From Bangor Base to the United Nations: Why Ordinary People Still Matter in the Fight Against Nuclear Weapons
by Kimanh Tran
A year ago, I joined the Fierce Nonviolence Pilgrimage, a ten-day journey across Washington state that brought together young people, faith leaders, tribal communities, and an 83-year-old Hiroshima atomic bomb survivor to explore the impacts of nuclear weapons and the possibilities of nonviolent social change. At the time, I did not realize the experience would lead me into the world of nuclear disarmament advocacy. At the time, I was simply searching for a deeper understanding of peace, justice, and what it means to respond to suffering in a meaningful way.
Last month, I found myself walking through the halls of the United Nations in New York as part of the delegation attending the 11th Review Conference of the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty (NPT). I attended alongside physicians, researchers, journalists, students, atomic bomb survivors, and advocates from around the world, all united by a common understanding: nuclear weapons are not abstract political tools. They are an existential threat to human life and public health.
The scale of the issue can feel overwhelming. In January, the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists moved the Doomsday Clock to 85 seconds to midnight, the closest humanity has ever been to a nuclear catastrophe. Meanwhile, nuclear-armed states continue investing billions into modernizing their arsenals while global conflicts escalate and arms control agreements collapse.
But what struck me most at the conference was not only the danger. It was the humanity.
One of the most meaningful experiences came during a dialogue and paper crane-building gathering organized with the Peace Messengers from Japan and International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War. In a setting often dominated by formal speeches and policy language, people slowed down long enough to share stories. Students sat beside physicians. Survivors of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki nuclear attacks spoke with young organizers. People from different countries and generations reflected together on grief, fear, responsibility, and hope.
The paper cranes reminded many of Sadako Sasaki, who died from leukemia after the bombing of Hiroshima. They also reminded me of Norimitsu Tosu, the 83-year-old hibakusha (A-bomb survivor) whom I met during the Fierce Nonviolence Pilgrimage. Hearing his testimony transformed nuclear weapons from a distant policy issue into a deeply human one. Behind every statistic are lives, families, and communities forever changed by nuclear violence.
Large international conferences can feel intimidating and inaccessible, especially for young people. Yet moments like these reveal something important: peace-building does not begin only in government chambers. It begins through relationships, storytelling, listening, and shared moral courage.
As the only person from Washington state’s anti-nuclear community attending this conference, I carried home an important realization. My role was not to arrive at the UN believing I alone could create change. My role was to listen. To learn. To witness. And then to bring those stories back to my own community.
In Washington state, nuclear weapons are not distant issues. Our region is deeply tied to the U.S. nuclear arsenal through military infrastructure, defense spending, and nearby submarine bases. Yet many people rarely think about what these weapons would actually mean for human bodies, communities, the environment, and healthcare systems if ever used.
Health professionals at the conference emphasized a sobering truth: there is no adequate medical or humanitarian response to nuclear war. Even a single nuclear detonation would overwhelm hospitals, destroy infrastructure, contaminate water and food systems, and create mass casualties on an unimaginable scale. The effects would not end after the blast. Radiation exposure, environmental devastation, displacement, famine, and long-term trauma would ripple across generations.
At the same time, the billions spent on nuclear weapons are billions not invested in healthcare, housing, mental health services, education, climate resilience, or community well-being. Nuclear weapons are not only a security issue. They are a public health issue, a moral issue, and a question of what kind of future we are choosing to build.
The conference ended without countries reaching consensus on a final document, continuing a troubling pattern of stalled progress at a moment when nuclear risks are rising and nations are spending billions to modernize their arsenals. Yet I did not leave the United Nations feeling hopeless. I left with a deeper understanding that progress toward peace is rarely linear and that ordinary people still matter in shaping history.
Many of the arms control agreements that reduced nuclear arsenals at the end of the Cold War emerged not only from political leaders, but from decades of public pressure, scientific advocacy, grassroots organizing, and citizens who refused to accept nuclear war as inevitable.
In New York, I saw that same spirit at work. I saw young people asking difficult questions, survivors continuing to share their testimonies, physicians speaking out about the medical realities of nuclear war, and communities across the world insisting that our future does not have to be defined by fear and annihilation.
That work continues today. Local leaders can join initiatives such as Mayors for Peace and Back from the Brink. Members of Congress can push for renewed arms control agreements and challenge plans to spend nearly $2 trillion on a new generation of nuclear weapons. Communities can learn, organize, and speak out for policies that prioritize health, human dignity, and peace.
The work ahead belongs not only to diplomats and world leaders, but to all of us who are willing to imagine security rooted not in the threat of mass destruction, but in human dignity, health, and peace.
