Ohigan has been familiar to me since childhood. I knew that it came twice a year, in spring and autumn, and that it was a time for honoring our ancestors and sometimes visiting family graves. That was about the extent of my understanding.

For a long time, however, I did not really know what the word itself meant, why Ohigan was centered on the spring and autumn equinoxes, or what Buddhist ideas lay behind it.

I do not follow any particular religion. Shrines, temples, Obon, and Ohigan simply became familiar to me through living in Japan.

It has now been a year since I started Spiritual Japan Journal. As I have spent more time researching Japanese culture, I have become increasingly aware of how much I did not know about the country where I have lived all my life. When I visit a shrine for an article, I find myself researching mythology and the history of the deities enshrined there. When I look into a temple, I end up learning about Buddhist schools and ideas. Even seasonal customs that once seemed completely familiar can lead back through centuries of history.

While researching Ohigan, I came across a phrase that caught my attention.

“During Ohigan, the world of the living and the world of the dead are said to come closest.”

In Japan, Ohigan is sometimes explained this way. Some temples, for example, describe the equinox period, when the sun sets due west, as a time when 彼岸 (higan), “the other shore,” and 此岸 (shigan), “this shore,” are closest to one another.

This does not mean that the physical distance between two worlds somehow becomes shorter. Nor does this phrase capture the whole Buddhist meaning of Ohigan.

When I began looking into where this idea came from, I found myself following a path through Higan and Shigan, Amida Buddha’s Western Pure Land, and a Buddhist practice that involves contemplating the setting sun.

What does Higan mean in Buddhism?

In Japan today, Higan is sometimes used or understood in a way that is close to “the afterlife,” the realm where the dead are thought to be.

As a Buddhist term, however, Higan refers to the state of awakening beyond delusion and worldly attachments.

The characters literally mean “the other shore.” The shore on which we stand is called Shigan, “this shore.”

In Buddhism, human beings are understood to live amid delusion, carrying desires and attachments and passing through the cycle of birth and death. That realm is Shigan. Higan is the awakened state beyond that delusion. Sōtō Zen describes Higan as the state of nirvana beyond the cycle of rebirth. In Jōdo-shū, the term can also refer to the Western Pure Land, in addition to its meaning as the realm of awakening.

Another important Buddhist term in understanding these two shores is 波羅蜜 (haramitsu), from the Sanskrit pāramitā.

In Buddhism, pāramitā refers to the perfection or completion of spiritual practice. In Chinese and Japanese Buddhism, it also came to be associated with the idea of “reaching the other shore.”

Mahayana Buddhism teaches 六波羅蜜 (roku haramitsu), the Six Perfections, as major practices on the path toward awakening: generosity, ethical discipline, patience, diligence, meditation, and wisdom. They involve giving to others, observing moral precepts, resisting anger and resentment in difficult circumstances, continuing wholesome actions and spiritual practice, training the mind, and understanding things clearly. Through these practices, one is understood to move from the deluded shore of Shigan toward the awakened shore of Higan.

For a long time, I understood Ohigan primarily as a period for honoring the dead. Seen from the Buddhist side, however, it also contains the idea of examining how the living themselves behave.

It is not only seven days for the deceased. It is also a time to consider how we, still on this shore, are living. Once I understood that, the word Higan began to feel very different to me.

The connection between Higan and the spring and autumn equinoxes also leads to something important in Pure Land Buddhism: the direction west.

The autumn sunset and the Western Pure Land

In Pure Land Buddhism, the Pure Land of Amida Buddha is taught to lie in the west. It is therefore known as the Western Pure Land.

Around the spring and autumn equinoxes, the sun rises almost due east and sets almost due west.

I had always remembered the equinoxes mainly as the time of year when day and night are nearly equal in length. Only while researching Ohigan did I learn how deeply the direction of the setting sun is connected with Buddhist belief.

One important text for understanding this connection is the Contemplation Sutra, one of the scriptures that has played a major role in Pure Land Buddhism. It teaches methods of contemplation through which Amida Buddha and the Pure Land are visualized in the mind.

One of these practices is 日想観 (nissōkan), the contemplation of the setting sun.

The sutra instructs the practitioner to sit facing west, watch the sun as it is about to set, and hold its image clearly in the mind. The practitioner watches the sun descend through the western sky while directing the mind toward the Pure Land believed to lie in that direction. Jōdo-shū also explains the relationship between Ohigan and this practice in its current official materials.

This was one of the things that stayed with me most strongly while researching this article.

Watching a sunset is something familiar to us even now. Whether we are by the sea, in the mountains, or in a city, the sun goes down in the west every day.

People once looked at that same sight while believing that a Buddha realm lay in the west, imagining the Pure Land beyond the setting sun.

Shandao, a Chinese monk of the Tang dynasty, had a major influence on the development of Pure Land Buddhism and wrote extensively on the Contemplation Sutra. His teachings later reached Japan, where Hōnen, the founder of Jōdo-shū, regarded Shandao as an important teacher. Jōdo-shū tradition also holds that Hōnen practiced contemplation of the setting sun near Shitennōji Temple in Osaka in 1185.

At the spring and autumn equinoxes, the sun sets almost due west. Because Amida Buddha’s Pure Land is taught to lie in that direction, the setting sun could become a focus for turning one’s thoughts toward it. In Pure Land Buddhism, the sunset visible in the natural world and the Western Pure Land described in scripture came together in the same direction.

The saying that “the world of the living and the world of the dead come closer” also looks different once this background is understood.

Buddhist doctrine does not teach that the physical distance between two worlds literally shrinks at the equinoxes. In Japan, however, some temples and regions have described the period when the sun sets due west as a time when the Western Pure Land and this world are especially close or easier to connect across.

Within the same word, Ohigan, there are both Buddhist doctrine and ways of understanding the tradition that developed in Japan over many centuries.

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How Ohigan took shape in Japan

Buddhism originated in India and reached Japan through China, the Korean Peninsula, and other routes. The idea of Higan, as well as teachings about Amida Buddha and the Pure Land, entered Japan through this long history of transmission.

