Ohio Supreme Court keeps ban on gender-affirming care for transgender youth while case continues
The Ohio Supreme Court is keeping the ban on gender-affirming care for transgender youth as the case goes through litigation.
In March, the 10th District Court of Appeals partially blocked the state from enforcing House Bill 68, a ban on gender-affirming care for LGBTQ+ youth, allowing doctors to continue prescribing puberty blockers and hormone therapy.
Attorney General Dave Yost filed a motion with the high court to stay the law, or pause changes, until a full review by the justices. This was granted Tuesday.
H.B. 68 went into effect in 2024. The controversial legislation prevented LGBTQ+ minors from accessing care such as hormone blockers, hormone replacement therapy (HRT) and some mental health services.
'There is no way I'll stop fighting to protect these unprotected children,' Yost said, in part, in a statement from the March ruling.
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The law has been in court for months now, with the ACLU of Ohio arguing that it is unconstitutional and goes against parental rights and the right to bodily autonomy.
'It is a terrible shame that the Supreme Court of Ohio is permitting the state to evade compliance with the Ohio Constitution. Our clients have suffered tangible and irreparable harm during the eight months that H.B. 68 has been in place, including being denied essential health care in their home state,' Freda Levenson, ACLU legal director, said. 'The Court of Appeals was correct that H.B. 68 violates at least two separate provisions of the Ohio Constitution. We will continue to fight this extreme ban as the case goes ahead before the Supreme Court of Ohio.'
The law also prohibits trans athletes from participating in middle, high school or college athletics on teams that align with their identity.
In July 2024, parents and doctors testified to prevent the state from enforcing the ban, citing that the ban would 'deny basic human rights.'
Follow WEWS statehouse reporter Morgan Trau on Twitter and Facebook.
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Yahoo
4 days ago
- Yahoo
HRT for beginners: Your complete guide to menopause hormone therapy
As a woman in her late 40s, I can't open Instagram, a news roundup or my email — much less the group chat — without seeing something about hormone therapy or menopause. Sure, the algorithm is just doing its thing (unlike my periods), but these really are hot topics now (sorry, brain fog prevented a clever hot flash analogy). Not only has search interest in hormone replacement therapy (HRT) more than tripled over the past five years, according to Google Trends, but celebrities and influencers are talking about it — and it's all over the news. It's curious, then, that prescribing rates are in the basement. Usage was a mere 4.7% among postmenopausal women, according to a 2024 study in JAMA Health Forum, and recent research suggests there hasn't been an uptick since. "It's surprising," says Dr. Stephanie Faubion, medical director of The Menopause Society and director of the Mayo Clinic Center for Women's Health. "Not every woman needs to be on hormone therapy, but a lot who need it probably aren't getting it." Hormone curious? Feeling overwhelmed by information? Just want to wake up not drenched in sweat? You're in the right place. What is hormone therapy for menopause? You probably know the term "hormone replacement therapy" or HRT, but experts prefer "menopause hormone therapy" (MHT) or just hormone therapy. "It's more accurate. We're not trying to replace hormones," Faubion says. "It takes a much lower dose to manage symptoms than what the premenopausal ovary would have made." Think about estrogen and/or progestin like a supplement rather than a replacement. Officially, MHT is for healthy women under the age of 60 and within 10 years of menopause to help with hot flashes and vaginal changes like dryness and painful sex. Beyond hot flashes: How hormone therapy can help Not to get into semantics again, but saying MHT "helps" is like saying weighted vests are just … popular. Even impressive stats like a 55% to 90% improvement in hot flashes, per a review in the Journal of Menopausal Medicine, seem to understate things. "For myself and many patients, hormone therapy has been life-changing," says Elana Bodzin, DPT, a pelvic floor physical therapist and menopause coach in Pleasant Ridge, Mich. "I was miserable with hot flashes and fatigue. Almost immediately I was sleeping through the night. My hot flashes were gone, my energy was back, my mental health improved; it was astounding how quickly I felt human again." Approved by the FDA for hot flashes (called vasomotor symptoms or VMS) and vaginal changes (aka genitourinary syndrome of menopause or GSM), MHT often has a ripple effect on other symptoms, quality of life and overall health, says Dr. Robert Kauffman, professor of obstetrics and gynecology at Texas Tech University in Amarillo, and a fellow of the American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology. For vaginal health, estrogen can alleviate dryness, increase blood flow and restore elasticity to vaginal tissues, which may help you get your groove back in