Latest news with #Hiroshi
CTV News
10-08-2025
- Health
- CTV News
How the atomic bombing of Nagasaki tore apart Japan's understanding of motherhood
FILE - In this Sept. 13, 1945, file photo, the Urakami Catholic Cathedral in Nagasaki, Japan, stands waste in the aftermath of the detonation of the atom bomb over a month ago over this city. (AP Photo/Stanley Troutman, Pool, File) When Kikuyo Nakamura's adult son discovered bumps on his back, she assumed it was just a rash. Still, she urged him to go to the hospital — better safe than sorry. Hiroshi, her second son, was born in 1948, three years after the U.S. dropped an atomic bomb on Nagasaki. As a survivor of the bombing, Nakamura had long feared she might pass on health problems to her children. In 2003, at age 55, Hiroshi went to the hospital. Two days passed without any word from him. Then three. Then a week. Eventually Nakamura went to the hospital, where her son told her: ''They're going to do more tests,' she told CNN. The results showed he had stage 4 leukemia –– an advanced stage of blood cancer that had spread to other parts of his body. According to Nakamura, the doctor told her that she had given her son cancer –– suggesting the radiation that caused it was passed on through breastfeeding when he was a baby. When Hiroshi died, six months later, his mother was left to believe she had essentially killed him; a thought that still haunts her more than two decades on. 'I was overwhelmed with guilt and suffering… Even now, I still believe what the doctor said, that I caused it. That guilt still lives in me,' said Nakamura, who is now 101-years old. Those who are exposed to nuclear radiation are generally urged to stop breastfeeding in the immediate aftermath of an atomic blast. But experts say there's no concrete evidence that first generation 'hibakusha' –– atomic bomb survivors of World War II –– can pass cancer-causing material to their children, years after exposure. As the 80th anniversary of the U.S. bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki approaches, aging survivors — some, like Nakamura, more than 100-years old — are sharing their stories of suffering and resilience, while they still can. Many of them were young women, either pregnant or of childbearing age, when the bombs fell and have lived much of their lives under a heavy shadow of fear and stigma. They were told by medical practitioners, neighbors, even friends and family that their exposure to nuclear radiation could cause them to have children with illnesses or disabilities –– if they conceived at all. Even when infertility or a child's disability had nothing to do with radiation exposure, hibakusha women often felt blamed and shunned. Those with visible scars from the blasts faced barriers to marriage. Physical wounds were harder to hide — and clearer proof of exposure. And at a time in society when a woman's worth was closely tied to marriage and motherhood, this stigma was particularly damaging. It caused a large number of women survivors –– many of whom had PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) –– to 'hide the fact that they were hibakusha,' according to Masahiro Nakashima, a professor of radiation studies at Nagasaki University. 'In a society like Japan — where gender discrimination and male dominance have been deeply rooted — women were especially affected by radiation,' Nakashima told CNN. Lifelong scars Radiation exposure did affect some second-generation survivors, depending on the timing of pregnancy. The embryonic period — generally ranging from weeks 5 up to 15 — is especially sensitive for brain and organ development. Women exposed to radiation during this window had a higher risk of giving birth to children with intellectual disabilities, neurological issues, and microcephaly, a condition marked by a small head and impaired brain function, according to studies from the joint Japan-U.S. Radiation Effects Research Foundation (RERF) –– a successor to the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission formed just after World War II. Other studies showed that women hibakusha faced long-term health risks themselves. A 2012 RERF study found that radiation exposure from an atomic bomb raised cancer risk