In Japan today, the spring and autumn equinoxes are considered the central days of Ohigan, with three days before and three days after, creating a seven-day period. This form of the Higan-e observance developed in Japan. Sōtō Zen also describes Higan-e as a Buddhist observance that became particularly widespread in Japan.

One early Japanese record often discussed in relation to the later development of Higan-e appears in the Nihon Kōki, a historical chronicle, under the year 806. It records an order for monks at provincial temples across the country to recite the Diamond Sutra for seven days in both spring and autumn for Prince Sawara, who was posthumously known as Emperor Sudō. The name Higan itself does not appear in this record, but it is regarded as an important early reference when considering the later history of Higan observances.

As Pure Land belief spread in Japan, practices of looking toward the setting sun at the spring and autumn equinoxes and praying for rebirth in the Western Pure Land also became more widespread. Jōdo-shū explains that these Buddhist ideas became connected with pre-existing customs of honoring ancestors, eventually contributing to the form of Ohigan known today.

This is one of the things I find so interesting about Japan.

Buddhism did not originate here. Yet religious ideas brought from elsewhere interacted with the ways people in Japan honored the dead and experienced the changing seasons, eventually becoming established as a new annual observance.

Behind the single word Ohigan as it is used today lie Buddhism born in India, Pure Land thought developed in China, and customs of honoring the dead and ancestors that continued in Japan.

Things that began in distant places and distant centuries are now part of autumn in Japan.

What Higan means to me

Buddhist funerals and memorial services are still common in Japan today. It is also common for a Buddhist priest to chant sutras for the deceased. Of course, the way a person is mourned and remembered differs according to religious belief and the wishes of the individual and family.

When my grandfather and great-grandparents died, Buddhist priests chanted sutras for them.

My beloved dog is now resting in a communal burial site with other animals, where Buddhist priests regularly chant sutras for them.

As I researched the meaning of Higan, I naturally found myself thinking about all of them.

In Buddhism, Higan is the realm of awakening, while Jōdo-shū also uses the word for the Western Pure Land. During Ohigan in Jōdo-shū, people turn their thoughts toward those who are believed to be in the Western Pure Land, while chanting the nembutsu and praying for their own rebirth there.

I found myself wondering whether the people and the dog I loved might be in Higan.

Because I do not follow a particular religion, I do not have a personal religious answer to that question.

Still, if Ohigan is a time when the world of the living and the world of the dead are said to be closest, I think it would make me very happy if I could feel their presence just a little nearer than usual.

I had thought I was simply researching a tradition of memorial observance, but at this point Ohigan became connected to my own memories.

The time I spent with my grandfather and great-grandparents, and the years I spent with my dog, are now in the past. I cannot see them again. Even so, there is something comforting to me in the fact that the Japanese calendar still contains two periods each year when people turn their thoughts toward those who have died.

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Remembering the dead and reflecting on how we live

During Ohigan today, there are customs of visiting graves, cleaning them, and offering flowers and incense. Families with a household Buddhist altar may place offerings there, and temples hold Higan-e services.

It is also customary to offer ohagi during the autumn Ohigan. The spring sweet is often called botamochi and the autumn version ohagi, names commonly associated with the seasonal flowers peony and bush clover. The names and preparation vary by region and family.

Grave visits and ohagi are among the most visible parts of Ohigan.

Behind them is the Buddhist idea of moving from Shigan to Higan.

One practices the Six Perfections and examines one’s own conduct. In Pure Land Buddhism, one turns toward Amida Buddha’s Pure Land and chants the nembutsu. One also remembers those who have died before us.

Thinking about the dead also leads us to remember that we, too, will one day die. From there comes the question of how we want to live now.

Ohigan is not only a time to think about those on the other shore. It is also a time to look at ourselves on this one.

Learning this made the Buddhist idea of “awakening” feel slightly less distant to me.

When I hear the word enlightenment in Buddhism, I tend to imagine something very far removed from ordinary life, pursued by monks through years of rigorous practice. Yet the Six Perfections include giving to others, refusing to be ruled by anger, continuing to make an effort, and paying attention to one’s own actions.

I am not a Buddhist. Even so, learning that Ohigan can also be a time to consider the conduct of the living has meant a great deal to me.

Between religion and custom

In Japan, practices with religious origins are sometimes passed down as part of everyday life and seasonal custom.

I, too, became familiar with shrines, temples, Obon, and Ohigan simply by living in Japan. I did not take part in them because I belonged to a particular religion.

In an earlier article, “Born Shinto, Die Buddhist?”, I wrote about the ways Shinto and Buddhism can both be present in a person’s life in Japan. Some families visit Shinto shrines for important life events and choose Buddhist rites for funerals. Customs rooted in different religious traditions can exist side by side within a single lifetime.

I have long found this aspect of Japan fascinating.

People continue something because their families have always done it. A custom comes to mind naturally when its season returns. Practices that began in religion can be passed down to the next generation even when the people observing them do not know the doctrine behind them in detail.

I think this is also one way culture survives.

At the same time, since starting Spiritual Japan Journal, I have become more conscious of the fact that behind what I may think of simply as “Japanese culture,” there are people for whom these traditions are deeply held beliefs.

Some people practice Shinto as a faith. Others believe in Buddhist teachings and continue daily practices such as chanting the nembutsu or following other forms of Buddhist discipline. Something familiar to me as part of Japanese culture may be central to someone else’s religious life.

Taking part in a culture and believing in the religion behind it are not the same thing. Even so, I want to keep trying to understand the background of the traditions I encounter.

That is one reason I decided to look more closely at Ohigan.

When I take something I have known all my life and follow it beyond the point where I thought I understood it, its meaning can change.

The words “honor our ancestors and remember those who have passed away”

This year, the Autumnal Equinox fell on September 23.

In Japan, the Autumnal Equinox is a national holiday. Under the current Act on National Holidays, its purpose is defined as a day to “honor our ancestors and remember those who have passed away.”

The Autumnal Equinox has been one of Japan’s national holidays since the National Holidays Act was established in 1948. Higan-e as a Buddhist observance and the Autumnal Equinox as a national holiday have their own distinct histories.

Even so, after researching Ohigan, the wording of the law—“honor our ancestors and remember those who have passed away”—strikes me more strongly than it did before.