the bedroom, as well as improve some urinary or incontinence issues, Bodzin says. Good news if your "I have to go" suddenly turns into "I have to go change my undies." And those are just the benefits you can feel. A review in the journal Best Practice & Research Clinical Endocrinology & Metabolism found that MHT prevents bone loss and reduces the risk of fracture by 20% to 40%. It's also been shown to lower the risk of cardiovascular disease, diabetes, colon cancer and dementia, especially in high-risk groups. Is hormone therapy safe? The short answer: Yes. But, like anything, caveats exist. According to the Menopause Society, women with a history of breast or uterine cancer, cardiovascular or severe liver disease, blood clots or unexplained uterine bleeding are generally advised to avoid systemic menopausal hormone therapy — meaning the kind that travels through your entire body via options like pills or patches. "Otherwise, risks of adverse effects are very low for healthy women in their 40s and 50s — but not zero," says Faubion. "They include a slight increased risk for blood clots, stroke — and breast cancer with combo estrogen/progesterone therapy." Putting the risks in perspective Are those things scary? Sure. But risks can be minimized and the benefits tend to far outweigh the potential problems — especially when put in context. Take breast cancer. Only after three to five years of certain hormone regimens does breast cancer risk begin to rise — and even then, it's modest, states a 2025 report in the European Journal of Cancer. "We're talking a few extra cases per thousand after five years of estrogen plus progestogen therapy," says Faubion. "Consider other factors that also increase the risk of breast cancer, like being inactive or overweight or having one to two glasses of wine a night. Somehow hormone therapy has been demonized in ways other things haven't." The lingering fear factor Indeed, the biggest problem with hormone therapy may be its history. Back in the late 90s, MHT use was as high as 27%. Then the Women's Health Initiative study initially linked hormones to increased risk of heart attack, stroke and breast cancer — but those risks were most pronounced in women over 60, particularly those who started treatment many years after menopause. Panic-inducing headlines followed, and usage plummeted. Since then, additional analysis and new studies have shown minimal or no health risks in younger women using lower doses for shorter periods. The science evolved, but public opinion didn't. "There's still an unreasonable fear among both women and physicians. I'm stunned how many physicians are afraid of it; we've lost an entire generation who could have benefited," Kaufmann says. Whether MHT is right for you is a decision to make with your care provider based on health history, symptoms, and other factors. "If a woman watched her mother die of breast cancer, she may not want to take any chance, and that's OK, but others may feel differently," Faubion says. "Hormone therapy isn't the anti-aging miracle it's sometimes touted online but it's also not an evil thing out there killing people." Types of hormone therapy: Finding what works for you There are two main types of hormones, and within those, approximately a million ways to deliver them, give or take: Systemic: This estrogen-plus-progestin therapy is absorbed into your bloodstream and travels throughout the body — helping with classic menopause symptoms like hot flashes and bone loss. It comes in pills, patches, sprays, gels or high-dose vaginal rings (like Femring). Local or vaginal: This treatment (also called vaginal estrogen therapy) stays mostly in the vaginal tissues, easing symptoms like dryness, irritation and recurring UTIs — without significantly raising hormone levels in the rest of your body. It's available as creams, suppositories, vaginal gels and low-dose vaginal rings (like Estring). This type of hormone therapy does not increase your risk of blood clots or cancer. And it may even be safe for breast cancer patients and others who aren't candidates for systemic hormones. What you choose depends on personal preference, symptoms, health history — even insurance. Pills, patches and gels are often covered; vaginal rings, not so much. "We often start with transdermal estrogen — like a patch or gel — versus a pill because it bypasses the liver, so the risk of a blood clot is thought to be lower," Faubion says. Your health care provider might also suggest both systemic and local vaginal hormones. 