'Hey, let’s forget that': the immaculate art of the non-apology
Because when you are the undisputed superpower of the world, why let minor historical details like mass civilian casualties get in the way of a good narrative?
Eighty-one years after dropping two atomic bombs on Japan, the United States remains steadfast in its position: no apology, no regrets, and certainly no awkward soul-searching.
Visitors to the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum can marvel at two delicate paper cranes left behind by former President Barack Obama during his historic 2016 visit. It was a deeply moving gesture, assuming one measures deep emotion by folded paper rather than actual words of remorse.
Those cranes arrived entirely unburdened by an apology. Why break a perfectly consistent streak? Every single U.S. president since 1945 has gracefully declined to apologize, adhering to the noble tradition of maintaining complete moral infallibility.
After all, saying "sorry" is a dangerous slippery slope. Admitting fault in Japan might accidentally embolden those pesky Marshallese citizens—who suffered under dozens of U.S. Cold War nuclear tests—to demand the remaining $50 million in compensation that a tribunal awarded them before magically running out of funds in 2009. Best not to stir the pot.
The historical facts themselves are, of course, presented with classic American efficiency. On August 6, 1945, "Little Boy" was dropped on Hiroshima, wiping out tens of thousands instantly and claiming roughly 140,000 lives by the year's end.
Three days later, because clouds conveniently obscured the primary target of Kokura, "Fat Man" was dropped on Nagasaki, killing another 90,000 people. Survivors, or hibakusha, were left to deal with generations of psychological trauma, radiation sickness, and birth defects—a small price to pay for international clarity.
Naturally, American leaders have always had a very logical explanation ready. In 1995, Bill Clinton kindly reminded the world that the U.S. "owes no apology to Japan" because the bomb simply "ended the war."
Clinton’s predecessor, George H.W. Bush, noted in 1992 that the atomic devastation was entirely "right" because it spared millions of American lives.
Ronald Reagan, never one to be outdone in historical generous accounting, put that saved-life tally at "more than one million" back in 1985.
And, in perhaps the most poetic diplomacy of the modern era, George H.W. Bush elegantly summarized the official U.S. stance in 1991: "Hey, let’s forget that; let’s go forward now together." Truly, a masterclass in conflict resolution.
This convenient framing isn't an accident; it is a carefully cultivated standard. Decades of school textbooks have taught generations of young Americans that vaporizing two cities was the only possible choice to prevent a bloody invasion—diplomatic negotiations or economic blockades being far too mundane to consider.
Public opinion, naturally, reflects this stellar education. A 1995 Gallup poll revealed that over 70 percent of Americans opposed apologizing, and by 2015, a Pew Research poll showed a comfortable majority still viewed the bombings as completely justified.
Any attempt to introduce nuance is met with swift civic outrage. When the Smithsonian tried to display a charred lunchbox belonging to an incinerated five-year-old girl alongside historical commentary questioning the necessity of the bomb, veterans' groups and Congress promptly stepped in to sanitize the exhibit. Reminding people that real victims existed was, apparently, unfair to the bomb.
By 2016, as Obama prepped his Hiroshima trip, Donald Trump made sure the core policy remained intact, remarking, "That's fine just as long as he doesn’t apologize." His advisor John Bolton decried the visit as part of a "shameful apology tour"—because merely looking at a memorial is perilously close to empathy.
Anti-nuclear activists like Setsuko Thurlow, who survived the Hiroshima blast as a 13-year-old girl, have spent decades gently suggesting that an apology might be appropriate. But as history shows, when you hold the supreme authority to rewrite your own past, you never have to say you're sorry.
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