Three Mediums, One Question

In 2025, Hiroshima will mark the 80th anniversary of the atomic bombing.

In this milestone year, three significant events have coincided. The bombed tram No. 653 has been restored to its original dark blue and cream two-tone color and has begun running through the streets of Hiroshima with children on board. The names of 816 individuals whose remains are interred at the Atomic Bomb Memorial Tower have been corrected and displayed. Additionally, a documentary film featuring the testimonies of Korean hibakusha, directed by 91-year-old Korean resident filmmaker Park Sunam, has finally made its theatrical debut in Hiroshima.

The tram, the registry, and the film are vastly different mediums. Yet they share a common question—”How is the mechanism for delivering memory designed to ease the burden for whom?”

The preservation and transmission of memory have often relied on individual mission and goodwill. As the average age of hibakusha exceeds 85, the efforts of individuals alone are no longer sufficient. To understand the significance of the 80th anniversary, we must examine the design philosophy of the vehicles that ‘carry’ memory—namely, the very mechanisms themselves.

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The Bombed Tram No. 653—The Design of a ‘Moving Classroom’

The Hiroshima Electric Railway began special operations of the “Peace Loop 653” on August 2. The bombed tram No. 653 has been restored to its original dark blue and cream two-tone color and runs along a route that visits Hiroshima’s bombed heritage sites.

What is noteworthy is that this initiative is not merely a display operation. A guide conveying the history of the bombing accompanies participants, including children from Hiroshima University Elementary School, allowing them to see the current landscape around the hypocenter juxtaposed with the historical scenery through the tram’s windows. Unlike a museum, the tram moves through the city, meaning that both the ‘site of memory’ and ‘everyday scenery’ are simultaneously visible. It provides an experience of memory that exists on the ground one stands on, rather than behind the glass cases of an exhibition—this is the design philosophy of the ‘moving classroom.’

The cost of restoration and operation is reported to be around 5 million yen. For Hiroshima Electric Railway, maintaining the tram is an extension of its core business. Instead of creating a special facility, this initiative supports the sustainability of memory transmission by building on existing infrastructure and expertise. Rather than relying on individual storytellers, the ‘system’ of the railway company’s operational know-how, vehicle maintenance technology, and route network carries memory. It reduces personal dependency and increases reproducibility. The backbone of this initiative lies in the behind-the-scenes arrangements.

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Correction of the Registry at the Atomic Bomb Memorial Tower—The Weight of the Act of ‘Correcting Names’

Quietly standing on the north side of the Peace Memorial Park is the Atomic Bomb Memorial Tower. Here lie the remains of approximately 70,000 individuals whose identities are known but who have no claimants. The city of Hiroshima has displayed a registry of names for those whose identities have been confirmed, waiting for applications from their families.

In 2025, 816 names were corrected on this registry. Corrections included errors in old characters, adjustments to readings, and the elimination of duplicates—each task is modest. However, there is an undeniable structure behind this work.

If names are not accurate, families cannot find their loved ones. Errors in the registry physically sever the circuits of memory. Thus, correcting the registry is akin to building the infrastructure of memory. Just as road paving or water pipe repairs must maintain the accuracy of information, memory cannot reach those it should without precision.

The corrected registry is publicly available at Hiroshima City Hall and on the website, accessible to anyone. This ‘open design’ is also significant. It ensures that families far away, who may find it difficult to visit the memorial tower, have access to information. The passage of 80 years also signifies a generational change among families. “It could be my grandfather’s name” or “Is it my great-grandmother?”—as the subjects of inquiries change, the accuracy and accessibility of the registry become increasingly important over time.

There is no flashiness. However, the act of verifying, correcting, and re-displaying each name is not merely about ‘preserving’ memory; it is about making it ‘communicable.’ The unglamorous work of maintenance and operation continues to keep the circuits of memory alive.

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The Documentary Film on Korean Hibakusha—Delivering ‘Unspoken Voices’

Park Sunam, born in 1934 and now 91 years old, has been recording the testimonies of Korean hibakusha for decades as a Korean resident in Japan. In 2025, his documentary film, which is a culmination of his efforts, finally had its theatrical debut in Hiroshima.

I want to take a moment to consider the weight of the word “finally.” Hiroshima is known worldwide as a site of the atomic bombing, and every year on August 6, media from both domestic and international sources gather. However, how many voices of those who were mobilized from the Korean Peninsula and bombed have been included in the ‘memory of Hiroshima’? It is estimated that around 70,000 Koreans were bombed in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, with about 40,000 of them having died. The numbers are significant. Yet, it took 80 years for their testimonies to be shown in a theater in Hiroshima—this length of time itself reflects the biases within the structure of memory.

The significance of Park’s film cannot be explained solely by the personal passion to ‘pick up forgotten voices.’ The medium of film allows the voices and expressions of the witnesses to be replayed even after they have passed away. The fact that Park himself is 91 years old tells us how precarious the timing of this record is. The film continues to carry memory even after the storytellers’ bodies have been lost—in that sense, cinema is a ‘vehicle that transcends time.’

At the same time, the act of releasing a film in theaters requires cooperation from multiple stakeholders, including securing screening venues, coordinating distribution, and gaining acceptance from the local community. For an individual’s creation to circulate as a part of societal memory, the receiving side’s mechanisms must also be in place. The film’s premiere in Hiroshima is likely the result of the creator’s determination and the maturation of the venue that received it.

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The Intersection of Three Vehicles

The tram carries memory using ‘space.’ By running through the city, it places memory within the continuity of everyday life.

The registry carries memory with ‘precision.’ By correcting a single character’s error, it maintains the circuit connecting families with victims.

The film carries memory across ‘time.’ It continues to deliver the voices and expressions of witnesses even after their bodies have been lost.

The three mediums approach from entirely different angles. However, the underlying philosophy of their design is the same—sustaining memory not merely through individual goodwill or mission, but as a system. The ‘infrastructure’ of the railway company’s operational framework, the administrative management of the registry, and the distribution and screening of films all support the vehicles of memory.

Another commonality is that ‘behind-the-scenes work’ determines the quality of memory. The mechanics restoring the tram, the staff verifying each name on the registry, and the distributors arranging the screening venues—those who work behind the scenes determine the precision and scope of memory delivery.

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Reading the Blueprint of the 80th Year

As the average age of hibakusha exceeds 85, the time to hear direct testimonies is undoubtedly shortening. The phrase ‘to preserve memory’ is often heard, but merely preserving it is not enough. To deliver it, a mechanism for transportation is needed.

The three events occurring in Hiroshima in 2025 reveal the blueprint for that mechanism. The repurposing of existing infrastructure like the tram, the maintenance of information bases like the registry, and the time-transcending recording medium of film—none of these are flashy. Yet, it is precisely because they are not flashy that they can endure.

Memory does not necessarily disappear when there are no longer people to tell it. As long as the mechanism for carrying it remains alive, it will continue to reach its destination. What Hiroshima is showing in its 80th year is not the ‘preservation’ of memory, but the ‘design for delivery.’

To whom will it be delivered? By what route will it be delivered? Once it reaches its destination, can the recipient pass it on to the next person?—the precision of that design determines the lifespan of memory.

The tram runs, the registry is corrected, and the film rolls. In a city where these three vehicles quietly move, memory is now on the verge of being delivered.