'The lowest dose of systemic may work well for hot flashes, but often isn't enough to restore the vaginal tissues,' she says. One non-negotiable: If you have a uterus and take systemic estrogen, you must also take the hormone progestin, which protects against uterine cancer, reports the American Cancer Society. You can get a 2-in-1 or separate meds. Or, if you have a hormonal IUD like Mirena (perimenopause is hard enough without throwing an unintended pregnancy into the mix, amiright?), it takes care of the progestin. Dosage and monitoring The dose prescribed depends on different factors, including how far into menopause you are, age and severity of symptoms. For example, a menopausal woman in her 50s likely needs a lower dose than a 39-year-old who just had her ovaries removed and is thrust into menopause, Faubion says. The goal: Find the lowest effective dose, which may take trial and error. That's why tracking symptoms and follow-ups are important — as is speaking up if you don't get relief. "Unfortunately, some clinicians start with the lowest dose and never raise it, so women may not achieve symptom relief," Faubion says. Similarly, say something if you feel off. Just as some women don't do well with certain types of hormonal birth control, certain forms of MHT could trigger emotional or physical changes that others wouldn't, Bodzin says. With options on options, you can switch things up. Finding a provider fluent in hormones You might also need to reconsider your health care provider. The ob-gyn who expertly delivered your babies or handled your Pap smears with care may not have the same expertise — or enthusiasm — when it comes to menopause management. In fact, according to Mayo Clinic Proceedings, while 94% of ob-gyn residents say it's important to be trained in menopause care, more than a third wouldn't prescribe hormone therapy to a healthy, newly menopausal woman who could benefit. It's also not uncommon for clinicians to downplay symptoms or, because many were never educated on menopause management and aren't sure what to do, they may default to doing nothing, Faubion says. If this happens to you, it's time for a second opinion, allowing the Menopause Society to be your guide with their provider search. Still, some women are bypassing traditional office visits altogether in favor of online clinics that specialize in hormone therapy. While telemedicine clinics are convenient and improve accessibility, experts warn that MHT shouldn't be like shopping online for a pair of readers. "You still need regular pelvic exams and an assessment to be sure you don't have uterine cancer or other issues," reminds Kauffman, noting that follow-ups and monitoring are key. "Expanding access to care is a good thing, but I get some heartburn over what can't be done through the internet." In short, if you do go virtual, make sure you also have IRL care too. And regardless of where you go, remember: You are your best advocate. "It's never the right answer to be told nothing can be done," Faubion says. Meet the experts Stephanie Faubion, MD, director of the Mayo Clinic Center for Women's Health and medical director of the Menopause Society Robert Kauffman, MD, professor of obstetrics and gynecology, assistant dean for research education, and clinical professor of laboratory sciences and primary care at Texas Tech University and a fellow of the American College of Obstetrics and Gynecology Elana Bodzin, DPT, pelvic floor physical therapist, menopause coach and founder of Aligned Physical Therapy and Wellness Our health content is for informational purposes only and is not intended as professional medical advice. Consult a medical professional on questions about your health.
Yahoo
5 days ago
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The University of Utah could be cutting over 80 degrees, yours may be on the list
SALT LAKE CITY () — The University of Utah signed off on a list of over 80 programs that could be discontinued. Some programs may surprise you. On Tuesday, Aug. 5, 2025, the of courses and degree programs that could be discontinued. The university says the listed programs were selected by analyzing enrollment and graduation numbers. 'We recognize the weight of these decisions and the importance of shared governance in managing this process with transparency and integrity,' Provost Mitzi Montoya said in a memo to academic leaders. The following list displays programs that could be cut. (Minors and certificate programs are not listed). Bachelors Art & Art History Music Composite Teaching Russian Teaching German Teaching Biology Composite Teaching Chemistry Teaching Masters Educational Psychology Computer Science Bioengineering Biomedical Engineering Chemical Engineering Civil Engineering Electrical Engineering Materials Science & Engineering Nuclear Engineering Modern Dance Ballet Audiology Physical Therapy Middle East Studies Applied Mechanics Psychometrics Psychology Healthcare Management Management Human Resource Management Marketing Doctoral Theatre Parks, Recreation, & Tourism Exercise & Sport Science Health Promotion & Education Middle East Studies Chemical Physics Physiology Experimental Pathology To view the full list of programs, click . The strategic reinvestment bill The cuts come as part of a reinvestment plan that is required under . University leaders say the required changes are part of a broader transformation that is already underway. H.B. 265, which was signed into law in March of 2025, requires universities to create a reinvestment plan to reallocate funding from certain programs to other programs that 'merit additional investment.' The bill also requires the Utah Board of Higher Education to grant accelerated three-year degrees. On both the House and Senate floors, the bill passed largely on party lines. Nearly every Republican voted in favor while all but four Democrats voted in contrary to the reinvestment. What's next? Phase one of the reinvestment plan is expected to last three-years and reallocate over $19 million, according to a University of Utah press release. University leadership anticipates more intense cuts could come later on in the reinvestment process. 