The modern Japanese calendar still contains a day whose stated purpose includes remembering the dead.

Learning about Japan while sharing it

It has been one year since I started Spiritual Japan Journal.

Over that year, sharing Japan with readers overseas and learning about Japan myself have become almost the same process.

Whenever I begin researching one subject for an article, another unfamiliar world opens behind it. A shrine leads me into mythology. A temple leads me into Buddhism. A familiar seasonal custom can lead back hundreds of years into history.

Being born and raised in Japan did not mean that I understood Japan.

Ohigan was another example. I had known the word for as long as I can remember.

By looking into it more deeply, I learned about Higan and Shigan, the Six Perfections, the connection between the Western Pure Land and the equinox sunset, and even the practice of contemplating the setting sun described in the Contemplation Sutra.

At the end of that journey through Buddhist thought, I found myself thinking about my grandfather, my great-grandparents, and my dog.

What began as research had become connected to my own memories.

The next time I watch the sun set at the autumn equinox, I think I will remember the practice of contemplating the setting sun. I will also remember the people who once looked toward the same western horizon and imagined Amida Buddha’s Pure Land beyond it.

And perhaps I will feel, just for a moment, that the people and the little companion I loved are a little closer than usual.

Since starting Spiritual Japan Journal, I have been slowly getting to know the country I have lived in all my life all over again.

Japan continues to surprise me.

—Written by Sumire

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This has become a familiar topic in videos and social media posts about traveling in Japan. “Today’s trash became my travel companion.” “I carried everything back to my hotel.” “At this rate, it may come home with me.” Anyone who has visited Japan may recognize their own day in those jokes.

A survey conducted by the Japan Tourism Agency between November 2025 and January 2026 reflects the same frustration. The most commonly reported difficulty during a trip to Japan was “the lack of trash cans,” selected by 17.2% of respondents. It also ranked first in the previous survey.

What happens next is the strange part.

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Japanese cedars around four hundred years old stretch deep along the approach.

This is 戸隠神社 (Togakushi Jinja) in Nagano Prefecture. Looking up at the towering cedars, I felt as though I had shrunk to the size of a tiny person and wandered into a world of giants.

Togakushi Shrine consists of five shrines, situated from the foot of the mountain to its innermost reaches. One preserves traces of a Buddhist temple, another enshrines a deity of water, and others are dedicated to deities from Japanese mythology. Each bears the imprint of Togakushi’s long history.

Why do the five shrines within a single sacred complex look so different? This time, I will follow the history of Togakushi as I make my way from 宝光社 (Hōkōsha) to 奥社 (Okusha) and 九頭龍社 (Kuzuryūsha).

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Japan is the only country to have experienced the use of nuclear weapons in war.

At 8:15 a.m. on this day 81 years ago, the uranium-based atomic bomb known as “Little Boy,” dropped from the U.S. B-29 bomber Enola Gay, detonated at an altitude of approximately 600 meters above the area near Shima Hospital in Hiroshima.

Intense thermal radiation and blast waves struck the city, destroying most wooden houses within a radius of approximately two kilometers from the hypocenter. Reinforced-concrete buildings also had their windows and interiors destroyed, and many were engulfed in flames. The damage extended even farther: people directly exposed to the thermal radiation suffered burns as far as approximately 3.5 kilometers from the hypocenter.

Massive amounts of radiation penetrated people’s bodies, affecting not only those who died at the scene but also those who survived the explosion for many years afterward. Three days later, on August 9, another atomic bomb was dropped on Nagasaki.

This spring, I visited Hiroshima.

Hiroshima today is a beautiful city with rivers flowing through it. There are paved roads, bridges spanning the water, and tall buildings rising beyond them. Trees grow throughout 広島平和記念公園（Hiroshima Heiwa Kinen Kōen / Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park）, and people walk across its broad lawns.

Within that landscape, the 原爆ドーム（Genbaku Dōmu / Atomic Bomb Dome）alone had a presence that set it apart from everything around it.

Collapsed outer walls, exposed steel beams, and windows that are no longer there. Although the city has been rebuilt and time has moved forward, this building alone retains the form it had on August 6, 1945. As I walked around the Atomic Bomb Dome, I had the strange feeling that time had stopped in this one place.

Many people were gathered around it. There were Japanese visitors, as well as many people from overseas. Some took photographs, some read the information panels, and others stopped in front of the Dome and looked up at it for a while. Each person seemed to be turning their thoughts toward what had happened 81 years ago through what remained before them.

Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park is visited by many people. Even so, I do not think it is an easy place to approach with the same frame of mind as an ordinary tourist destination. Visiting requires a certain degree of resolve about what you may see there.

I could not know what each person in the park was thinking. Yet as I watched people press their palms together before the Cenotaph, I felt that, beyond race and nationality, they were praying for the souls of those who had died and for peace in the future.

The People Who Were Here 81 Years Ago

The land now occupied by Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park was once a neighborhood known as 中島地区（Nakajima district）.

It had developed as a center of transportation and commerce since the Edo period. By the early years of the Shōwa era, the area was lined with houses, shops, inns, movie theaters, temples, and hospitals. Although it is difficult to imagine from the park we see today, this was once a place where many people worked, shopped, and lived with their families.

On the very day the atomic bomb was dropped—August 6, 1945—an estimated 350,000 people were in Hiroshima.

No complete record of the number of people in the city that day survives. The estimated 350,000 included not only residents, but also military personnel, commuters, and people who had come from surrounding areas to work.

At the time, a process known as 建物疎開（tatemono sokai）was underway in Hiroshima. Buildings in the city were demolished to create open spaces intended to prevent fires from spreading during air raids. Unlike the evacuation of people to safer areas, this involved removing the buildings themselves.

On the morning of August 6, members of the 国民義勇隊（Kokumin Giyūtai / national volunteer corps）brought in from nearby municipalities, workplace volunteer groups formed by companies and factories, and mobilized students from middle schools and girls’ schools were working in the city. Many children were outdoors, clearing away roof tiles and timber left behind after buildings had been demolished.

