Later, signatures of the crew of the Bockscar, the fighter plane that dropped "Fat Man" on Nagasaki, a few miles away from the city of Hiroshima, serve as a record of the relief and celebration following a definitive end to WWII.

One of the most infamous legacies of the war was the atomic bombing of Hiroshima on August 6, 1945. As the world celebrated the end of the conflict, a sobering global conversation began—one that questioned humanity’s capacity for destruction and underscored the urgent need for peace. In the decades that followed, the international community came together to help rebuild Hiroshima and support its people.

Through press photographs, military documents, personal testimonies, and survivor artworks, this exhibition shares powerful stories of survival, loss, and resilience—offering a rare glimpse into life before, during, and after the bombing.

Curated by our director, a third-generation survivor of the Hiroshima bombing, this exhibition highlights the ongoing journey from devastation to peace, featuring the voices of hibakusha who advocate for a world free from nuclear threats.

"As survivors, we cannot do anything but tell our story. 'For we shall not repeat the evil—this is the pledge of survivors". — Keiko Ogura

Eighty years later, Hiroshima continues to stand as a beacon of peace, a symbol of healing and survival. We invite visitors to engage with a story that speaks powerfully to our present and future.

In an interview taken years after the mission, he recounted how he was,

"coldly objective in that time period because the importance of that mission was so extreme. There was no way that I could fail through personal error or something like that".

Col. Paul had already manoeuvred the B-29 bomber 11 1/2 miles away from "ground zero" when the crew circled back to look at the destruction unleashed. Tibbets recalled,

"The city was hidden by that awful cloud . . . boiling up, mushrooming, terrible and incredibly tall",

Within ten minutes of the explosion, the mushroom cloud had risen over 60,000 feet up into the sky veiling Hiroshima in a thick rain of black smoke and debris.

It also holds a record of the President's response to first hearing the news of the successful atomic bombing of Hiroshima on August 6, 1945,

“This is the greatest thing in the world.”

The war had raged on for six years, perhaps desensitising global powers and civilians to the immeasurable fatalities. But as we contend with these twisted emotions of jubilation, even in the face of unfathomable destruction, we are left to ask:

What is the cost of war? And, are there any real winners in it?

Hiroshima had not yet been a target of American bombing, but Japan's deepening involvement in the war, meant that the city and its people had started becoming more vigilant. As American weather planes flew over the city, air raid warnings grew more frequent and Hiroshima's people learned to lead their lives under the looming shadow of wounds and scars.

And, so a sunny Monday morning, August 6, 1945 started out like any other day of the week. office-goers rode their bicycles, walked or made their way to the bus-stop. Soldiers practiced their calisthenics routines on the parade field and women and children, helped with clearing out the firebreaks in neighbourhoods.

In those first few hours after dawn, Hiroshima remained a calm and peaceful city, unaware of the unspeakable horror that would crush its morning quiet.

While people indoors were spared the flash burns, the shockwaves tore down the the city's built structures, reducing them to rubble and trapping its people below mountains of debris.

In the days that followed the blast, family and friends cried out in anguish as they searched for loved ones. Many showed up with melted, blistered skin. Others, who had been further away from "ground zero", would go on to suffer a long and invisible battle against radiation poisoning.

But perhaps most frightening was the slow realisation of the scale of devastation. Relief was delayed because no one could comprehend what had happened. The Japanese government only received confirmation on the kind of weapon and its affects 16 hours after the explosion.

Though estimates vary, at least 70,000 people are believed to have perished in the initial blast including 20 American airmen held as prisoners of war in the city. By the end of 1945, the death toll in Hiroshima had climbed to over 100,000. In the years that followed, and at present, many continue to suffer from chronic illnesses and cancers that trace back to radiation poisoning.

We see an Allied soldier as he surveys the mangled remains of Japanese buses amid the fiery ruins. A child is photographed crying, frightened, calling out to his parents.

In another photograph, taken a month later, in September 1945, an unidentified newsman stands amidst the rubble, a reminder of the immense human toll.

Closely guarded by the officers family, this album, made available for public viewing 80 years after, signals a step towards reconciling the violence and loss enacted by and felt on both sides of the warring factions.

