Trauma is a site that does not exist. No road leads there. No path leads around it. Trauma is. Inaccessible. Access through words seems to be blocked. How on earth can one speak about something that is impossible to express? What words could one use for a horror that is beyond the possibilities of language? How speak about something that cannot be spoken of–yet “the abundance of real suffering permits no forgetting”?

When on August 6 of 1945 shortly after eight, the morning of a steaming hot summer day in western Japan like the day before and the day before that, a uranium bomb exploded 600 meters over the center of Hiroshima city, the world knew nothing about nuclear violence and the destructive power of the atomic bomb. Pikadon, the onomatopoetic term for the dazzling flash of light and the thunder that followed, was one of the first names for what happened on this August morning. About 80,000 people lost their lives in that split-second, and other tens of thousands died later from the after-effects of radiation. The poet Hara Tamiki 原民喜 (1905-1951), who was only a mile from the epicenter, wrote that it was “as if the skin of the world around me was peeled off in an instant.” [Read more] – Michael’s Blog