Artfully written in Japanese calligraphy on thick paper are simple messages to loved ones.

"Peace."

"For Grandma."

"No More Hiroshimas."

They're just a few of the messages that will float on wood-and-paper lanterns in Green Lake tonight for the "From Hiroshima to Hope" ceremony to mark the 60th anniversary of the 1945 atomic bombing of Hiroshima. About 1,000 people have come to Green Lake every Aug. 6 for the past two decades to reflect and remember the more than 200,000 people who died in the blast or from radiation or other problems afterward.

"In Hiroshima, they float the paper lanterns down a river, the same [river] that carried bodies out to sea," said Martha Brice, the event's coordinator and founder. "We didn't want it to be in angry tones, but in reflective and thoughtful tones against violence."

Sixty years ago today, the Enola Gay, a B-29 Superfortress, dropped "Little Boy" onto Hiroshima. The 13-kiloton atomic bomb obliterated the city.

The attack, and a second atomic bomb dropped on Nagasaki three days later, hastened a Japanese surrender and the end of World War II. But the bombing also triggered decades of controversy.

Lantern floating


Preparations for "From Hiroshima to Hope" will begin at 6:30 tonight next to the Seattle Public Theater at Green Lake. Calligraphers will write, in Japanese, a message of peace, or the name of a loved one, on lantern paper. The keynote performance will be "The Story of Sadako," directed by Manuel Cawaling. The lantern floating will start at 9 p.m.

For more information, call 206-547-2630.

The Green Lake ceremony started in 1985, the 40th anniversary of the Hiroshima bombing. The group Washington Physicians for Social Responsibility wanted to do something locally to highlight the horrors of a nuclear war, Brice said.

Brice, now 71, had heard of a toro nagashi, a floating-lantern offering, in which Japanese Buddhists honor the spirits of dead loved ones by lighting floating lanterns to illuminate their paths.

The tradition had spread from Hiroshima to a community in Wisconsin, and Brice felt that it was perfect for Seattle. Lake Washington's waters were too rough, so the group decided on the calm waters of Green Lake. They also decided to avoid the politics of nuclear proliferation as much as possible, and instead emphasize the hope that nuclear weapons would never be used again, she said.

The ceremony took on a more personal meaning to Brice for a couple of reasons. First, a good friend died of leukemia. Then Brice's daughter married a Japanese man whose parents were from Hiroshima.

The first experience, of losing someone to leukemia, made her empathize with people who lost loved ones to radiation-related illnesses, she said. A high number of people who survived the atomic bomb at Hiroshima later suffered from cancers such as leukemia.

Meeting her daughter's in-laws was especially poignant, Brice said. Both parents, like many hibakusha, which means survivors of the bomb, were reluctant to talk about their experiences. In Japan, being a survivor, or being related to one, carried social stigma because of the crippling health effects of radiation, she said.

On Aug 6, 1945, the mother-in-law had been walking with two friends when the bomb exploded a kilometer away. She escaped unharmed, Brice said, but both friends died.

She lived the rest of her life worried that she would get cancer from radiation or pass on harmful effects of radiation to her children. Thankfully, neither fear was realized, Brice said. The father-in-law of Brice's daughter had been out to sea with the Japanese merchant marine when the bomb hit his hometown. His mother died in the blast. His sister lingered 10 years before dying of radiation sickness and other injuries.

The Green Lake ceremony tonight is one way for people to reflect and honor those people, and others who are victims of war and violence, Brice said. "People don't realize how horrible things could be if there were not others who are trying to work for peace," she said.

Victor Gonzales: 206-464-2393 or vgonzales@seattletimes.com