'We recognize that there will be further, more painful rounds of cuts and restructurings, but we hope this can serve as a precedent and model,' Senate President Richard Preiss told trustees. Students currently enrolled in programs that could be cut will receive pathways to degree completion through so-called 'teach out plans,' Montoya said. However, some students may be referred to alternative programs. of programs that could be cut under the reinvestment bill in April. The above list contains a simplified version of many programs and does not include specifics of emphasis or languages within some programs. Latest headlines: Anita Dunn tells GOP panel Biden 'aged physically' but led decision making Containment on Monroe fire jumps to 18%, over 66,000 acres burned Judge dismisses all charges against pro-Palestine protester Lehi police K9 sniffs out more than 5,000 fentanyl pills during traffic stop Amid summer heat, one Utah ski resort announced its 2025/26 opening day Copyright 2025 Nexstar Media, Inc. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed. Solve the daily Crossword
WIRED
6 days ago
- WIRED
Life After the Atomic Blast, as Told by Hiroshima's Survivors
Aug 6, 2025 6:11 AM Eighty years after the dropping of the first atomic bomb, Hiroshima's survivors and their descendants describe how health problems and stigma have echoed down the generations. Photographer: Smith Collection/Gado/Getty Images THIS ARTICLE IS republished from The Conversation under a Creative Commons license. 'I'm not sure if it was the effect of the atomic bomb, but I have always had a weak body, and when I was born, the doctor said I wouldn't last more than three days.' These are the words of Kazumi Kuwahara, a third-generation hibakusha —a survivor of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in Japan 80 years ago. Kuwahara, who still lives in Hiroshima, was in London on May 6 this year to give a speech at a Victory Over Japan Day conference organized and hosted by the University of Westminster. Now 29, she told the conference that she felt she had been 'fighting illness' throughout her twenties. When she was 25, she needed abdominal surgery to remove a tumor which post-surgery tests showed was benign. When she found out about the operation, her grandmother, Emiko Yamanaka—now 91 and a direct survivor of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima—told her 'I'm sorry, it's my fault.' Kuwahara explained: 'Ever since I was young, whenever I became seriously ill, my grandmother would repeatedly say: 'I'm sorry.' The atomic bombing didn't end on that day, and the survivors—we hibakusha—continue to live within its shadow.' Kazumi Kuwahara with her grandmother, Emiko Yamanaka, outside Hiroshima Peace Dome in 2025. Photograph: Kazumi Kuwahara, CC BY-NC-ND Kuwahara came to stay with me 10 years ago during a study-abroad break after I had interviewed her grandmother for my doctoral research. When I'd made a film about Yamanaka in 2012, I immediately noticed her reluctance to share her harrowing experience. But she then invited me to interview her in Hiroshima—the first of 10 trips I made there for research that would become an interview archive. I wanted to research hibakusha like Kuwahara and her grandmother as they continue to confront the physical, social, and psychological effects of the atomic bombs dropped on August 6 and August 9, 1945, on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, respectively. The 16-kiloton bomb dropped on Hiroshima at 8:15 am by a US B-29 bomber was codenamed 'Little Boy' by the Americans. It exploded about 600 meters above the Shima Hospital in the downtown area of Nakajima—a mix of residential, commercial, sacred, and military sites. The bomb emitted a radioactive flash as well as a sonic boom. A gigantic fireball formed (about 3,000–4,000 degrees C), as well as mushroom cloud which climbed up to 16 kilomters in the air. In Japan in the immediate aftermath of the bombing, people couldn't even utter the phrase 'atomic bomb' due to censorship rules initially enforced by the Japanese military authorities, up until the day of surrender on August 15. The censorship was reinstated and expanded by the US during its occupation of the Japanese islands from September 2, 1945. For decades, the hibakusha have faced discrimination and difficulty in obtaining work and finding marriage partners due to a complex combination of suppression, stigma, ignorance, and fear around the dropping of the atomic bombs and their aftereffects. Wartime propaganda in Imperial Japan precluded free speech while also imposing bans on luxury goods, Western language and customs (including clothes), and public displays of emotion. However, the US occupation—which lasted until the San Francisco treaty was signed on April 2,8 1952—went further, establishing an extensive Civil Censorship Department, which monitored not only all newspapers, magazines, pamphlets, books, films, and plays but also radio broadcasts, personal mail, and