The people in Hiroshima also came from many different national and cultural backgrounds. Among those exposed to the bombing were people from the Korean Peninsula and Taiwan, which were then under Japanese colonial rule; students from China and Southeast Asia; foreign priests; White Russian émigrés; and American prisoners of war.

The exact number of people who died as a result of the atomic bomb remains unknown.

Near the hypocenter, some bodies were so badly burned that they could not be identified. Some people were blown away by the blast, some died after fleeing into the rivers, and some remains could never be returned to their families. In some cases, entire families died, leaving no one to report their deaths. Government institutions were also devastated, and many population and death records were lost.

Many people died after initially surviving the explosion.

In addition to thermal radiation and blast waves, the bomb released massive amounts of radiation. Even people with no visible injuries immediately after the explosion began to experience hair loss, fever, diarrhea, vomiting, bleeding gums, and bleeding beneath the skin several days later. People who entered the city after the bombing to search for family members or take part in relief work were also affected by residual radiation.

It is impossible to draw a clear line between those who died at the scene and those who died days, weeks, or months later. Hiroshima City estimates that approximately 140,000 people had died by the end of December 1945, with a margin of error of about 10,000.

The figure of 140,000 alone is beyond anything I can imagine. I was also deeply shocked that the margin of error itself was as high as 10,000. So many people died under circumstances in which even their deaths could not be accurately recorded.

The objects preserved at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum return that immense number to individual human lives.

What I Saw at the Museum

The Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum displays clothing worn by people caught in the bombing, letters written to family members, diaries, lunch boxes, school uniforms, watches, photographs, and other belongings.

These objects were not created later to explain history. They were actually used, worn, and held by their owners until August 6, 1945.

Inside the museum, I wanted to look away many times.

Photographs of people with burns, damaged clothing, belongings left by children who died, and words preserved by their families. Each object inside the glass cases conveyed something of the life of its owner and the family members who had searched for them.

At times, I found it difficult to continue looking at the exhibits. Yet this was not a story created after the fact. It is what actually happened in this city 81 years ago.

The museum also displays a section of stone steps known as 人影の石（Hitokage no Ishi / Human Shadow Etched in Stone）.

The steps once stood at the entrance to the Hiroshima branch of Sumitomo Bank, approximately 260 meters from the hypocenter. When the bomb detonated, a person believed to have been waiting for the bank to open was sitting on the steps.

The surface of the stone directly exposed to the intense thermal radiation turned pale. The area shielded by the person’s body did not undergo the same change and remained in the form of a dark shadow.

This is not the trace of a human body vaporized and burned into the stone. The person sitting there is believed to have suffered severe burns and died at the scene, unable to escape.

The person’s identity has never been conclusively established. Several bereaved families came forward believing that the shadow might have been left by one of their relatives.

As I looked at the stone, I thought about the person who had certainly been there that morning, yet whose name had been lost. That person must also have had a family, a reason for going to the bank, and plans for the day ahead.

The health effects of the atomic bomb did not end on August 6, 1945.

Cases of leukemia began to increase two or three years after the bombing and peaked around six to eight years later. Increases in various types of cancer were also observed beginning approximately ten years after the bombing. The effects extended to people exposed in the womb and those who entered the city to search for their families.

The horror of the atomic bomb lies not only in its ability to take a vast number of lives in a single explosion. It also lies in the lasting effects on the bodies and lives of those who survived. Some 被爆者（hibakusha / atomic bomb survivors）lived with anxiety about their own health and that of their families, as well as prejudice and discrimination surrounding marriage and childbirth.

The Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum’s Peace Database allows visitors to view belongings held by the museum, photographs taken after the bombing, drawings made by survivors, video testimonies, and other materials.

Some of these materials are difficult to look at. I believe each person should decide for themselves whether to open them.

Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum Peace Database

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“Rest in Peace, for the Error Shall Not Be Repeated”

After leaving the museum, I walked toward the 原爆死没者慰霊碑（Genbaku Shibotsusha Ireihi / Cenotaph for the Victims of the Atomic Bomb）. Its formal name is the Hiroshima Peace City Memorial Monument.

It was built in 1952 and designed by architect Kenzō Tange. Its roof is shaped like a house depicted in ancient Japanese 埴輪（haniwa）clay figures and is intended to shelter the souls of the dead from the rain. A stone chamber inside contains the registry of those who died as a result of the atomic bombing.

The following words are inscribed on the Cenotaph:

Rest in peace,
for the error shall not be repeated.

The inscription was conceived and written in calligraphy by Tadayoshi Saika, a professor at Hiroshima University who was himself a survivor of the atomic bombing.

In Japanese, it is common for a sentence’s subject to remain unstated. This inscription does not specify who is promising not to repeat the error.

In 1952, the year the monument was erected, Indian jurist Radhabinod Pal visited Hiroshima and objected to the subjectless wording. He argued that the Japanese had not dropped the atomic bomb, and that the inscription did not make clear whose error it referred to.

His objection prompted a debate over what the “error” meant and who was making the pledge.

Saika did not limit the subject of the inscription to the people of Hiroshima or to the Japanese people. He explained that the implied “we” referred to all humanity as citizens of the world.

Hiroshima City today also explains that the “error” does not refer only to the actions of a particular person or nation. It is a pledge made by all people not to repeat the errors of war and the use of nuclear weapons—errors committed by humanity as a whole.

This interpretation is not intended to obscure the historical facts that led to the atomic bombing or the decisions made by governments at the time. Knowing and examining what happened can coexist with people living today accepting responsibility for the future beyond the boundaries of nationality.

I did not feel that the inscription was placing guilt on visitors because of their nationality.

Instead, its words seemed to ask, “What will we refuse to repeat from this point forward?”

Japanese visitors and people from overseas stood before the Cenotaph with their palms pressed together. Even when our races and nationalities differ, we can mourn those who died and pray for peace in the future.

That peace is not peace for Japan alone.

The people who preserved the Atomic Bomb Dome, and the people of Hiroshima and Nagasaki who have continued to share their experiences, have never wished only for Japan to be safe. They hope that no one, anywhere in the world, will ever experience the same suffering caused by nuclear weapons.

The Cenotaph is surrounded by 平和の池（Heiwa no Ike / the Pond of Peace）. The pond was created in 1957 so that the Cenotaph would appear to float on the water.