for the rest of a person's life. Solid cancer rates for women at age 70 increased by 58 per cent for every gray of radiation their bodies absorbed at age 30. A gray is a unit that measures how much radiation energy a body or object takes in. For men, solid cancer rates increased by 35 per cent. Nakamura was 21-years old and was hanging laundry outside around 11am when the bomb fell on Nagasaki on August 9, 1945. She says she was 5 kilometres (3.1 miles) from the epicentre –– a little beyond what experts call the area of 'total destruction.' The young mother saw a bright light, followed by a loud boom and a powerful gust of wind that flung her into the air. When she regained consciousness, her house was wrecked — furniture was strewn everywhere and glass shards covered the floor. She called out to her own mother, who had been helping Nakamura care for her eldest son. Relieved they weren't physically wounded, the family fled to an air raid shelter. It wasn't until the next day that Nakamura grasped the scale of destruction. Relatives living near Nagasaki University, closer to the blast, all died. Nakamura says she didn't suffer any effects of radiation exposure. She had her uterus removed four years later, and at age 70, doctors found a tumor in her abdomen, but her physicians told her neither issue was linked to the bombing, she said. The psychological trauma, however, has stayed with her ever since. Ashamed of her own exposure, she feared the stigma would also pass to her grandchildren. 'If people knew that my son died of leukemia, especially before they (my grandchildren) got married, others might not want to marry them. I made sure my children understood that. We kept it within the family and didn't tell anyone else about how he died,' Nakamura said. But encouraged by other survivors, she finally spoke publicly about her son's cancer in 2006, three years after his death. 'I received phone calls and even letters from people who heard my story. It made me realize how serious the issue of inherited health effects is in Hiroshima and Nagasaki,' she said. Even though she now knows it's unlikely she could have caused her son's cancer, she says as a mother, the feeling of guilt is a burden she'll forever carry. 'I still feel so sorry. I keep apologizing to him. I say, 'Forgive me,'' she said. The children who never followed The unique burden of hibakusha motherhood is something Mitsuko Yoshimura, now 102-years old, never got to carry. Separated from her parents and sister at a young age, she always longed for a family. She moved to Nagasaki for a good job in Mitsubishi's payroll department — just months before the U.S. dropped the bomb, turning the city into hell on earth. 'When I got out to the road, there were people with blood gushing from their heads, people with the skin peeled off their backs,' she recalled. Being just a kilometre (0.6 miles) away from the epicentre of the blast, her survival was nothing short of a miracle. In the months that followed, she stayed behind to help the injured. But her body suffered too. 'My hair fell out. Whenever I tried to comb it with my hands, strands would come out little by little,' Yoshimura said. She also regularly vomited blood for months after the blast. Still, she endured. She got married a year after the war ended. Her husband was an atomic bomb survivor, like herself, and their marriage marked a fresh start for the couple. But the child they longed for never followed. She had two miscarriages and a stillbirth. Yoshimura lives alone now; her husband having died years ago. In her home in Nagasaki, where photos of children and grandchildren might be, there are dolls — a quiet substitute for what was lost, she said. At their remarkable age, Nakamura and Yoshimura both know they don't have much longer to live. But that gives them greater urgency to educate younger generations about the toll of nuclear war. 'People really need to think carefully. What does winning or losing even bring? Wanting to expand a country's territory, wanting a country to gain more power, what exactly are people seeking from that?' Nakamura asked. 'I don't understand it. But what I do feel deeply is the utter foolishness of war,' she said. By Hanako Montgomery.