telephone and telegraph communications. Little wonder the scars of the bomb remained untreated for generations. Emiko Yamanaka's Story Yamanaka was 11 years old when she was exposed to the atomic bombing, just 1.4 kilometers from ground zero. Emiko Yamanaka (far left) with her parents and four brothers during wartime before the atomic bombing in 1945. Photograph: Emiko Yamanaka She told me about her experiences of surviving on the bank of the River Ota, which divides into seven rivers in the estuary of Hiroshima. Yamanaka was the oldest of five siblings in 1945. Although the family had been evacuated to an island near Kure 25 kilometers away, she returned to their home on the outskirts of the city with her mother and 9-year-old brother early on the morning of August 6 so she could attend an appointment with an eye doctor for a case of conjunctivitis. Making her way into the city by herself, the tram she was traveling on needed to stop due to an air-raid warning. It was a 'light' warning as just two B-29s had been spotted approaching the mainland (a third photography plane was not yet visible on the horizon), so Yamanaka needed to continue her journey on foot. She recalled: 'When I got to Sumiyoshi shrine, the strap of one of my wooden geta [Japanese clogs] had snapped off. I tried to fix it with a torn piece of my handkerchief in the shade of a nearby factory building. Then a man came out of the factory and gave me a string of hemp. He advised me to enter the doorway because the sun was very hot already. 'When I was repairing my strap, there was a flash. I was blinded for a moment, because the light was so strong, as if the sun or a fireball had fallen down over my head. I couldn't tell where it came from—side, front, or behind. I didn't know what had happened to me. It felt like I was mowed down, pinned or veiled in by something very strong. I couldn't exhale.' 'I cried out: 'I can't breathe! I'm choking! Help me!' I fainted. It all happened in a matter of seconds. I heard something rustling nearby and suddenly recovered my senses. 'Help me. Help me,' I cried.' An aerial photograph of Hiroshima, Japan, after the atomic bomb was dropped. Photograph: UniversalA man wearing what seemed like an apron, tattered gaiters, and ammo boots came toward her and called out: 'Where are you? Where are you?' He pushed aside the debris and extended his arm to Yamanaka: 'When I caught his hand, the skin of his hand stripped off and our hands slipped. He adjusted his hand and dragged me out of the debris, grabbing my fingers … I felt a sense of relief, but I forgot to say thank you to him. Everything happened in a moment.' Yamanaka started to run back the way she had come along the river, as 'the city was not yet burning.' She saw the shrine just beyond Sumiyoshi bridge, not far from the river. But the bridge had been damaged by the bomb, so she couldn't cross it. Yamanaka's family home was at Eba across the river. In those days, the River Ota was used for river transport and business, and there were huge stone steps going down to the river for loading. She said: 'I wanted to get across to the other side. Then the city started to burn. The fires were chasing me, and I had to run along the riverbank. I had to keep running as fast as possible until I finally reached Yoshijima jail. I was so scared, but the area was not burning yet. I felt so relieved, I lost my consciousness.' She awoke hearing shouts of 'is there anyone who is going back to Eba from Funairi?' and recognized a neighbor. She asked him to take her across, but he couldn't recognize her. 'I shed big tears when I heard his voice,' she told me. There were about 10 people in a small wooden boat, all with 'big swollen grotesque faces and frizzy hair. I thought they were old people. Maybe I also looked like an old woman,' she added. After crossing the river in the small boat, Yamanaka ran to her Eba home which, even though it was 3 kilometers from ground zero, had collapsed. She couldn't find her mother. Someone told her to go to the air-raid shelter nearby, but there were too many people to fit inside. When she finally found her mother, she was barely recognizable, wrapped in bandages from her injuries. Yamanaka herself had to go to a hospital, as tiny pieces of glass from the factory windows where she had been exposed were lodged in her body. She told me how some shards of glass still emerge from her body occasionally, secreting a chocolate-colored pus. The family—Yamanaka, her mother, and her younger brother (her father, grandparents, and the other siblings had remained evacuated)—stayed up all night in a shelter on Eba hill, listening to the sounds of the burning city, the cries for mothers, the sounds of carts filled with refugees. 