Immediately after the bombing, many people with severe burns sought water and made their way to nearby rivers. Testimonies and drawings record that the rivers which carry beautiful waters today were then filled with the bodies of people who had died there.

Since 1974, Hiroshima has continued a water-offering ritual known as 献水（kensui）to mourn those who died while asking for water. Water collected from locations across the city is offered before the Cenotaph and poured into the Pond of Peace after the ceremony.

The pond was originally created for an architectural purpose. The water that continues to be poured into it today also carries the meaning of offering water across time to those who died seeking it 81 years ago.

The park is also home to 平和の灯（Heiwa no Tomoshibi / the Flame of Peace）, which has burned continuously since 1964.

A single flame burns above a pedestal shaped like two hands opened toward the sky. It honors those who died in the atomic bombing and carries the pledge that it will continue to burn until nuclear weapons have disappeared from the Earth.

“What Disappears from Sight Also Disappears from the Heart”

Looking beyond the Flame of Peace from the Cenotaph, I could see the Atomic Bomb Dome.

This building was not created to preserve the memory of the atomic bombing. It opened in 1915 as the 広島県物産陳列館（Hiroshima-ken Bussan Chinretsukan / Hiroshima Prefectural Products Exhibition Hall）. It was used to display and sell goods produced in the prefecture, provide industrial consultation, and host art exhibitions. It was later renamed the Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall and became a familiar place for the city’s residents.

The building was designed by Czech architect Jan Letzel. With its Western-style exterior and oval dome, it stood out in Hiroshima even at the time.

The atomic bomb detonated at an altitude of approximately 600 meters, about 160 meters southeast of the building. Everyone inside was killed, and most of the structure collapsed and burned. Because the blast struck almost directly from above, and because some of the outer walls were particularly thick, the walls of the central section and the dome-shaped steel frame remained standing.

After the war, opinions were divided over whether the building should be preserved or demolished.

Some believed that it should remain as a way of conveying the horror of the atomic bomb to future generations. Other survivors wanted it demolished because seeing it brought back memories of the day they lost their families. Some argued that reconstruction should take priority, while others opposed preserving a building that was at risk of collapse.

Today, the Atomic Bomb Dome is a World Heritage Site and is known as a symbol of Hiroshima. Yet its preservation was not something that all citizens agreed upon from the beginning. The decision to keep it involved the conflict felt by people who believed that the building had to be passed on to future generations, even though looking at it caused pain.

The movement to preserve the Dome gained momentum because of a diary left by one girl.

楮山ヒロ子（Kajiyama Hiroko）was one year old when she was exposed to the atomic bombing in Hiroshima. She later developed leukemia and died in 1960 at the age of sixteen.

On August 6, 1959, the year before her death, Hiroko wrote in her diary:

Only that painful Industrial Promotion Hall will continue, for all time, to tell future generations about the terrifying atomic bomb...

Fourteen years had passed since the bombing, and the physical scars of the atomic bomb were gradually disappearing from the rebuilt city. Hiroko feared that if those visible traces vanished, the horror of the bombing might also disappear from people’s memories.

Her diary was given to 河本一郎（Kawamoto Ichirō）, a survivor of the bombing and an organizer of the 広島折鶴の会（Hiroshima Orizuru no Kai / Hiroshima Origami Crane Association）.

The Hiroshima Origami Crane Association was founded in 1958 as a peace organization centered on middle and high school students. An 折り鶴（orizuru）is a crane folded from a square sheet of paper. In Japan, the crane symbolizes longevity. Large numbers of paper cranes are often folded and strung together to express hopes for recovery from illness or for peace. These are known as 千羽鶴（senbazuru / a thousand paper cranes）.

In Hiroshima, paper cranes became a symbol of mourning for the children who died because of the atomic bomb and of the hope for the abolition of nuclear weapons. The Hiroshima Origami Crane Association carried those hopes forward as an organization in which children themselves took action for peace.

Moved by Hiroko’s diary, the middle and high school students in the association read it aloud at a gathering on May 5, 1960. The event was broadcast nationwide, and calls to preserve the Atomic Bomb Dome began to spread.

Kawamoto gave the children these words:

What disappears from sight disappears from the heart.

If the Atomic Bomb Dome disappeared, the visible evidence capable of conveying the horror of the bombing would disappear with it. That was why it had to be preserved. Supported by his words, the children gathered signatures in front of the Children’s Peace Monument and collected donations for the cost of repairs.

Some people responded harshly to the preservation movement. Survivors who were reminded of that day whenever they saw the Dome asked for it to be demolished. Even so, the children continued their work.

In July 1966, the Hiroshima City Council passed a resolution to preserve the Atomic Bomb Dome permanently. The following year, the first preservation work was carried out using donations received from across Japan and overseas.

Citizens also played a major role in securing its designation as a World Heritage Site.

At first, the Atomic Bomb Dome was considered too recent to meet the criteria for designation as a national Historic Site. In 1993, a citizens’ group began a nationwide petition campaign and collected more than 1.65 million signatures. In response, the national criteria were revised. The Dome was designated a Historic Site in 1995 and registered as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1996.

UNESCO recognizes the Atomic Bomb Dome as both a symbol of the most destructive force ever created by humankind and an expression of hope for world peace and the abolition of all nuclear weapons.

Preserving the Atomic Bomb Dome alone does not automatically convey its meaning to everyone. In Hiroshima today, many people continue to work so that both the building and the memories it carries will remain.

Alongside survivors who share their own experiences, Hiroshima City trains 被爆体験伝承者（hibaku taiken denshōsha / A-bomb Legacy Successors）. These successors learn the experiences and hopes for peace of a specific survivor, then pass that testimony on to the next generation in the survivor’s place. There are also 家族伝承者（kazoku denshōsha / Family Legacy Successors）, who inherit and share the experiences of relatives who survived the bombing.

As of the end of March 2026, the average age of people holding an Atomic Bomb Survivor’s Health Handbook in Japan was over 86. The time remaining to hear directly from those who experienced the bombing is limited. For this reason, the work of learning, recording, and passing their testimonies on to others becomes more important each year.

