ram Mahalingam for a three-week course at the Japan Center for Michigan Universities (JCMU) in Hikone, Japan. In ALA 370: Mindfulness and Peace in Global Leadership, students explored mindful leadership through an interdisciplinary lens, developing a holistic perspective on Global Peace Leadership.

A pivotal point in the trip was two days spent in Hiroshima, after which each student wrote a reflection on their experience as a course assignment. Below is a reflection written by rising LSA senior Samantha Howden. Her powerful narrative follows the before, during, and after time spent visiting Hiroshima and meeting hibakusha, embodying the depth and interdisciplinary exploration that are at the heart of a liberal arts education. Her writing serves as a testament, as she delves into themes of tragedy, memory, aesthetics, and ethical responsibility, bridging classroom concepts with the richness of lived experience. 

Before Hiroshima

    Earlier this April, way before the Japan itinerary was set, Hiroshima was on my mind. Hearing “Hiroshima” brings to mind a carrousel of snapshots, as hinted at by various research papers and published opinions of the general public–loss on an unprecedented scale that paved the way for passionate movements towards world peace. Perhaps emotion is the truest way I know how to connect on a deep level for such a topic. For me, hearing “Hiroshima” summons immense grief. As I sat among the students of ALA 275 on a Tuesday evening, Fatema’s presentation on grief and negative capability planted a seed that would later poked its little green self through the layers of thoughts that swarmed my head during the pre-readings and Soh-san’s presentation.

    We depart for Hiroshima early Monday morning. I use my time on the bullet train to peruse the assigned readings. I make it through 3 pages before I begin to tear up at every other paragraph. Unable to see anything, I turn my head and look out the window as rice fields whisked by, with “The Girl Who Fell From the Sky” echoing in my ears. More tears pool at the corners of my eyes as my mind dares to imagine those rice fields glaring red and vaporizing under the heat of two suns. The train lurches and my stomach flips as we round a curve. The hibakusha–did the pit of their stomach drop into unimaginable depths as they watched a mysterious object torpedo towards the earth? I take a tentative glance towards the computer screen. When realization dawned on the hibakusha in those final few seconds, did they flee or freeze? Did their life flash before their eyes? Did any of them even have the time for their life to flash before their eyes? Probably not. More tears. My laptop shuts with a sharp woosh. It is safer to stare out the window. The train speeds past a sprawling landscape. I take snapshots of curated chaos. Kawara tiles and modest homes morph into a monochromatic cityscape. Mountains and sprawling fields retreat to gaps between buildings in the city of Hiroshima. The Japanese sense of aesthetics intrigues me.

    Mikyoung Kim’s “Pacifism or Peace Movement” comes to mind. In regards to his examination of how memory works in the “empty” or “hollow center” of the Japanese mind, Mikyoung spoke of Japanese people’s dismissal of moral aspirations in favor of aesthetics. This Hollow Center flags unpleasant actions and lived experiences in the mind only to delegate its findings to Ambivalent Amnesia. In other words, the Hollow Center acts as a filter, effectively curating a stable, peaceful mind within. I wonder: does the art of preservation and curation that I glimpse in Japanese botanical and architectural practices apply here to memory and narration? For a supposed “moral authority,” Japan is a persona composed of opposite-facing pieces: victimizer and victim. At a micro level, I can think of a few people I know in real life who live a life of multiplicity. These people look to reflect on, learn, and grow forward from old mistakes–mistakes committed by different versions of the selves that exist today. Yet, there are certain people outside those individuals who know of that past and cannot let go of the association between that individual and their past actions. I would argue that while it’s important they don’t suppress the experiences that shaped them–good and bad–they also don’t owe any consistency to their past on a trajectory of growth. In the case of these individuals and Japan, is multiplicity acceptable for a leader in society? Or does taking responsibility for a significant movement, such as anti-nuclear pacifism, require careful curation of a pure brand with the “right” ethics?

During Hiroshima

    We arrive at the World Friendship Center late Monday afternoon. Strings of interconnectedness weave their way throughout the next few days, beginning with a string of compassion. Sue and Brad, our hosts at WFC, extend us a warm welcome. They are quick to offer local dinner recommendations–you’d never guess they’ve only been living in Japan since November. From Sue and Brad’s breakfast preparations to their spontaneous conversation with the members of my cohort, they effectively set the tone for a practice of intersectional interconnectedness, a human-to-human display of dignified hospitality. In the remaining hours of daylight, a few of us wander around the Hiroshima Peace Park. In the center of the park stands a giant, curved piece of white-washed stone, reminiscent of a samurai saddle. This cenotaph is shaped like a roof, designed to shelter the souls of the A-bomb victims. Standing directly in the center of the 3.7 meter curve, one can see the eclipse of the Peace Flame and the A-Bomb Dome. This site struck a chord with me. I marvel again at the presence of an aesthetic, perhaps not entirely Japanese given those with ties to Hiroshima, but here in Japan nonetheless. I marvel at how the ruins of inhumane destruction could be so beautifully framed–reframed?–in a vision of hope for a peaceful future, a vision symbolically kept alight and alive for as long as it will take until nuclear weapons no longer need be an option in geopolitical warfare. 