'All those sounds horrified me,' Yamanaka recalled—decades on from the day that changed everything. The aftermath of the atomic bomb showing the former Hiroshima Industrial Promotion hall. The Peace Memorial Park, dedicated to the victims, would later be built here. Photograph: UniversalThe Day the World Changed The immediate effects of the bomb, including heat, blast, and radiation, extended to a 4 kilometer radius—although recent studies show the radioactive fallout from 'black rain' extended much farther due to the winds blowing the mushroom cloud. And some survivors told me they witnessed the blast effects of the bomb, including windows blown out or structures disturbed, in outlying towns and villages up to 30 kilometers away. But the closer you were to ground zero, the more likely you were to suffer severe effects. At 0.36 kilometers from ground zero, there was almost nothing left; about 4 kilometers away, 50 percent of the inhabitants died. Even 11 kilometers away, people suffered from third-degree burns due to the effects of radiation. The neutron rays also penetrated the surface of the earth, causing it to become radioactive. The mushroom cloud was visible from the hills of neighboring prefectures. Those who were beyond the immediate blast radius may not have shown any external injuries immediately—but they commonly became sick and died in the days, weeks, months, and years that followed. And those outside the city were exposed to radiation when they tried to enter to help the injured. Radiation also affected children who were in the womb at the time. Common radiation-related diseases were hair loss, bleeding gums, loss of energy ('no more will' in Japanese), and pain, as well as life-threatening high fever. About 650,000 people were recognized by the Japanese government as having been affected by the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. While most have now passed away, figures held by the Ministry of Health, Labor, and Welfare from March 31, 2025, show there are an estimated 99,130 still alive, whose average age is now 86. In a radio broadcast following the atomic bombings, Emperor Hirohito announced Japan's surrender and called on the Japanese people to 'bear the unbearable,' referring to the 'most cruel weapons' that had been used by the Allied forces without directly identifying the nuclear attack. Due to ill-feeling about the defeat, shame over Japan's imperial past and role in the war, plus censorship and ignorance about the reality of nuclear weapons, the idea grew that the dead and injured hibakusha were simply 'sacrifices' ('生贄 になる') for world peace. Generations Affected It took Yamanaka around seven years to recover her strength enough to lead a relatively normal life, so she barely graduated from high school. She has subsequently been diagnosed with various blood, heart, eye, and thyroid diseases as well as low immunity—symptoms that can be related to radiation exposure. Her daughters also suffered. In 1977, when her eldest daughter was 19, she had three operations for skin cancer. In 1978, when her second daughter was 14, she developed leukemia. In 1987, her third daughter suffered from a unilateral oophorectomy (a surgical procedure to remove an ovary). I interviewed Yamanaka's daughters, granddaughter, and several other survivors repeatedly, beginning with experiences prior to the atomic bombing and continuing up to the present day. While these interviews generally started in the official location of the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, I also conducted walking interviews and went to sites of special importance to their personal memories. I shared car journeys, coffees, and meals with them and their helpers, because I wanted to see their lives in context, as part of a community. Their trauma and suffering are dealt with socially. For the relatively few survivors who tell their stories in public, it is through the help of strong local networks. While I was at first told I would not find survivors who wanted to share their stories, gradually more came forward through a snowball effect. Returning to interview Yamanaka in August 2013, we traveled by car to her former home of Eba, pausing at the site where she had alighted after her journey across the river. There, Yamanaka struck up conversation with a fellow survivor who was passing on his bicycle. His name was Maruto-San. They had attended the same temple-based elementary school. Emiko Yamanaka meets a fellow hibakusha, Maruto-San, on a visit to her hometown in Eba with the author in August 2013. Photograph: Elizabeth Chappell The two hibakusha, who had both been exposed when young (part of a category known as jakunen hibakusha), exchanged stories about their experiences after 'that day' ( ano hi )—as August 6 and 9 are still known in the atomic-bombed cities. They talked about how just one or two friends were still alive—one survivor ran a well-known patisserie in the local department store. Yamanaka informed Maruto-San that she had met a few friends from childhood on a reunion trip, during which they had tried to retrieve some happier pre-bomb memories. The meeting offered a rare glimmer of recognition and reconnection. Keisaburo Toyanaga's Story In 2014, I traveled to the childhood home of hibakusha Keisaburo Toyanaga, a retired teacher of classical Japanese who was 9 on August 6, 1945. After visiting his original home in east Hiroshima, we took the route he, his mother, grandfather, and 3-year-old younger brother had traveled, fleeing Hiroshima toward his grandfather's house in the suburb of Funakoshi, about 8 kilometers away. He told me: 'I remember coming this way on that day … My family was just one of many others, we were all traveling