Volunteer guides in Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park also explain its history in English to visitors from overseas.

One of them is 佐々木駿（Sasaki Shun）.

Shun first became interested in the Atomic Bomb Dome when he was in the first grade of elementary school. He wondered why such a badly damaged building had been preserved and began researching the bombing and Hiroshima’s reconstruction with his family.

In the second grade, he began volunteering as an English-language guide for international visitors to Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park. Using materials he made himself, he explains the history of the Atomic Bomb Dome and the Cenotaph, as well as his great-grandmother’s experience of the bombing. At the end of each tour, he gives the visitors a paper crane he folded himself.

Shun Sasaki explaining Hiroshima’s history in English（YouTube）

In the 1960s, middle and high school students were at the center of the movement to preserve the Atomic Bomb Dome. Today, in front of that same building, a child of the next generation tells visitors from overseas about the history of the bombing.

The physical building has been preserved, and people have continued to explain its meaning in words. Because both have endured, the memory of 81 years ago continues to be passed on to those who visit Hiroshima.

When I stood before the Atomic Bomb Dome this spring, I became one of the people who received that memory.

The existence of this place may have forced some people to relive painful memories again and again. Even so, because it was preserved, we are able to remember what happened, refuse to abandon the act of thinking, and continue asking what we can do to prevent it from happening again.

Hiroshima has not remained in the destroyed state of 81 years ago. People rebuilt the city. They live, work, and raise children here.

At the same time, Hiroshima did not replace every trace of the past with something new.

The city preserved the Atomic Bomb Dome, protected personal belongings, recorded the names of the dead, shared survivors’ experiences, and continued explaining them to visitors from overseas. This was not done to present Hiroshima as an eternal victim. It was done to prevent the same thing from happening anywhere else in the world.

As a Japanese person, I felt proud of this strong and beautiful city.

That pride is not about comparing the scale of suffering or blaming anyone alive today. It comes from seeing a city that chose not to erase a history that is painful to confront, did not confine its memory within one country, and transformed that memory into words calling for peace throughout the world.

The day the Flame of Peace is extinguished will not be the day Hiroshima’s memory disappears.

It will be the day nuclear weapons have disappeared from the world and there is no longer any reason to keep the flame burning.

I hope that day will come.

—Written by Sumire

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They show Kumamoto’s rich natural landscape and the places I encountered during my journey. I photographed them again and again because I did not want to forget what I saw in a place I was visiting for the first time.

Kumamoto, where I took those photographs, is …

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The twenty-four solar terms divide the year into 24 periods based on the movement of the sun, with each period given a name that reflects the season. True to its name, Taisho marks one of the hottest times of the year.

This year in Japan, those …

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After nightfall, two dragons, one male and one female, would descend from the mountain and ravage the fields at its foot.

That legend still survives on Shōdoshima（小豆島） today.

The two dragons that tormented the villagers were eventually sealed inside a vessel made from stone taken from the mountain. But the story did not end when the dragons disappeared from sight.

The stone vessel in which the dragons were sealed is called the Akazu no Ishigame（開かずの石瓶）. It remains enshrined inside a cave that leads deep into the rocky mountain. Beside it, water known as Ryūsui（龍水） continues to spring from the rock.

Inside the dim cave, the faint sound of water echoes through the stillness. Beyond the cave lies a vast view across the Seto Inland Sea（瀬戸内海） and its islands.

Why does water spring from the place where the dragons were sealed?

Who entered the mountain, and why did they choose to seal the two dragons inside a stone vessel instead of killing them? And why are the dragons that once tormented the villagers still enshrined at an altar today?

Because this is a legend, there is no way to know whether these events actually occurred. Yet the stone vessel said to contain the two dragons and the Ryūsui that springs beside it can both be found on Shōdoshima today.

That place is Nishinotaki Ryūsuiji（西之瀧龍水寺）, Sacred Site No. 42 of the Shōdoshima 88 Temple Pilgrimage（小豆島八十八ヶ所霊場）.

On an afternoon in mid-June, I drove up a narrow, winding mountain road toward the rocky mountain where this legend has been preserved.

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I rarely catch colds, but until a few days ago, I had been in bed with a summer cold. Colds during the hot sea…

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Japan has now entered 小暑（Shōsho / Lesser Heat）, one of the twenty-four solar terms.

Shōsho refers to the time w…

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Tanabata is one of Japan’s summer seasonal events. Every year on July 7, people write their wishes on long, narrow strips of paper called 短冊（tanzaku）and tie them to bamboo grass. Tanabata decorations are placed in many everyday places, such as schools, shopping streets, stations, shrines, and hotels.

In the lobby of a hotel where I stayed recently, there was also a Tanabata bamboo decoration. Tanzaku were prepared beside the bamboo grass, and guests were free to write their wishes and tie them there.

When you live in Japan, you sometimes come across these small signs of the season. Tanabata can be celebrated as a large festival, but at the same time, it is also a familiar event that appears in hotel lobbies or in a corner of a station.

Tanabata has a story about two stars, 織姫（Orihime）and 彦星（Hikoboshi）. In Japan, Orihime is described as a woman who weaves cloth, and Hikoboshi as a man who tends cattle. The two are separated by the 天の川（Amanogawa, the Milky Way）, and it is said that they can meet only once a year, on the night of July 7.

This story is based on a star legend that came to Japan from China. Tanabata also had another side as an event for praying for improvement in the arts and skills. A culture that came from China was accepted in Japan and came to be valued as a court ritual.

At the Japanese court, Tanabata was held as an event to pray for improvement in sewing, calligraphy, and waka poetry. It became associated not only with the story of the stars, but also with the wish to work with one’s hands, polish one’s skills, write words, and compose poems.

People in the past wrote words and poems on 梶の葉（kaji leaves）and entrusted their wishes to them. Kaji leaves are known as a plant closely connected with Tanabata. The custom of writing wishes on tanzaku today still carries the history of Tanabata, in which people polished their skills, wrote words, and gave shape to their wishes.

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Half of 2026 has passed, and July has begun. Spiritual Japan Journal has also reached its first anniversary. Thank you so much to everyone who has been reading. I feel truly happy to be able to share Japan’s seasons, customs, shrines, and the small pieces of culture found in everyday life with you every week.

