Korean survivors of Hiroshima are still seeking recognition and justice, even 80 years after the atomic bomb devastated their lives. Although much time has passed, the emotional and physical wounds remain unhealed. In the South Korean town of Hapcheon—often referred to as “Korea’s Hiroshima”—many survivors and their descendants continue to suffer in silence.
Lee Jung-soon, who was only a child when the bomb dropped, recalls that terrifying morning vividly. As she walked to school, her father ran back to urge the family to flee. What followed was chaos. She remembers seeing corpses with only their eyes visible, their skin burned away by the blast. The explosion killed about 70,000 people instantly and left tens of thousands more dying slowly from radiation.
At that time, Korea was under Japanese rule, and roughly 140,000 Koreans were living in Hiroshima. Most had arrived due to forced labor or to escape poverty. Consequently, nearly 20% of the bomb’s immediate victims were Korean. While Japanese evacuees could flee to relatives in nearby towns, most Koreans had nowhere to go. They remained trapped in the city, exposed to radioactive fallout and with limited access to care.
Shim Jin-tae, an 83-year-old survivor, says Koreans were tasked with the worst jobs after the bombing. They retrieved corpses using dustpans and burned bodies in schoolyards. Shim, now the head of the Hapcheon branch of the Korean Atomic Bomb Victims Association, emphasizes that Korean survivors did much of the cleanup while receiving no support.
Illness still plagues many survivors. Shim’s daughter lives with chronic disease, while Lee’s son, Ho-chang, suffers from kidney failure and relies on dialysis. They both believe these conditions are linked to radiation, although scientific proof remains difficult without genetic testing. Nevertheless, the suffering is clear.
Between 2020 and 2024, South Korea’s Ministry of Health and Welfare collected genetic data from survivors. The government plans to continue research through 2029. Officials say they may expand the legal definition of victims to include second- and third-generation survivors—but only if the data proves statistically significant. For families already living with pain, this condition feels like another delay.
Approximately 70,000 Koreans were exposed to the bomb, and nearly 40,000 had died by year’s end. The fatality rate among Koreans reached 57%, nearly double the overall rate. Yet, when survivors returned home after Korea’s liberation, many were treated as outcasts. Locals associated their burns and scars with contagious disease. As a result, they were often denied marriage and work.
Because of this, most survivors chose silence. They feared discrimination and rejection. Over time, illnesses like cancer, heart disease, and neurological conditions began appearing among their children. Han Jeong-sun, a second-generation survivor, suffers from hip necrosis. Her son was born with cerebral palsy. Instead of receiving support, she faced blame. Her in-laws accused her of ruining the family.
In 2019, more than 70 years after the bombing, the Korean government conducted its first official survey on atomic bomb survivors. Authorities previously claimed that no legal structure allowed for funding or data collection. However, studies from 2005 and 2013 had already shown significantly higher rates of illness and disability among second-generation victims. Despite this evidence, the state continues to ask for more proof.
In July 2025, Hiroshima officials visited Hapcheon for the first time and laid flowers at a local memorial. While symbolically important, they offered no apology. Peace activist Junko Ichiba says that without acknowledgment of responsibility, gestures like these feel hollow. She also points out that Japanese textbooks still omit references to Korea’s colonial history and the suffering of Korean bomb victims.
A memorial hall in Hapcheon displays more than 1,100 wooden tablets. Each one carries the name of a Korean who died in Hiroshima. These names represent a history that remains largely invisible. Survivors say that continued silence from governments only adds to the injustice.
Heo Jeong-gu of the Red Cross believes time is running out. He stresses that authorities must document testimonies and health data while survivors are still alive. Shim agrees wholeheartedly. For him, memory matters more than money. His body carries the truth. If no one listens, future generations may never know the story.