with our belongings on pushcarts.' The family set up home in this poor suburb, which was shared with many Korean families who could not find a way out of poverty due to historic discrimination. Korea was annexed by Imperial Japan, and Koreans had been recruited en masse into Japan's war effort. An estimated 40,000 to 80,000 were in Hiroshima in 1945. Some high-ranking Koreans were accepted by the Japanese—for example, royals like Prince Yi U, who was said to have been astride his horse at the time of the bombing. But ordinary Koreans had to refrain from using their own language or wearing Korean clothes in public. Even after the war was over, they needed to use Japanese names outside the home. After the war, Koreans in Hiroshima took menial agricultural work—in Funakoshi, they kept pigs. Confronted with discrimination in the classroom where he taught at the Electricity Workers' school, Toyanaga became a campaigner for the right of repatriated South and North Koreans to be officially recognized as hibakusha from the 1970s onward. He showed me the wooden talisman he wore around his neck, awarded by the Korean community for his support. The author (far right) with Keisaburo Toyanaga (far left) and Keiko Ogura, both hibakusha, at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum library in 2014. Photograph: Elizabeth Chappell The Ghosts of Hiroshima When I was living and working in Japan from 2004, before I started my academic research, I was advised to stay away from the atomic-bombed cities because speaking of the atomic bombings was considered 'kanashii' (悲しい), 'kowai' (怖い), and 'kurushimii' (苦しみい)—sad, scary, and painful. Some Japanese friends even expressed horror when I first went to Hiroshima and Nagasaki to do research. They seemed to feel it was like an act of self-harm. A young student I met warned me that the ghosts of the victims of Hiroshima rise at night to take over the city. On my first visit in 2009, I stayed for one night in a youth hostel beside the railway tracks and the Hiroshima Carp baseball stadium. That night, a friend and I went for a drink with a couple, both second-generation hibakusha or 'hibaku nisei.' This couple, Nishida San and his wife, Takeko, were involved in organizing the annual Hiroshima Peace Memorial ceremony. Takeko sang in a choir that had been involved in several exchange visits to Europe, including visiting Notre Dame in Paris and Christ Church Cathedral in Oxford. She said her parents had never told her about their experiences of the bomb, even though her father had been exposed close to ground zero. I was surprised to discover that hibakusha were reluctant to share their stories even within their own families, often for fear of physical and psychological harm being passed through the family line. After our meeting in the bar, we went to eat okonomiyaki ('delicious food'), a pancake with cabbage, egg, pork, and noodles, in a building known as 'okonomiyaki mura' or okonomiyaki village. To me, it recalled a New York tenement block with an outdoor staircase serving as the entrance to all floors—the outlines of unbuilt rooms decorating its temporary facade. Such temporariness had lasted from the 1950s when concrete blocks like these went up around the city center to service a whole new population after Hiroshima's near-erasure. Since 1945, most inhabitants come from outside the city. 'Flash … Boom' I was sitting with Nishida San on makeshift bar seats in front of a counter with a huge, heated iron plate. The chef, Shin San, took our order and, as we chatted, one of our Hiroshima friends asked him if he remembered the atomic bomb. Shin replied: 'Of course I do.' Then he spread his arms wide and a strange expression appeared on his face, as he said: 'Pikaaaaa … doon.' This translates as 'flash … boom'—two onomatopoeic words that encapsulate so much for Hiroshima people. Many survivors, especially those downtown, only experienced the flash. Others, usually at some distance, experienced the sonic boom. So these two words were used in place of 'gembakudan' (原爆弾)—meaning atomic bomb—due to censorship. A monument to victims from Hiroshima Municipal Girls' School with the inscription 'E=MC2.' Photograph: Dutchmen Photography/ Shutterstock Nobel Prize–winning author Kenzaburo Ōe, in his 1981 work Hiroshima Notes , wrote, 'For 10 years after the atomic bomb was dropped there was so little public discussion of the bomb or of radioactivity that even the Chugoku Shimbun, the major newspaper of the city where the atomic bomb was dropped, did not have the movable [kanji] type for the words 'atomic bomb' or 'radioactivity.'' To support this, I noticed how some monuments for those who died in downtown Hiroshima bear the simple inscription E=MC², Einstein's formula for relativity—the source of the science that created the bomb, but not the actual words for 'atomic bomb.' Keiko Ogura: '40 Years of Nightmares' The older generation often told me how they dreaded visiting the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum and its surrounding park, as they are built over ground zero. However, some found that after encountering visiting foreigners there who had also experienced mass suffering, such as the Holocaust or a nuclear test, they