As we reflect on this fateful day in history, we are compelled to ask what it means to witness destruction from afar? How does one begin to reconcile the devastating violence of war when it affects the shared core of humanity?

Rebuilding was not just a matter of reconstructing buildings, but of reconciling with the deep emotional and psychological scars left by the bomb. Hiroshima emerged as both a symbol of destruction and a powerful advocate for peace, committed to ensuring that the horrors of nuclear war would never be repeated.

Its preservation, debated for decades, reflects a nation’s struggle with its past and its role in shaping a peaceful future. Now recognised as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the A-Bomb Dome transcends national borders to stand as a universal monument—a call to “never forget and never repeat.” In its haunting silhouette, we are reminded that ruins bear witness and stand as a solemn beacon offering lessons on the devastating capacity of war and their plea for peace in a world scarred by conflicts.

Like many hibakusha, Mrs. Hizume suffered scars of the bombing, even a decade later. Her journey to Britain highlights the ongoing global struggle to address the profound, lingering consequences of nuclear warfare—reminding us that Hiroshima’s impact extended far beyond the immediate destruction.

Fukui, a native of Hiroshima and a student of Western-style painting, was serving as a soldier in a relief unit when the atomic bomb exploded. Surviving the blast, he immediately began sketching the harrowing scenes around him, capturing the devastation that had obliterated the city and its inhabitants. Showers depicts a mother holding her dead child, alongside a female student, all soaked in the radioactive "black rain" that fell in the hours after the bombing—a haunting symbol of the bomb's far-reaching and lingering effects.

Fukui is often credited as one of the first artists to capture the immediate aftermath of the bombing, giving his work an intensely personal dimension. Having witnessed the destruction firsthand, Fukui’s art reflects not only the physical devastation but also the deep emotional trauma of the survivors. His sketches, which served as the foundation for later works, such as Showers, convey the profound human cost of the bombing, offering a visceral, personal account of the suffering and loss that followed. It is also symbolic of survivors taking charge of their lives and accounts. Art serves as a method to reconcile their lived experiences of the A-Bomb explosion. It serves as a space to express difficult emotions like their grief, anger and hurt. More significantly, it frees them from the burden of carrying their stories alone as they rebuild their lives.

Two similar sketches, "Sketch of Woman Holding Child and Other Persons" and "Sketch of Woman Holding Dead Child and Another Woman", are also in the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum’s collection, suggesting that these rough studies were early iterations of the final painting.

The film stands out for its raw depiction of the bomb’s horrors, highlighting the physical and emotional trauma experienced by the people of Hiroshima. Unlike many earlier depictions, Barefoot Gen provides a deeply personal, child’s perspective on the destruction, making the impact of nuclear warfare all the more tangible and harrowing.

Released in the 1970s, when Japan was grappling with its post-war identity, the film served as a poignant reminder of the catastrophic consequences of the atomic bomb. It called for peace, reconciliation, and the abolition of nuclear weapons, urging viewers to unite for human dignity, solidarity and peace across the world.

In the immediate aftermath, many crew members grappled with the discomforts of their roles in the war. As soldiers they had done what was necessary to end the war. As time passed however, realisations on the human cost became harder to ignore.

While most maintained they had no regrets, viewing it as just a job, their personal accounts reveal a complex mix of pride, duty, and, for some, a lingering awareness of the destruction they had caused.

These signed letters and images offer a rare, personal insight into the crew's mindset—highlighting the tension between duty and morality in the aftermath of an unprecedented act of warfare.

Dated September 29, 1993, Captain Tibbets reflects on the crew’s precautionary cyanide capsules. They were instructed to take these with them when boarding the aircraft, the crew was ordered to consume them, in the event that their mission failed.

Carrying out the mission was neither an easy nor a straightforward decision. In fact, the crew battled with their conscience and went on to ensure significant trauma. The decision to drop the bomb was one fraught with immense ethical and psychological burden on the American forces.

This excerpt is a reminder of how war forces people to overlook their moral beliefs. For Col. Paul Tibbets, dropping the bomb was akin to his responsibility for his nation. He could not have let his emotions take over his duty.