CNN
09-08-2025
- Health
- CNN
How the atomic bombing of Nagasaki tore apart Japan's understanding of motherhood
EDITOR'S NOTE: This story is part of As Equals, CNN's ongoing series on gender inequality. For information about how the series is funded and more, check out our FAQs. When Kikuyo Nakamura's adult son discovered bumps on his back, she assumed it was just a rash. Still, she urged him to go to the hospital — better safe than sorry. Hiroshi, her second son, was born in 1948, three years after the U.S. dropped an atomic bomb on Nagasaki. As a survivor of the bombing, Nakamura had long feared she might pass on health problems to her children. In 2003, at age 55, Hiroshi went to the hospital. Two days passed without any word from him. Then three. Then a week. Eventually Nakamura went to the hospital, where her son told her: ''They're going to do more tests,' she told CNN. The results showed he had stage 4 leukemia –– an advanced stage of blood cancer that had spread to other parts of his body. According to Nakamura, the doctor told her that she had given her son cancer –– suggesting the radiation that caused it was passed on through breastfeeding when he was a baby. When Hiroshi died, six months later, his mother was left to believe she had essentially killed him; a thought that still haunts her more than two decades on. 'I was overwhelmed with guilt and suffering… Even now, I still believe what the doctor said, that I caused it. That guilt still lives in me,' said Nakamura, who is now 101-years old. Those who are exposed to nuclear radiation are generally urged to stop breastfeeding in the immediate aftermath of an atomic blast. But experts say there's no concrete evidence that first generation 'hibakusha' –– atomic bomb survivors of World War II –– can pass cancer-causing material to their children, years after exposure. As the 80th anniversary of the US bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki approaches, aging survivors — some, like Nakamura, more than 100-years old — are sharing their stories of suffering and resilience, while they still can. Many of them were young women, either pregnant or of childbearing age, when the bombs fell and have lived much of their lives under a heavy shadow of fear and stigma. They were told by medical practitioners, neighbors, even friends and family that their exposure to nuclear radiation could cause them to have children with illnesses or disabilities –– if they conceived at all. Even when infertility or a child's disability had nothing to do with radiation exposure, hibakusha women often felt blamed and shunned. Those with visible scars from the blasts faced barriers to marriage. Physical wounds were harder to hide — and clearer proof of exposure. And at a time in society when a woman's worth was closely tied to marriage and motherhood, this stigma was particularly damaging. It caused a large number of women survivors –– many of whom had PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) –– to 'hide the fact that they were hibakusha,' according to Masahiro Nakashima, a professor of radiation studies at Nagasaki University. 'In a society like Japan — where gender discrimination and male dominance have been deeply rooted — women were especially affected by radiation,' Nakashima told CNN. Radiation exposure did affect some second-generation survivors, depending on the timing of pregnancy. The embryonic period — generally ranging from weeks 5 up to 15 — is especially sensitive for brain and organ development. Women exposed to radiation during this window had a higher risk of giving birth to children with intellectual disabilities, neurological issues, and microcephaly, a condition marked by a small head and impaired brain function, according to studies from the joint Japan-US Radiation Effects Research Foundation (RERF) –– a successor to the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission formed just after World War II. Other studies showed that women hibakusha faced long-term health risks themselves. A 2012 RERF study found that radiation exposure from an atomic bomb raised cancer risk for the rest of a person's life. Solid cancer rates for women at age 70 increased by 58 percent for every gray of radiation their bodies absorbed at age 30. A gray is a unit that measures how much radiation energy a body or object takes in. For men, solid cancer rates increased by 35 percent. Nakamura was 21-years old and was hanging laundry outside around 11am when the bomb fell on Nagasaki on August 9, 1945. She says she was 5 kilometers (3.1 miles) from the epicenter –– a little beyond what experts call the area of 'total destruction.' The young mother saw a bright light, followed by a loud boom and a powerful gust of wind that flung her into the air. When she regained consciousness, her house was wrecked — furniture was strewn everywhere and glass shards covered the floor. She called out to her own mother, who had been helping Nakamura care for her eldest son. Relieved they weren't physically wounded, the family fled to an air raid shelter. It wasn't until the next day that Nakamura grasped the scale of destruction. Relatives living near Nagasaki University, closer to the blast, all died. Nakamura says she didn't suffer any effects of radiation exposure. She had her uterus removed four years later, and at age 70, doctors found a tumor in her abdomen, but her physicians told her neither issue was linked to the bombing, she said. The psychological trauma, however, has stayed with her ever since. Ashamed of her own exposure, she feared the stigma would also pass to her grandchildren. 