When July arrives, it feels as if summer has finally begun in Japan. The temperature rises from the morning, the sunlight grows stronger, and supermarkets begin to fill with summer vegetables and cold noodles. On the news, I start hearing about 海開き（umi-biraki, the opening of the sea-bathing season）and 山開き（yama-biraki, the opening of the mountain-climbing season）, and that makes me feel that summer has truly started. In many Japanese schools, summer vacation begins in the latter half of July, and for children, one of the most special times of the year is approaching. Some families go sea bathing, go camping in the mountains or by rivers, or visit their grandparents’ homes. Even as adults, when summer comes, memories such as the smell of the sea, the sound of insects, wet sandals, and cold barley tea sometimes come back to us.

One of the things that makes me feel the beginning of summer is the opening of the sea-bathing season. Japan is an island country surrounded by the sea. When you look at a map, the sea may seem very close and familiar. In reality, however, places where people can swim in the sea are limited. Some coasts are rocky, some have fast currents, some are used as ports or fishing areas, and some are not suitable for swimming. Even in regions near the sea, beaches with sand, where people can swim safely under proper management, are limited.

Many sea-bathing beaches in Japan have an official opening period. Safety staff and lifeguards are stationed there, first-aid stations are set up, and the areas and times where people are allowed to swim are decided. Beach houses open, and showers, changing rooms, and restrooms become available. Japan has relatively distinct seasons, so the time when people can comfortably enter the sea is mostly limited to summer. However, it is not simply a matter of whether the weather is warm enough. There is a period when a beach is prepared as a sea-bathing area, and the opening of the sea-bathing season marks the beginning of that period.

The opening date is not the same across the country. Some regions, such as Okinawa, open their beaches earlier, while in many parts of Honshu, beaches open on July 1 or in early July. This year as well, many popular sea-bathing beaches opened on July 1. When I hear this kind of news, I feel that summer has truly begun.

At some beaches, a Shinto ritual is held to pray for safety at the opening of the season. An altar is set up on the sand, a Shinto priest recites norito prayers, and people connected with the beach, as well as local officials, attend the ceremony. It is a prayer that no accidents will happen at the sea, that visitors will spend the summer safely, and that people will give thanks for the blessings of the sea. I feel something very Japanese in the fact that before the lively events begin, there is first a moment of prayer facing the sea.

I found a short video showing the 海開き（umi-biraki, the opening of the sea-bathing season）ritual, so I would like to share the link here.

Popular sea-bathing beaches in Japan have a slightly different atmosphere from the kind of beach resort people may imagine overseas, where visitors lie back on beach chairs and spend time slowly. Of course, there are also quiet beaches, but at famous sea-bathing beaches, an astonishing number of people gather. Parasols line the sand, children walk around holding swim rings, and the smell of food and drinks comes from the beach houses. Yakisoba, shaved ice, ramen, beer, soft drinks. In some places, music is playing, and rather than being quiet and relaxed, the atmosphere is lively and full of summer energy.

Personally, I am not very good with places that are too crowded, so I have hardly gone to famous sea-bathing beaches since I was a child. Even so, I think the sight of many people gathering, children playing in the sea, and beach houses lining the shore is one of Japan’s summer traditions. It is very important and wonderful that sea-bathing beaches are prepared with proper facilities, supervision, and first-aid systems so that families and friends can enjoy the sea safely.

To me, Japanese sea-bathing beaches seem not only like places to spend time in nature, but also like temporary towns that appear only for a short period in summer. Beach houses line the shore, people gather, food is sold, children play, and in the evening, sunburned visitors head back toward the station. There is a brightness there that feels very much like summer in Japan.

On the other hand, if you want to enjoy cool, beautiful waterside scenery that feels very Japanese, I would definitely recommend rivers. Clear water flowing near the mountains, the coolness of the shade beneath the trees, and the feeling of walking over stones all have a different kind of summer pleasure from the sea. I will save that story for another time.

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Still, every year, lives are lost at the sea. In Japan, more than 100 people die in water accidents at the sea during summer alone. Sea bathing, fishing, playing in the water. Danger exists very close to enjoyable moments. Even when the sea looks calm, there may be places where the water suddenly becomes deep or where the current pulls people offshore. Even people who are used to swimming cannot overcome waves and currents by force.

That is why I think the Shinto ritual at the opening of the sea-bathing season still has meaning today. Before enjoying the sea, people pray for safety. They wish for the season ahead to pass without accidents. Within this long-standing custom, there is not only the feeling of looking forward to the sea, but also the caution of people who know the power of the sea.

Japan also has many sayings and folk beliefs connected to waterside places. For example, many people have heard that it is better not to enter the sea after お盆（Obon, the season when people welcome the spirits of their ancestors）, or that if you swim in the sea, something may pull your legs. The wording differs depending on the region or family, but the feeling that people should avoid the sea in the latter half of summer has long been passed down. Obon is the season when people welcome the spirits of their ancestors. Perhaps the sea and rivers were felt to be places close to the boundary between this world and the other world. At the same time, the latter half of summer also brings typhoons, high waves, rip currents, and jellyfish. I think some of these folk beliefs also contained wisdom for keeping children away from dangerous waters.

In folklore records, there is also a tradition from 愛媛県（Ehime Prefecture）saying that if someone swims after July 7, the day called 七夕（Tanabata, a summer festival held on July 7）, an “Enko” will appear and pull their legs. Enko is a being spoken of as a waterside yokai. For children, the waterside is a fun place to play. Yet if adults take their eyes off them even briefly, it can also become a dangerous place. Stories about waterside yokai probably contained both the fascination of a frightening tale and a warning meant to protect life.

July is also the season of mountains. In Japan, there is a term called the opening of the mountain-climbing season. It refers to the beginning of the mountain-climbing season for that year. The timing differs depending on the mountain, but July 1 is known as a day for this opening, and many mountains have held rituals to pray for the safety of summer climbers.