In one, an elderly man dressed in mourning black stands alone by the river near the A-Bomb Dome, lost in thought, remembering the countless victims of the blast, as the water carried them.

The second photo shows a young boy gazing up at the Dome, listening intently as his sister explains its significance on their way to a pool.

In a third, doves flutter over Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park during the memorial service, while the skeletal remains of the A-Bomb Dome shimmer in the background—both a symbol of devastation and a testament to resilience.

In carrying a painful history, Hiroshima's past invites us to reflect on the values of unity and peace, one that continues to resonate with our present.

While survivors and dignitaries gathered for the official memorial ceremony inside Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park, several hundred pacifist protesters gathered outside. Many of them, dressed in white robes, staged a dramatic "die-in" on the streets at the exact moment the bomb dropped on Hiroshima 40 years earlier. The protesters, lying down in symbolic death poses, sought to dramatise the horrors of nuclear warfare and the continuing danger posed by atomic weapons.

Their peaceful protest outside the park was a poignant reminder that, despite the passage of four decades, the specter of nuclear annihilation remained a pressing issue, and that true peace could only be achieved through the abolition of nuclear weapons.

Each lantern, drifting softly on the Motoyasu River, carries the spirits of the hibakusha—the survivors—and all those who perished in the bombing. The soft glow of the lanterns reflects the collective wish for healing, peace, and the prevention of future nuclear destruction.

In this quiet act of remembrance, the city continues its journey towards reconciliation, shining a light on the enduring need for global peace and a world free from nuclear weapons.

As part of a campaign to raise funds for documenting and preserving survivors’ testimonies, the organization sold crane pins; symbols of peace and longevity in Japanese culture. These original pins remain powerful reminders of resilience and hope.

Origami cranes have become closely tied to the hibakusha’s call for peace and an end to war. One of the most enduring symbols of this is Sadako Sasaki. 2 years old when the A-Bomb detonated, Sadako developed leukaemia, the "A-Bomb disease", when she was 11 years old.

According to a Japanese legend, if a sick person folds 1,000 origami cranes, their wish for health will be granted. Throughout her hospital stay, Sadako folded well over 1,000 cranes, finding strength and purpose in the act. Though she passed away, her legacy has continued to live on. Today, millions around the world fold paper cranes in her memory and in solidarity with the victims of nuclear warfare. At the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, a large glass display continues being filled with these cranes—left by visitors from across the globe.

Each fold of the crane carries a quiet plea for peace, non-violence, and remembrance, turning a traditional act of hope into a living tradition, symbolic of human compassion, unity, and the pursuit of peace.

The hibakusha were frequently excluded from social and professional opportunities, as employers and colleagues shunned them out of fear, ignorance, or prejudice. Even in the rebuilding efforts, survivors struggled to find acceptance, and their trauma was often minimized or overlooked in the rush to return to normalcy. This societal rejection highlighted the deep divide between the recognition of their suffering and the desire to move past the war's painful legacy.

This experience raises a difficult question: How does a society heal when it is unwilling to acknowledge its own pain? And, perhaps more profoundly, how does a nation reconcile with its own people when the scars of war are so deeply embedded in the fabric of everyday life? As we explore the path to peace in the next section, we are invited to consider how reconciliation and healing can only begin when the wounds of the past are fully recognised—not just by the world, but by the very people who lived through them.

Since its establishment, the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum has played a critical role in educating visitors from around the world about the realities of a nuclear explosion. Through personal stories, photographs, artefacts and multimedia exhibits, the museum bears witness to the suffering of the hibakusha and the long-lasting effects of the atomic bomb on both Hiroshima and the world. It is a place where the tragedies of the past are not only remembered but serve as a stark reminder of the consequences of global conflict.

In today's world, it remains as relevant as ever. With ongoing threats of nuclear proliferation and the possibility of weapons of mass destruction, the museums serves as a critical space for dialogue about the importance of disarmament and the ethical implications of nuclear technology.

The museum continues to serve not merely as a symbol of peace, but as a reminder that peace is a shared responsibility for all of humanity.