'If people knew that my son died of leukemia, especially before they (my grandchildren) got married, others might not want to marry them. I made sure my children understood that. We kept it within the family and didn't tell anyone else about how he died,' Nakamura said. But encouraged by other survivors, she finally spoke publicly about her son's cancer in 2006, three years after his death. 'I received phone calls and even letters from people who heard my story. It made me realize how serious the issue of inherited health effects is in Hiroshima and Nagasaki,' she said. Even though she now knows it's unlikely she could have caused her son's cancer, she says as a mother, the feeling of guilt is a burden she'll forever carry. 'I still feel so sorry. I keep apologizing to him. I say, 'Forgive me,'' she said. The unique burden of hibakusha motherhood is something Mitsuko Yoshimura, now 102-years old, never got to carry. Separated from her parents and sister at a young age, she always longed for a family. She moved to Nagasaki for a good job in Mitsubishi's payroll department — just months before the US dropped the bomb, turning the city into hell on earth. 'When I got out to the road, there were people with blood gushing from their heads, people with the skin peeled off their backs,' she recalled. Being just a kilometer (0.6 miles) away from the epicenter of the blast, her survival was nothing short of a miracle. In the months that followed, she stayed behind to help the injured. But her body suffered too. 'My hair fell out. Whenever I tried to comb it with my hands, strands would come out little by little,' Yoshimura said. She also regularly vomited blood for months after the blast. Still, she endured. She got married a year after the war ended. Her husband was an atomic bomb survivor, like herself, and their marriage marked a fresh start for the couple. But the child they longed for never followed. She had two miscarriages and a stillbirth. Yoshimura lives alone now; her husband having died years ago. In her home in Nagasaki, where photos of children and grandchildren might be, there are dolls — a quiet substitute for what was lost, she said. At their remarkable age, Nakamura and Yoshimura both know they don't have much longer to live. But that gives them greater urgency to educate younger generations about the toll of nuclear war. 'People really need to think carefully. What does winning or losing even bring? Wanting to expand a country's territory, wanting a country to gain more power, what exactly are people seeking from that?' Nakamura asked. 'I don't understand it. But what I do feel deeply is the utter foolishness of war,' she said. Reporter Hanako Montgomery Editors Sheena McKenzie, Todd Symons Producer Junko Ogura Senior Video Producer Ladan Anoushfar Visual Editor Carlotta Dotto Video Editor Estefania Rodriguez, Daishi Kusunoki
CNN
09-08-2025
- Health
- CNN
How the atomic bombing of Nagasaki tore apart Japan's understanding of motherhood
EDITOR'S NOTE: This story is part of As Equals, CNN's ongoing series on gender inequality. For information about how the series is funded and more, check out our FAQs. When Kikuyo Nakamura's adult son discovered bumps on his back, she assumed it was just a rash. Still, she urged him to go to the hospital — better safe than sorry. Hiroshi, her second son, was born in 1948, three years after the U.S. dropped an atomic bomb on Nagasaki. As a survivor of the bombing, Nakamura had long feared she might pass on health problems to her children. In 2003, at age 55, Hiroshi went to the hospital. Two days passed without any word from him. Then three. Then a week. Eventually Nakamura went to the hospital, where her son told her: ''They're going to do more tests,' she told CNN. The results showed he had stage 4 leukemia –– an advanced stage of blood cancer that had spread to other parts of his body. According to Nakamura, the doctor told her that she had given her son cancer –– suggesting the radiation that caused it was passed on through breastfeeding when he was a baby. When Hiroshi died, six months later, his mother was left to believe she had essentially killed him; a thought that still haunts her more than two decades on. 