Girls wear red or pink kimono, while boys are dressed in hakama. Some walk carefully in their unfamiliar traditional sandals, while others make their way through the shrine grounds holding a family member’s hand. Parents and grandparents watch with delight, taking photographs and adjusting the children’s clothing.

It is the season of 七五三 (Shichi-Go-San), a traditional Japanese celebration that takes place in autumn.

Shichi-Go-San is an occasion to give thanks for a child’s healthy growth and pray for their future health and happiness. The custom of dressing children in formal clothing and visiting a shrine at the ages of three, five, and seven remains important to many Japanese families.

The tradition has a long history, originating in ceremonies that marked stages of childhood through changes in hairstyles and clothing. Ukiyo-e prints from the Edo period also depict children dressed for these celebrations, surrounded by people honoring their growth.

Through these artworks and historical records, we can trace the history of Shichi-Go-San.

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The Origins of Shichi-Go-San: Kamioki, Hakamagi, and Obitoki

Shichi-Go-San is a traditional celebration of childhood milestones, generally observed on November 15.

Traditionally, both boys and girls celebrate at age three, boys at age five, and girls at age seven. In the past, these ages were usually calculated using the traditional Japanese age-counting system, in which a child was considered one year old at birth and gained another year each New Year’s Day. Today, many families use actual age instead, and customs vary by region and household.

On Shichi-Go-San, children dress in their finest clothing and visit a Shinto shrine to give thanks for their growth and pray for continued good health. Some families receive a blessing from a Shinto priest, while others take commemorative photographs or enjoy a meal with grandparents and other relatives. Although November 15 remains the traditional date, many families arrange their visits on convenient weekends in October or November.

The origins of this celebration can be traced to ceremonies marking children’s growth, practiced among the aristocracy during the Heian period (794–1185).

Three of the most significant were 髪置 (Kamioki), 袴着 (Hakamagi), and 帯解 (Obitoki).

Kamioki is the ceremony associated with the celebration at age three.

In earlier times, it was customary in some parts of Japanese society to shave or cut young children’s hair short. When children reached a certain age, families celebrated the beginning of growing their hair longer, marking their transition beyond early childhood.

Among the warrior class during the Edo period, some ceremonies involved placing an imitation of white hair on a child’s head as a wish for longevity. White hair symbolized a long life, expressing the hope that the child would live to an old age.

Today, three-year-old children celebrating Shichi-Go-San are often seen wearing a sleeveless outer garment called 被布 (hifu) over their kimono. Easy for young children to wear, these garments are popular in bright colors and decorative patterns.

Hakamagi celebrates a child wearing hakama for the first time.

This ceremony was practiced among the aristocracy during the Heian period and was later adopted by warrior families. Hakama are traditional Japanese garments worn over a kimono, covering the lower body from the waist. They are still worn today at graduation ceremonies, coming-of-age celebrations, and in certain martial arts.

The age and gender associated with Hakamagi varied over time, but the ceremony eventually became linked to the celebration of boys at age five.

Obitoki is the ceremony associated with the celebration of girls at age seven.

Young children’s kimono traditionally had attached ties that made them easier to dress. As children grew older, they began wearing an obi, a sash used to secure a kimono, instead. Obitoki celebrated this change in clothing.

Today, seven-year-old girls celebrating Shichi-Go-San often wear elaborate kimono with wide obi, accompanied by decorative accessories and carefully arranged hairstyles.

Growing one’s hair, wearing hakama, and tying an obi.

These ceremonies made a child’s growth visible through changes in appearance.

Behind them lay a deeply felt wish for children to survive and grow up healthy.

At a time when medical care and sanitation were far less developed, young children frequently lost their lives to illness. Reaching another milestone in childhood was a source of great joy for their families.

Japan also has an old saying, “七つまでは神のうち” (Nanatsu made wa kami no uchi), which can be translated as “Until the age of seven, children belong to the realm of the gods.” It expresses a close association between young children and the divine, although its interpretation has varied across regions and periods.

