About 1,000 Cobblestones Have Become a Path in a New Location

While walking through the streets of Hiroshima, one might occasionally notice the stones underfoot. The granite cobblestones that once lined the tracks of the streetcars—having borne the weight of vehicles and passengers for decades—what happens to them once their role is over? In many cases, the answer is “discarded.” However, something slightly different happened in Hiroshima.

Approximately 1,000 cobblestones that were removed during the renovation of the Hiroshima Electric Railway tracks were relaid along a path beside the approach to the Hiroshima Toshogu Shrine. From a road for streetcars to a path for pedestrians. Even though their usage has changed, the stones themselves remain the same. Yet, by changing their location, the thickness of time that the stones embody—that is, the years they have supported the city of Hiroshima—emerges in a different context.

The Hiroshima Toshogu Shrine, constructed in 1648 by the lord of Hiroshima, Asano Mitsusuke, lost its main hall to the atomic bomb but still retains some structures like the Karamon Gate and the Chozuya. The addition of these stones, which have also supported the ground of Hiroshima, contributes to the quiet presence of this site as a surviving structure from the bombing. Here, there is both a decision not to “discard” and a design regarding “where to place it again.” The environmental significance of reusing materials is certainly important, but what is noteworthy is the contextual alignment with the receiving site. The cobblestones from the streetcar tracks become the ground of a shrine with surviving structures from the bombing—this combination is not coincidental; it requires a willingness to layer the time of the land called Hiroshima.

Buried Beneath the Castle Mound, a “Design” from 400 Years Ago

I would like to discuss another aspect of what lies beneath our feet: the castle mound of Hiroshima Castle.

Construction of Hiroshima Castle began in 1589 under Mori Terumoto, a grandson of Mori Motonari. Establishing a castle in the low-lying delta region of the Ota River would have inevitably posed ground stability issues from the outset. Recent archaeological investigations have confirmed once again that the castle mound was formed not by natural topography but by artificial earthworks. Layers of fill, approximately 2 to 3 meters deep from the surface, were detected, containing artifacts that indicate signs of life from that time.

This discovery suggests that the height of the castle was not a “result” but a “design.” To place a tall structure on low land, the ground itself had to be created first. Whether for defensive purposes, to create an impression of intimidation, or perhaps both—regardless, the structures that the castle builders buried beneath the ground over 400 years ago are now being excavated and interpreted.

It should be noted that the main keep of Hiroshima Castle collapsed due to the atomic bomb in 1945, and the current structure was restored in 1958 using reinforced concrete. Thus, while the building above ground is a “reconstruction,” the mound beneath it remains from the time of the castle’s construction. The layers of time between what is visible and what is not differ. This excavation serves as a quiet yet certain re-examination of the current situation where Hiroshima Castle is often consumed merely as “a tourist spot.” It seems as if this castle, easily overshadowed by the World Heritage Sites of the Atomic Bomb Dome and Itsukushima Shrine, has begun to narrate its own history from beneath the ground.

15 People Take Turns Playing: The Mechanism that Turns the Piano into a “Place”

The cobblestones have changed locations, and the earthworks have been discovered across time. What about sound?

In a community center in Hiroshima, a project continues where 15 residents take turns playing a piano that survived the atomic bombing. This “atomic bomb piano” refers to pianos that were within a certain radius of the epicenter during the bombing on August 6, 1945, and were damaged yet restored. While it is well-known that tuner Mitsunori Yagawa has been involved in the restoration and preservation of these pianos for decades, what is noteworthy here is not the history of the piano itself, but the mechanism of “15 people taking turns playing.”

It is not a single virtuoso playing. Local residents, each with their own skill level, touch the keys in turn. Some may be skilled, while others may struggle. However, the format of taking turns transforms the piano from something to be “listened to” into something to be “engaged with.” The fact that there are 15 performers means that at least 15 households have a connection to this piano. Including their families and friends, the number of people who feel the piano’s presence as “their own” expands even further.

Here lies a mechanism of inheritance that does not solely rely on individual goodwill or a sense of mission. If one person carries the burden, it may break when that person leaves. But if 15 people share the responsibility, it can continue even if someone drops out. The act of “passing on the memory of the bombing” is supported not only by lectures and exhibitions but also by this physical participation of “taking turns playing.” The phrase “the power of music” may be a bit grand, but the sensation remembered by the fingertips that touch the keys lingers longer than the stories heard—this is the kind of memory transfer that exists here.

The “Face” of the Wrapped Streetcar and the “Back” of Leftovers

In 2025, Hiroshima will begin operating wrapped streetcars to commemorate the 30th anniversary of the World Heritage registration of the Atomic Bomb Dome and Itsukushima Shrine. The designs of the two World Heritage sites depicted on the car bodies are vibrant, and many photos are shared on social media. Hiroshima as a celebration—there is no reason to deny it.

However, the three events discussed in this article all lie behind that celebration. The cobblestones removed from the tracks where the wrapped streetcars run. The underground structures of Hiroshima Castle, which tend to be overshadowed by the World Heritage sites. And the atomic bomb piano that quietly resonates in a community center rather than on a ceremonial stage. None of these are flashy. Yet, by not discarding these “leftovers” and repositioning them in a different place and context, they generate new meanings.

What is common here is that the judgment of “preserving” and the design of “repositioning” function as a set. Even if stones are preserved, if there is no place to put them, they will only gather dust in a warehouse. Even if the piano is restored, it will remain silent if there is no one to play it. Even if earthworks are discovered, without research to interpret their meaning, it will end as mere data. “Preserving” alone is not enough. Only when there is a mechanism of “who, where, and how to reuse” does the leftovers begin to speak.

Who Does This Make Comfortable?

Finally, I would like to shift the perspective slightly.

These initiatives tend to be positioned within the larger narrative of “preserving history.” Of course, that is not incorrect. However, let us consider a more immediate question—”Who does this make comfortable?”

The reuse of cobblestones reduces both disposal costs and new procurement costs. The shrine benefits from materials for the approach. The system of alternating performances distributes the relief of “not having to bear the memory of the bombing alone” among 15 people. The results of archaeological investigations substantiate the cultural value of Hiroshima Castle as a heritage site, providing a basis for future preservation plans.

Each of these eases someone’s burden. And because burdens are lightened, they can continue. Because they continue, they can reach the next generation. If the term sustainability feels too grand, it can be rephrased as—”Because there is a mechanism that operates smoothly, the leftovers can continue to speak.”

Beneath the ground of Hiroshima, within the sounds, and among the arrangements of stones, the time this city has experienced is folded. Opening it is not about loud voices but about the accumulation of small arrangements. The hands that carry the cobblestones, the hands that dig the earthworks, the fingertips that touch the keys—each of these creates a new place for the leftovers.