Behind the opening of the mountain-climbing season is Japan’s mountain worship. In the past, mountains in Japan were seen as places close to Shinto and Buddhist deities, places of spiritual training, and places with special power. They were not places ordinary people could freely enter. Usually, ordinary people were forbidden from entering, and only during a certain period in summer were they allowed to go into the mountains. This custom is said to be one of the origins of the opening of the mountain-climbing season. It was both a day to celebrate entering the mountain and a day to pray before being allowed to do so.

I myself enjoy mountain climbing, so I understand the joy of entering the mountains. The scenery that changes with each season, the time spent gradually climbing with my own feet, and the sense of achievement when reaching the summit. Mountains offer a kind of joy that can only be felt in a place slightly removed from everyday life.

At the same time, the opening of Mount Fuji became major news again this year. In 2025, the total number of climbers on all Mount Fuji routes was about 205,000. This year, some routes opened on July 1, and many foreign tourists have already arrived, hoping to see the sunrise.

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富士山（Fujisan, Mount Fuji）is Japan’s most iconic mountain, and for people visiting from overseas, I think it is also a special place they want to climb at least once. In recent years, however, more people have begun approaching Mount Fuji as an extension of sightseeing, and problems such as climbing in light clothing or attempting a bullet climb to the summit overnight without staying at a mountain hut have become social issues. This year as well, reports showed people trying to climb in short sleeves or without warm clothing.

From 2026, both the 山梨県（Yamanashi Prefecture）side and the 静岡県（Shizuoka Prefecture）side require a 4,000-yen entrance fee per person for climbing Mount Fuji. Time restrictions, advance registration, advance learning, and equipment checks are also being carried out. On the Shizuoka Prefecture side of Mount Fuji, more than 40 people were involved in mountain accidents in 2025, including accidents outside the official climbing season. There are also discussions about charging rescue fees and restricting entry for climbing during the closed season.

When I hear about these issues, I feel that the beauty and danger of mountains always exist side by side. If people come to visit Japan’s mountains, I hope that their time there will be safe and become a beautiful memory. I hope that everyone who enjoys the sea and mountains this summer will be able to return home safely.

Both the opening of the sea-bathing season and the opening of the mountain-climbing season are words that announce the beginning of summer pleasures. Yet before those pleasures, there is prayer, a set period, and rules to be respected. Old folk beliefs and modern regulations take different forms, but I think both are boundaries that help people relate to nature.

Japan’s summer has only just begun. I hope to continue sharing summer in Japan with you.

Once again, I am grateful that SJJ has reached its first anniversary. I will continue choosing my words carefully so that I can share the beauty of Japan with you.

To celebrate the first anniversary, I am offering a discount on paid subscriptions. If you subscribe by August 2, you can receive 20 percent off for 12 months. Paid subscribers can read all SJJ content, including past articles.

Paid subscriptions support the work of SJJ. I would be very happy if you joined us as a fellow traveler on this SJJ journey, looking at Japan together.

—Written by Sumire

You can also support my work by buying me a coffee through buy me a coffee.

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Washi is traditional paper that developed in Japan. In English, it is sometimes translated as “Japanese paper,” but its materials, production methods, and uses are different from those of modern copy paper or notebook paper.

Washi is made by loosening plant fibers such as 楮（kōzo, paper mulberry）, 三椏（mitsumata）, and 雁皮（ganpi）in water, scooping them up, and drying them. Depending on the region, the materials, thickness, texture, strength, and uses differ. Those differences have long been connected to the climate, water, plants, and daily life of each place.

In Japanese life, washi has been used in many different settings.

It was used as paper for writing, and for keeping letters and records. For 障子（shōji, sliding screens）, washi was pasted onto wooden frames, allowing light from outside to enter a room softly. Washi was also used for 掛軸（kakejiku, hanging scrolls）, 屏風（byōbu, folding screens）, 襖（fusuma, sliding doors）, and 表装（hyōsō, mounting）. It has also been connected to decorations for festivals and annual events, as well as to tools related to light, such as 提灯（chōchin, lanterns）.

Japanese schools still have 習字（shūji, calligraphy）classes today. In these classes, students use brushes and ink to write characters. The 半紙（hanshi, calligraphy paper）used there is also a type of washi.

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Over the past few years, I have felt the presence of Japanese tea growing stronger overseas.

Matcha lattes, matcha-flavored sweets, and drinks chosen with health in mind. Japanese tea has come to be enjoyed by people overseas in many different forms. I feel very happy that tea, one part of Japanese culture, is loved around the world.

Tea originally came to Japan from China. After that, it developed in its own way within Japan’s land, climate, daily life, religion, 茶の湯 (chanoyu), the tea ceremony, and the custom of drinking tea in everyday life. It became connected to temples and samurai culture, spread into town life, and in tea-producing regions across Japan, the techniques of cultivation and tea processing were refined.

When you live in Japan, tea is naturally present in daily life. After meals, we drink 番茶 (bancha) or 煎茶 (sencha). With something sweet, we often have tea. When we want to take a short break, we sometimes brew tea in a 急須 (kyūsu), a Japanese teapot. I have always liked tea myself, and after meals I have often drunk bancha or sencha.

Now that Japanese tea is spreading overseas, I wanted to share its background as well. Matcha lattes and matcha sweets are enjoyable entry points into Japanese tea. Some people may come to like Japanese tea through sweet drinks. Some may visit tea fields during their travels. Others may buy Japanese tea and brew it in their own countries.

Behind a cup of tea is the work of people who grow, pick, process, finish, and deliver the tea leaves. That is why I would be happy if people could learn a little about where the tea was grown, how it was made, and how it has been enjoyed, not only its name or its popularity.

In Japan, there are tea-producing regions known nationwide, such as 静岡 (Shizuoka), 宇治 (Uji), 鹿児島 (Kagoshima), 三重 (Mie), and 狭山 (Sayama). Among them, 八女 (Yame), in southern 福岡県 (Fukuoka Prefecture), has long been highly regarded as a region that produces high-quality tea.

In recent years, Yame has also begun to attract interest from overseas travelers. In addition to the scenery of its tea fields and the quality of its tea, I feel that its white-walled townscape, the warmth of local people, and the culture of handwork that has been passed down there are what draw visitors to the area.

This time, I visited that town of Yame.

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