'I was overwhelmed with guilt and suffering… Even now, I still believe what the doctor said, that I caused it. That guilt still lives in me,' said Nakamura, who is now 101-years old. Those who are exposed to nuclear radiation are generally urged to stop breastfeeding in the immediate aftermath of an atomic blast. But experts say there's no concrete evidence that first generation 'hibakusha' –– atomic bomb survivors of World War II –– can pass cancer-causing material to their children, years after exposure. As the 80th anniversary of the US bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki approaches, aging survivors — some, like Nakamura, more than 100-years old — are sharing their stories of suffering and resilience, while they still can. Many of them were young women, either pregnant or of childbearing age, when the bombs fell and have lived much of their lives under a heavy shadow of fear and stigma. They were told by medical practitioners, neighbors, even friends and family that their exposure to nuclear radiation could cause them to have children with illnesses or disabilities –– if they conceived at all. Even when infertility or a child's disability had nothing to do with radiation exposure, hibakusha women often felt blamed and shunned. Those with visible scars from the blasts faced barriers to marriage. Physical wounds were harder to hide — and clearer proof of exposure. And at a time in society when a woman's worth was closely tied to marriage and motherhood, this stigma was particularly damaging. It caused a large number of women survivors –– many of whom had PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) –– to 'hide the fact that they were hibakusha,' according to Masahiro Nakashima, a professor of radiation studies at Nagasaki University. 'In a society like Japan — where gender discrimination and male dominance have been deeply rooted — women were especially affected by radiation,' Nakashima told CNN. Radiation exposure did affect some second-generation survivors, depending on the timing of pregnancy. The embryonic period — generally ranging from weeks 5 up to 15 — is especially sensitive for brain and organ development. Women exposed to radiation during this window had a higher risk of giving birth to children with intellectual disabilities, neurological issues, and microcephaly, a condition marked by a small head and impaired brain function, according to studies from the joint Japan-US Radiation Effects Research Foundation (RERF) –– a successor to the Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission formed just after World War II. Other studies showed that women hibakusha faced long-term health risks themselves. A 2012 RERF study found that radiation exposure from an atomic bomb raised cancer risk for the rest of a person's life. Solid cancer rates for women at age 70 increased by 58 percent for every gray of radiation their bodies absorbed at age 30. A gray is a unit that measures how much radiation energy a body or object takes in. For men, solid cancer rates increased by 35 percent. Nakamura was 21-years old and was hanging laundry outside around 11am when the bomb fell on Nagasaki on August 9, 1945. She says she was 5 kilometers (3.1 miles) from the epicenter –– a little beyond what experts call the area of 'total destruction.' The young mother saw a bright light, followed by a loud boom and a powerful gust of wind that flung her into the air. When she regained consciousness, her house was wrecked — furniture was strewn everywhere and glass shards covered the floor. She called out to her own mother, who had been helping Nakamura care for her eldest son. Relieved they weren't physically wounded, the family fled to an air raid shelter. It wasn't until the next day that Nakamura grasped the scale of destruction. Relatives living near Nagasaki University, closer to the blast, all died. Nakamura says she didn't suffer any effects of radiation exposure. She had her uterus removed four years later, and at age 70, doctors found a tumor in her abdomen, but her physicians told her neither issue was linked to the bombing, she said. The psychological trauma, however, has stayed with her ever since. Ashamed of her own exposure, she feared the stigma would also pass to her grandchildren. 'If people knew that my son died of leukemia, especially before they (my grandchildren) got married, others might not want to marry them. I made sure my children understood that. We kept it within the family and didn't tell anyone else about how he died,' Nakamura said. But encouraged by other survivors, she finally spoke publicly about her son's cancer in 2006, three years after his death. 'I received phone calls and even letters from people who heard my story. It made me realize how serious the issue of inherited health effects is in Hiroshima and Nagasaki,' she said. Even though she now knows it's unlikely she could have caused her son's cancer, she says as a mother, the feeling of guilt is a burden she'll forever carry. 'I still feel so sorry. I keep apologizing to him. I say, 'Forgive me,'' she said. The unique burden of hibakusha motherhood is something Mitsuko Yoshimura, now 102-years old, never got to carry. Separated from her parents and sister at a young age, she always longed for a family. She moved to Nagasaki for a good job in Mitsubishi's payroll department — just months before the US dropped the bomb, turning the city into hell on earth. 'When I got out to the road, there were people with blood gushing from their heads, people with the skin peeled off their backs,' she recalled. Being just a kilometer (0.6 miles) away from the epicenter of the blast, her survival was nothing short of a miracle. In the months that followed, she stayed behind to help the injured. But her body suffered too. 