Harry Truman ordered the dropping of the atomic bomb on August 6, 1945, and hastened the end of the war in the Pacific. When the bomb exploded, at least 150,000 people were killed or maimed. The legacy for the generations that followed has been horrendous.

On August 6 each year, a memorial service is held in Peace Park, Hiroshima. In 2011, I happened to be at a conference 200 kilometres north of Hiroshima. When we realised our proximity to the city, and the speed of the bullet trains between the two cities, my colleague and I decided to skip the deliberations scheduled for that day and head to the commemorative activities. UN Secretary-General Ban Ki-moon was to be the speaker. The timing was tight; the train would arrive only 20 minutes before the memorial ceremony began.

We made enquiries about getting to Peace Park. We would have to catch a taxi, but the driver could only get us to within 500 metres of the park, where thousands had assembled. We jumped out of the taxi and started walking. We quickened our step. We were going to be late. Then something quite remarkable happened.

On August 6, 1945, the bomb dropped from the Enola Gay exploded at 8:15 a.m. On each day of remembrance, at 8:15 a.m., a siren sounds over the speakers that surround the park. As we hurried towards the memorial the siren began to wail. It continued for two minutes. As it blared, the whole city stopped. Every bicycle stopped. Every car stopped. Every scooter stopped. Every pedestrian stopped. We dutifully stopped in our tracks. I looked around. For two minutes the only thing I could see moving were the birds in the sky.

Soon we found a huge television screen on which we could watch the ceremony. So vast was the crowd it was impossible to get a view of anything happening on the dais. It occurred to me that had we been an hour earlier, we would have been seated and missed what had happened on the street at 8:15 a.m.

There are few things as profound as watching the world around you come to a complete standstill.

Rick Sarre