On the 80th anniversary of Hiroshima, a story of silent resistance and tenacious rebirth
On August 6, 1945, at 8:15 in the morning, Hiroshima ceased to be a city like any other. In a matter of seconds, the first atomic bomb ever used in war wiped out life as it had always been known: 70,000 people died instantly, tens of thousands more in the days and years that followed, and the city became a tragic and unparalleled symbol of human destruction.
And yet, among the scorched rubble, within a two-kilometer radius of the epicenter, something remained standing. Some trees—bent, burned, mutilated—did not die. Against all odds, in the months following the catastrophe, they began to sprout again. Small green shoots, silent and stubborn, emerged from devastated trunks. They were the hibakujumoku, the “bombed trees.”
Today, 170 of them are still alive in Hiroshima, representing 32 different species. Each one is cataloged and marked with a plaque in Japanese, English, and Latin. They’ve become a living heritage of the city, a green archive of memory. They grow near schools, temples, and public gardens. They stand as a reminder—without speaking—of what happened, and what could happen again if we forget.
Some of them are ordinary trees, not at all monumental: a willow, a camphor, a persimmon. But it’s in their very ordinariness that something extraordinary is revealed. These hibakujumoku didn’t just “survive”: they chose life, even in the midst of utter desolation. Their greenery broke through the radioactive ashes, delivering a message no political speech could express with equal force: life can rise again—even after the unimaginable.
Japanese botanist Tamiki Tsukamoto was among the first to catalogue them. In the 1970s, he walked through Hiroshima with a simple map and a firm belief: that telling the story of the trees was a different—and perhaps more empathetic—way of telling the story of the bomb. His list became the basis for the official register maintained by the city today. Each hibakujumoku carries a story of resilience, but also an open question: what does it mean to survive?
The meaning of these trees goes beyond the rhetoric of hope. Hibakujumoku are witnesses. On the 80th anniversary of Hiroshima, their presence speaks louder than ever. In a world still torn by wars, inequality, and climate crises, these trees ask us questions. Not with words, but with their simple existence.
What are we doing with our memory? And above all: what do we want to do with our future?
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Now more than ever, planting a tree can be a radical act. Not one of protest, but of trust. A slow, silent gesture that looks to the future.
Every tree planted is a sign that we choose to stand on the side of life—even when it feels fragile. Even when it requires effort.
Hibakujumoku remind us that a tree can be much more than a tree. It can become a refuge, a keeper of memory, an act of care.
And also, a promise. The promise that something will continue to grow—if we know how to protect it.
Sometimes we ask ourselves what we can actually do to create a fairer, healthier, more peaceful world.
Maybe starting with a tree is one possible answer
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