'My hair fell out. Whenever I tried to comb it with my hands, strands would come out little by little,' Yoshimura said. She also regularly vomited blood for months after the blast. Still, she endured. She got married a year after the war ended. Her husband was an atomic bomb survivor, like herself, and their marriage marked a fresh start for the couple. But the child they longed for never followed. She had two miscarriages and a stillbirth. Yoshimura lives alone now; her husband having died years ago. In her home in Nagasaki, where photos of children and grandchildren might be, there are dolls — a quiet substitute for what was lost, she said. At their remarkable age, Nakamura and Yoshimura both know they don't have much longer to live. But that gives them greater urgency to educate younger generations about the toll of nuclear war. 'People really need to think carefully. What does winning or losing even bring? Wanting to expand a country's territory, wanting a country to gain more power, what exactly are people seeking from that?' Nakamura asked. 'I don't understand it. But what I do feel deeply is the utter foolishness of war,' she said. Reporter Hanako Montgomery Editors Sheena McKenzie, Todd Symons Producer Junko Ogura Senior Video Producer Ladan Anoushfar Visual Editor Carlotta Dotto Video Editor Estefania Rodriguez, Daishi Kusunoki
NZ Herald
06-08-2025
- Politics
- NZ Herald
Eighty years after Hiroshima, Japan debates military expansion and pacifism
The destruction of the two cities was followed by Japan's submission days later, ending its decades of brutal conquest. However, the bombings also announced a more terrifying age in which human innovation could spark death and destruction on a previously unimaginable scale. As the flattened city of Hiroshima was rebuilt, it dedicated itself to promoting peace. Survivors of the atomic bombing have campaigned for a world free of nuclear weapons. But 80 years on, that dream is fading. Three of Japan's neighbours – Russia, China and North Korea – are nuclear powers, and Tokyo depends on the American nuclear umbrella to protect it. With tensions in the Pacific heightening and firsthand memories of nuclear devastation waning, more Japanese are questioning the national commitment to peace at all costs. Why did Japan go all-in on pacifism after World War II? The Americans forced it to. The Imperial Japanese Armed Forces' harsh invasion of much of Asia, its shock attack on Pearl Harbour and its willingness to sacrifice a generation of young soldiers for the empire, made the victorious Americans adamant that the country should never again wage war. Japan's so-called 'peace constitution', drafted by the Americans who occupied the country for nearly seven years, forever renounced war. Its Article 9 has been interpreted to mean that Japan should never possess a military with offensive capabilities. In return, the US promised to defend Japan should it come under attack. The security treaty made Japan a beneficiary of the theory of nuclear deterrence, in which the fear of nuclear retaliation is thought to deter a first-strike attack. So why does Japan have a military? To take into account these constitutional limitations, Japan's military is called the Self-Defence Forces. It cannot take on combat roles in international conflicts. That hasn't stopped Japan from expanding its arsenal to counter potential threats from Asian neighbours such as China that, in turn, worry about Japan's rearmament, given its wartime record. If budget hikes continue, Japan will soon be among the world's top military spenders. All of this modern hardware is supposed to be only for defensive purposes, although a debate in Japan about its global military profile has been getting louder. What do Japanese think of their country's rearming? While many in the older generations worry about Japan's waning commitment to pacifism, younger Japanese tend to be more sanguine. Supporters of a military expansion say Japan shouldn't be forced into a defensive crouch forever, especially with security threats ratcheting up in the Pacific. In addition to superpower jousting, Japan has territorial disputes with China, Russia and the two Koreas. They worry that the US may not always be a constant security guarantor for Japan, especially under President Donald Trump, who has criticised Japan for relying too heavily on the presence of US military bases. And with first-hand memories of the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki disappearing, most Japanese are now removed from the kind of searing testimony that underwrote the country's pacifist, non-nuclear stance. Nippon Kaigi, an ultra-nationalist political bloc that aims to revise Article 9 of the constitution, has significant support among lawmakers from the governing Liberal Democratic Party. Amending the constitution was once unthinkable; it's now a political talking point. What about nukes? Nihon Hidankyo, a group representing atomic bomb survivors, was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize last year for its campaign to rid the world of nuclear weapons. However, Japan has never signed the Treaty on the Prohibition of Nuclear Weapons. In 2023, Fumio Kishida, then the Prime Minister of Japan, whose family is from Hiroshima, supported a statement at a Group of Seven summit he hosted in the city that implied nuclear deterrence might bring its own kind of peace. Kishida's stance reflects a growing feeling in Japan that while nuclear weapons are dangerous and their eradication is a noble ideal, the real world also requires deterrence and robust defence. This article originally appeared in The New York Times. Written by: Hannah Beech Photograph by: Chang W. Lee ©2025 THE NEW YORK TIMES
