I am Gina Langton, the founder of 80,000 Voices and creator of the Hibakusha holographic portrait project. Despite what the name suggests, we are a small organisation - but one determined and with big ideas. Our mission is to help advocate for the complete eradication of nuclear weapons through the transformative power of the arts. And I am here today with some of our work, as examples of how we’re doing just that.
First of all, I would like to offer my sincerest congratulations to the Nihon Hidankyo group, the largest national group of survivors of the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, on receiving the Nobel Peace Prize for their tenacious and tireless efforts to build peace globally through telling their personal stories and educational initiatives. I would also like to extend my thanks to Mayors Matsui and Suzuki and their offices for arranging for Hidankyo’s co-chairs Mr Toshiyuki Mimaki and Mr Shigemitsu Tanaka to be photographed by us.
I first heard about the atomic bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki when I was 13-years-old in a current affairs class at school, as we read excerpts from John Hersey’s book ‘Hiroshima’ written in 1946. The teacher, who recognised our obvious interest in the topic, took some of us aside and showed those of us who were brave enough to look at some of Yosuke Yamahata’s horrifying pictures of the wounded and dying. It was through these images I could start to comprehend the scale of the tragedy and the human cost of nuclear warfare. It was a memorable lesson which shook me to my core.
Now I’d like you to imagine that it’s the early 70s, and there are daily reports in the news about the significant developments of nuclear threat: Cold War tensions between the United States and the Soviet Union, as both superpowers keep heavily investing in their nuclear arsenals. The Vietnam War is still raging - the US is coming under heavy criticism and there is public unrest. The SALT talks are initiated to try and curtail the arms race. Regardless, nuclear testing is on the up, and more countries are getting involved, contributing to fears of escalation. The Cuban Missile Crisis aftermath highlights the dangers of nuclear brinkmanship between the nuclear superpowers. Civil society organisations and movements advocating for nuclear abolition are being established and gaining momentum.
Meanwhile, with my parents living abroad in Spain, I lie in my school bed every night crying and terrified, thinking if the world blows up, will I ever see my parents again? Then what? This issue that consumes me entirely became yesterday’s news. Time moves on, the Vietnam War ends and we get on with the business of daily life. My fears of an immediate nuclear disaster abated, I push it to the back of my mind – too horrifying to think about. And in any case, I think, there’s nothing I can do about it. Surely our global leaders will fulfil their promise and do everything in their power to ensure history remains history.
That’s what I led myself to believe for some time until the 11th March 2011. I turn on the news and I am watching a nuclear catastrophe unfold in front of me as a 9.0 earthquake and tsunami strike the north eastern coast of Japan causing critical failure at Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant. How did the world become so vulnerable to more disasters like this, I ask myself?
In 2013 I attended my first ICAN conference in Oslo, which I go to merely out of curiosity at first. But I hear the stories of the hibakusha, I am transported back to the classroom in which I first learned of such horrors all those years ago. The threat has not subsided. But I am no longer that child - I am an adult with my own personal struggles. Trying my best to bring up four children on my own, my own parents unable to support me going through a nasty divorce with problems of their own, and then the tragic and sudden death of my oldest daughter Rosie when she’s just 20 years old. I’m struggling to manage my grief whilst returning to university to study for an MA, and seeing the world that I live in change and the new digital landscape disrupting and then destroying traditional value chains that I know about – like the recording and music publishing industry.
Through my research, I start to become more aware of what’s going on with new music services – and what then happens in all the creative industries, film and television particularly. Disruptive digital technologies can no longer be contained within territories. Politics, governance and regulation can not keep up with the new global internet highway; information is becoming ubiquitous and a lot of it is coming from unknown sources; unfettered, unaccountable, new services allowing all manner of liberties are going unchecked.
That memorable fact-finding trip to Oslo and my own studies and work prompted me to enrol in a graduate program at Hiroshima City University to study Peace Studies later that year. There, I had the profound honour of learning from Professor Robert Jacobs, among other great professors, and the Hibakusha - the bomb survivors. Their stories I could at last learn first-hand, and they made me more determined than ever to take their stories to a wider audience. What could I, Gina, an ordinary human being, do? I decided to combine my passion with my professional background in the creative industry, communicating these messages in the way that I best knew how: through the power of the arts. 80000 Voices was born and after more than 10 years, several visits to Japan, building our networks of peace and planning various arts-led projects, fast forward to the creation of our flagship project, "Portraits of the Hibakusha: 80 Years Remembered": an exhibition featuring 52 large-format lenticular portraits of the remarkable survivors from Hiroshima and Nagasaki, accompanied by their heartfelt messages and hope for a peaceful future.
In 2023, I had the privilege of working with Patrick Boyd, a holography expert with over 30 years of experience. Together, we travelled to Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Kobe, and Toronto to document these extraordinary individuals. Patrick crafted stunning 3D lenticular images that capture the profound depth of each survivor’s story. These images don’t just sit on the wall; they leap out at you, demanding your attention and inviting you to connect with the past.
In a befuddled world clouded by conflicting beliefs and a promulgated culture that mindlessly defaults to and glorifies war, they hope to evoke a response that encourages each viewer to contemplate the far-reaching consequences of conflict - the dehumanising nature of killing others to find solutions - and to instead consider the alternative: peace.
How do we do this, you may ask? Let’s start with a heartfelt conversation. Let’s innovate. Let’s feed peace the resources it so badly needs. Let’s stop power and distraction from blocking learning and awareness of the current perils. Let’s focus on filling the human gap between the growing complexity in our disrupted, dysregulated and disparate world and our ability to cope with it.
As we approach 2025—the 80th anniversary of the bombings—I see this project as a timely opportunity to have these conversations. We envision these portraits and their messages displayed across the globe, humanising the urgent plea to prevent nuclear weapons from ever being used again. I urge esteemed Mayors present today to summon up your courage and wisdom to tackle this huge elephant whose qualifiers are those that refuse to come to terms with the reality that he’s still very much in the room - particularly as the world finds itself, once again, on the brink of conflict.
So finally, here’s the exciting news: the Nobel Institute project director has invited us to showcase 10 of these powerful portraits at the upcoming Nobel Peace Prize award ceremony on December 10th, ensuring that their voices will resonate worldwide.
So, dear distinguished Mayors and fellow guests, let us work together to ensure that the legacies of these brave individuals are honoured, that their messages are heard, and that we collectively strive for a future free from the shadow of nuclear weapons.
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