Kamioki, Hakamagi, and Obitoki each developed from different traditions, but all expressed a wish to celebrate a child’s growth and pray for their continued well-being.

During the Edo period, these ceremonies became associated with shrine visits and family celebrations, gradually developing into the form of Shichi-Go-San we know today.

Shichi-Go-San in Edo-Period Ukiyo-e

During the Edo period (1603–1868), urban culture and publishing flourished, and many ukiyo-e artworks depicting everyday life and annual celebrations were produced.

浮世絵 (ukiyo-e) is a form of Japanese art encompassing woodblock prints and paintings that portray aspects of life and culture. Its subjects included kabuki actors, famous places, landscapes, seasonal events, and family celebrations.

For understanding the history of Shichi-Go-San, artworks depicting children’s clothing and celebrations provide valuable historical evidence.

One such work is 七五三祝ひの圖 (Shichi-Go-San Iwai no Zu, Celebrating Shichi-Go-San) by 三代歌川豊国 (Utagawa Toyokuni III).

The artwork was created as a triptych, a composition formed by placing three woodblock prints side by side to create one continuous scene.

According to the National Diet Library of Japan, the images depict the Hakamagi celebration for a five-year-old on the right, Obitoki for a seven-year-old in the center, and Kamioki for a three-year-old on the left.

Each child is dressed in formal clothing, with adults accompanying them.

The five-year-old boy wears hakama, while the seven-year-old girl wears an obi. Their garments, colors, patterns, hairstyles, and accessories are depicted in detail, allowing us to see how children dressed for these different milestones.

Look also at the adults surrounding the children. The artwork portrays people attending the celebrations and helping the children prepare for their special day.

During the Edo period, such occasions were celebrated with family members, relatives, and others close to the household.

One historical source documenting these customs is 東都歳時記 (Tōto Saijiki), published in 1838.

This book records annual events and seasonal customs in Edo, the city now known as Tokyo. It includes an event observed on November 15 called 嬰児宮参 (Eiji Miyamairi), a shrine visit for young children.

According to its account, families celebrated Kamioki at age three, Hakamagi at age five, and Obitoki at age seven. They prepared clothing according to their financial circumstances and visited a shrine dedicated to the local guardian deity, or 産土神 (ubusunagami).

An ubusunagami is a deity believed to protect the land and its people, traditionally associated with birth and growth and revered by the local community.

After visiting the shrine, families would call on relatives, and some would invite acquaintances to an evening feast.

Shrine visits took place throughout much of November, with the fifteenth serving as the principal date.

Families prepared special clothing for their children and visited shrines. They then called on relatives or gathered with others for a celebratory meal.

These historical accounts offer a glimpse into how families in Edo celebrated the growth of their children.

From Edo to the Rest of Japan

Ceremonies celebrating children’s growth existed throughout Japan, with different regions preserving their own customs.

The practice of celebrating children at ages three, five, and seven around November 15 developed primarily in Edo and its surrounding areas.

During the Edo period, these celebrations were observed among warrior families and wealthy townspeople. By the Meiji period (1868–1912), they had become increasingly popular among ordinary households in urban Tokyo.

The National Diet Library also preserves historical materials depicting children visiting shrines for Shichi-Go-San during the Meiji period.

The illustration shows children in formal clothing accompanied by women.

According to the National Diet Library’s explanation, the boy is holding a piece of Chitose Ame in his left hand.

千歳飴 (Chitose Ame) is a long, thin candy given to children as a wish for longevity.

The word chitose means “a thousand years.” The candy symbolizes the hope that a child will enjoy a long and healthy life. It traditionally comes in red and white, colors associated with auspicious occasions in Japan. Today, the wrappers are often decorated with symbols of good fortune and longevity, such as cranes, turtles, and pine, bamboo, and plum blossoms.