    Later that night, I lay on a tatami mat, a window opened just a crack above my head. I close my eyes and begin a 20-second in breath. Nearby, a siren sounds. Unlike the high-pitched siren of American emergency vehicles, this siren resembles the weather warning sirens for a tornado or tsunami. My mind flashes through the war scene in Howl’s Moving Castle, with absolute heat and fire raining down around Howl as far as the eye can see. I drift into a discombobulated slumber. My body rests in a cloud of comfort provided by the tatami mat; my mind prepares for the emotional uncertainty tomorrow will bring; and my soul perches thoughtfully on the window overlooking the city, wondering what the souls of Hiroshima were up to on The Night Before.

    Tuesday. Few words leave me on this day, let alone enter my mind. Taking the advice of Carroll in The Mindful Leader, I commit to a day of being open to learning and absorbing stories outside my own lived experience: the life of people from a different time, a different world.

    The day begins with a briefing from Sue and Brad on the history of WFC and its founder, Barbara Reynolds. Then Soh-San arrives. The facilitator in me observes the delivery of his story.  Soh-San’s demeanor reminds me of the principle that guides my public speaking: people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but they will never forget how you made them feel (Maya Angelou). I don’t remember his words verbatim–I documented his story as a series of images in my journal (attached on page 6), images drawn by the hand of Emotion rather than Reason. I remember the pale, jade green of his presentation slides. I remember the simplicity of the text on the screen. The steady cadence in his voice as he translated Japanese thoughts into English poetry. But most of all, I remember the strength in his eyes, the quiet surge of something significant in those windows to his soul. And I remember the only words he repeated, “It was terrible.”

    I almost want to end the reflection here, because Soh-San’s story, that one line, and all the words he left unsaid are what moved me the most that day. But I don’t think he’d want me to stop at just his story. So I’ll keep going.

     Following the hibakusha talk, we watched the one-man play, ‘Living With Father’ performed by Tatsushi Amano. Again, I remember only the imprints of raw emotion that Tatsushi-San’s voice conveyed throughout the play. I do remember he had invited us to use the power of our imagination. And it occurred to me–why use it for just the play? Why not use it for anything and everything I encounter, the way I conduct myself as a leader and follower? Why not use imagination to answer Soh-San’s question, What is peace? What reasons are there to stop war and conflict?

     A sketch of an answer came to me during the tour of the Peace Memorial Museum. It’s simple: the value of life is inherently invaluable. Life is not a bargaining chip to be used in geopolitical games. Humankind has a responsibility, as some of the most conscious creatures on this planet, to take ownership of our creations and the sustainable and foreseeable future. Take ownership not just of our own future, but of the future of all life for this planet or another. We have an innate responsibility to recognize the deep interconnectedness within ourselves, with others, and with the environment that we share with all sorts of other beings. Of course, it’s much more nuanced. But I think if there is one thing I would add to Soh-San’s list of reasons to stop war and conflict, it would be this simple answer of preserving humankind by taking accountability of our creations and treating each other with dignity and cultural humility. Show respect to the rest of Life in this world we share. 

After Hiroshima

        Never have I been so relieved that I approached a reading assignment with seriousness. The dedication toward understanding the readings required me to draw on a similar level of momentum that one draws on to bike up a hill, wavering every so often but determined to keep pushing forward no matter how slowly you move at certain points along the journey. There is so much I have left unsaid and unwritten, because I truly was just feeling deeply that day and connecting at such an emotional level, a level that no language can reach. I have included some pictures of my journal for a glimpse at how deeply this experience has moved me. With gratitude.

by Samantha Howden

Author's note: In a personal experiment with form and aesthetic of text, the format of this reflection follows the way in which the narratives of Hiroshima are conveyed–Before [During] and After.

Samantha is a Lead Peer Facilitator for two ALA courses with the BLI, a former Mindful Leader retreat participant led by Dr. Mahalingam, and a current cohort member Leadership Certificate, a collaboration with Student Life’s M-LEAD.

The BLI continues our commitment to exploring and sharing lessons of Peace Leadership throughout the year with a workshop on October 23 with Rebecca Irby, a member of the nuclear disarmament organization ICAN, which won the 2017 Nobel Peace Prize.

Explore more in this article in UM-LSA News featuring conversations with Samantha and Dr. Mahalingam on their experience in Hiroshima.

Images, from the top: Samantha Howden during the trip to Japan; BLI students meet with Soh Horie-san, a survivor of the atomic bomb in Hiroshima.; (2) Pages from Samantha’s journal on the trip; The Cenotaph for the Victims of the Atomic Bomb in Hiroshima; and Samantha during the trip to Hiroshima with BLI. All images courtesy of students in the Barger Leadership Institute.