were more able to open up. Keiko Ogura, now 87, was 8 on August 6, 1945, and was exposed to black rain at her home in Ushitamachi, 5 kilometers from the center of Hiroshima. She said: 'For 40 years, I had nightmares and did not want to tell the story. Growing up, our mothers did not speak of the atomic bombing, as they were afraid of discrimination and prejudice. Getting older, we started to worry about our children's and grandchildren's health. After the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission was established in 1947, some people expected to be cured of ABI [atomic bomb injury] … but in fact, the doctors there were just gathering blood and data.' Ogura had thought, as a child, that she would never find a partner due to the discrimination against hibakusha, but she was also acutely aware that other survivors had suffered more than her. The author outside Mitaki Temple with Keiko Ogura (left) and Shoko Ishida in November 2013. Photograph: Elizabeth Chappell However, when Robert Jungk, a Holocaust survivor, came to research his book Children of the Ashes with the help of Kaoru Ogura—a bilingual American who had been interned during the Second World War and would become Keiko's husband—things started to shift for her. Finding out about the Holocaust lent a new dimension to her own experiences of discrimination. Jungk—along with Robert J. Lifton, a genocide historian—wrote their interview-based studies of Hiroshima in the 1950s and '60s, when ordinary citizens around the world were largely ignorant of the enormity of what had happened in Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and the nuclear test sites. Lifton, originally a military psychiatrist, explained that after the 1962 Cuban missile crisis, he had been motivated to study in Hiroshima as he was afraid the world was in danger of 'making the same mistake again.' However, the link between Hiroshima and the Holocaust was first made by Otto Frank, Anne Frank's father, who organized for an Anne Frank rose garden to be planted in the Peace Memorial Park in honor of an 11-year-old girl, Sadako Sasaki, who died from leukemia nine years after the bomb. One autumnal afternoon in 2013, after my third round of interviews with my cohort of hibakusha, I visited Mitaki Temple Cemetery, about 6 kilometers outside Hiroshima. The graveyard is dedicated to hibakusha, many of whose ashes are kept there. The hibakusha headstones are engraved with haiku written by family members. However, many of the headstones which existed prior to 1945 have been left at jagged angles—positioned as they were after being upset by the seismic effects of the atomic bombing. In among the recent graves, I was shown some Jewish hanging mobile memorials—gifts from Oświęcim in Poland, location of the Auschwitz concentration camp. The temple's former head priest had been involved in the Hiroshima-Auschwitz Peace Committee, an interfaith group which had started with a walk around the world to link atomic bomb survivors with Holocaust and other war victims. Making the connection was important to hibakusha who were accused, then as now, of highlighting the atrocities of the bomb but downplaying the importance of Japan's role in the war. When visiting Japan's former colonies and elsewhere, hibakusha still offer apologies for Japanese behavior in the Second World War. For institutions in Hiroshima, it's important to change the narrative around nuclear weapons—not only through more and better medical research but also by disseminating hibakusha stories. The local newspaper, Chugoku Shimbun, aims to strengthen informal networks of hibakusha who meet up to share memories of that day. Some local journalists I met, Rie Nii and Yumi Kanazaki, help young people to interview their grandparents' generation, building up a valuable archive of experiences. There are two ways the younger generation can carry these stories forward: either by training as denshōsha (ambassadors) or by interviewing family members. Kazumi Kuwahara decided to do both. When she was just 13, she wanted to pass on her grandmother's story, becoming the winner of a prefecture-wide speaking competition about the bomb. In her twenties, after graduating from university, she also decided to train as a denshōsha and peace park guide, a role that requires intensive training over a six-month period. As the youngest guide to the Hiroshima Peace Park, she says: 'Each visitor has a unique nationality and upbringing and, as I interact with them, I constantly ask myself how best to share Hiroshima's significant history.' Toward the end of my field work, having gained interviews with three generations of survivors as well as their helpers, I realized this was just the beginning of a much larger conversation. John Hersey, author of the Pulitzer Prize–winning 1946 work Hiroshima , said: 'What has kept the world safe from the bomb since 1945 has been the memory of what happened at Hiroshima.' However, as our memories get more spotty with the passing of time, and as more survivors' names are added to the roll of the dead at the cenotaphs of Japan's atomic-bombed cities, perhaps our greatest hope is to grow the cohort of today's listeners—so that tomorrow's storytellers may emerge.