Telegraph
03-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Telegraph
A sprawling family epic full of brains and mystery
Flashlight, the engrossing sixth novel by the American writer Susan Choi, opens with Louisa and her father making their way down a breakwater at the tail end of a Japanese sunset. Louisa's mother is absent: she 'isn't well'. Her father, who holds a flashlight in one hand and Louisa's hand in the other, confesses that he has never learned to swim: 'I grew up a poor boy. I had no YMCA.' He tells Louisa to 'act thankful now' to her mother for making her learn. And, Choi, writes, 'those are the last words he ever says to her. (Or are they the last words that she can remember? Did he say something more? There is no one to ask.)' He vanishes into the water. No body is ever found. Fans of Choi's work – which delights in playing with the reader's expectations – may remember the set up. This prelude was first published four years ago as a short story, also called Flashlight. At the time, Choi talked about 'wrestling with this material… trying to figure out what it wants to be – a short novel, or a long novel, or stories, or one story'. Her 447-page, six-part, sprawling family epic, which takes in five countries, spans several decades, and is mostly written in a free-indirect style that allows Choi to switch between four main characters, is her answer. The narrative proper begins with Louisa's father. It's spring 1945; he's six years old. His parents are Korean exiles, who left their homeland, Jeju island, for Japan, and while his Japanese name is Hiroshi, at home he is Seok. Later, when he emigrates to the US on a graduate visa, he goes by Serk. (Shifting identities are a running theme in Choi's work, not least in her last novel, Trust Exercise, a bestseller that won the 2019 National Book Award.) Next, we meet Anne, Louisa's mother, who has abandoned her family and her chances of a high school diploma for a man who abandons her once she becomes pregnant. She is forced to give up the baby, Tobias – after a vivid labour 'where the vengeance of God tore her entrails out by the roots' – but he will re-emerge later as a pivotal character. Novels developed from a short story are legion: Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway, Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections, Haruki Murakami's The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles, Charles Baxter's Saul and Patsy. But in freeing their writer from length restrictions, novels pose a counter-challenge: can a writer justify the many tangents of their narrative? Choi stripped most of the backstory out of her original story leaving her with plenty of gaps to fill in. Is Louisa's mother ill? Why did her father make them leave the US, and Louisa's fourth grade, for a sabbatical in Japan? And what is the significance of her father's flashlight? Choi takes too long to get to the meat of her story: what happened, or will happen, to Serk? Less patient readers may stop. But it pays to persevere. Choi is an astute, convincing writer, whose prose bristles with vivid imagery. In that opening section, 10-year-old Louisa lies in bed while 'the dark slid itself onto her chest like a snake, organising its weight into nearly stacked coils that might go on forever and bury her, crush her, if she didn't leap out of bed just in time.' Choi's choppy rhythm conveys a child's breathless angst. If Trust Exercise was about who controls a story, then Flashlight is about what happens when your own story is out of control. Louisa spends her life dealing with the aftermath of her father's supposed drowning. A child psychologist reminds her that she told the person who found her that her father had been kidnapped. 'No I didn't,' she retorts – the reality of what happened to them remaining a riddle for most of the novel. The book's title, Flashlight, is a metaphor that works hard throughout, illuminating certain events while keeping others in the dark. Serk doesn't know about Anne's son; Anne doesn't know about Serk's Korean heritage. The flashes of understanding that occur to characters as the decades roll by are like shapes that emerge from the gloom when someone sweeps a torch beam to and fro. And ultimately, the light Choi shines on an astonishing international scandal – revealed in the 'Acknowledgements' section for those who want to skip ahead – makes Flashlight a rewarding read. The expansion was well worth it.