There are several theories about the origins of Chitose Ame. One well-known account traces it to candy sold in Asakusa during the Edo period, which became popular as a symbol of long life.

By the Meiji period, dressing children in formal clothing and buying Chitose Ame to celebrate their growth had become established customs among ordinary families in Tokyo.

Shichi-Go-San subsequently spread to other regions during the modern era and the postwar years. It became especially widespread nationwide during Japan’s period of rapid economic growth in the 1960s.

Today, it is one of Japan’s best-known celebrations for children.

Families observe the occasion in different ways. Some receive blessings at shrines, while others rent formal clothing for professional photographs or enjoy a special meal with grandparents. The sight of children dressed in colorful kimono and hakama has become a familiar part of November at Japanese shrines.

As I explored this history, I found myself remembering my own Shichi-Go-San celebration.

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A Red Kimono and Red Lipstick: My Childhood Memories of Shichi-Go-San

When I was little, I wore a red kimono for Shichi-Go-San.

I went to a hair salon to have my hair styled, and someone applied red lipstick to my lips. My hair was arranged differently from usual, I wore a beautiful kimono, and the red lipstick made me look a little more grown-up.

I remember looking at myself in the mirror and feeling delighted, as though I had taken a step closer to adulthood.

That day, I went to show my grandmother how I looked in my special outfit.

My family also took me to a shrine, where we had commemorative photographs taken. I remember people around us smiling at me and speaking to me when they saw me dressed up.

I was happy to be wearing such a beautiful kimono, but I also felt a little embarrassed by all the attention.

Another thing I remember clearly is the Chitose Ame.

The candy I received seemed astonishingly long to me. I remember asking my mother, “Am I really allowed to eat all of this by myself?”

At that age, getting such a large piece of candy all to myself mattered far more than the meaning behind its length.

Learning about the history of Kamioki and Obitoki as an adult brings back the excitement I felt that day.

In earlier centuries, growing one’s hair longer or wearing hakama or an obi for the first time marked important stages of childhood. For me, having my hair styled, putting on lipstick, and wearing formal clothing was also an occasion when I felt a little more grown-up.

I now think differently about the smiles of the people who made me feel so shy that day.

I went to show my grandmother my special outfit, visited a shrine with my family, and received kind words from people we happened to meet. As a little girl, I barely understood how many people were celebrating my growth.

The Edo-period Tōto Saijiki describes families visiting relatives after their shrine visits and inviting acquaintances to celebratory gatherings. Looking back, my visit to my grandmother feels connected to that long-standing custom of sharing a child’s milestones with loved ones.

Shichi-Go-San is a joyful occasion for families, but it can also become an unforgettable day for the children themselves.

My memories are full of small, distinctly childhood experiences: the excitement of wearing a red kimono and my surprise at receiving such an unusually long piece of candy.

Looking back on that day helps me appreciate how many people cared for me and watched over me as I grew up.

Celebrating a Child’s Growth

In Japan, visiting a shrine has long been part of marking important moments in life.

Families may visit for a baby’s first shrine visit, 初宮参り (Hatsumiyamairi), or for 初詣 (Hatsumōde), the first shrine visit of the New Year, when people pray for health and happiness. Shichi-Go-San is another occasion when people come to shrines to celebrate a milestone and offer their prayers.

Tracing the history of Shichi-Go-San reveals a tradition that developed from childhood ceremonies such as Kamioki, Hakamagi, and Obitoki, through Edo-period shrine visits and family celebrations, and into the present day.

At its heart is the joy of seeing a child grow up safely and the hope that they will continue to enjoy a healthy life.

This year, many children across Japan will once again celebrate Shichi-Go-San.

As they walk hand in hand with their families, I wonder what these little children will remember about their special day.

It is a day when adults celebrate their growth and wish them happiness in the years ahead. Perhaps, someday, it will become a treasured memory for the children themselves.

—Written by Sumire

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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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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.

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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.

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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.

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