Records Are Waiting—Until They Reach the Right Recipients

There are three “records.” One is genetic information interpreted as a sequence of bases. One is a dated notebook written in the handwriting of a young girl. One is a single character mistake in a memorial list at a monument. All of them were born in Hiroshima and carry the weight of 80 years. And until recently, none of them had reached the people they were meant for.

Science, personal belongings, and administrative records. The forms are entirely different. However, when these three are placed side by side, a single structure becomes visible: “Records take time to find people.” There is an immense distance between the existence of a record and its delivery. What bridges that distance—who does it ease? I want to explore that.

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Genomic Analysis—An 80-Year-Old Response to Those Who Have Carried the ‘Unknown’

The Radiation Effects Research Foundation (RERF), based in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, is conducting a project called the “Trio Genome Study,” which compares and analyzes the entire genomes of hibakusha, their spouses, and second-generation hibakusha. The target group of second-generation hibakusha consists of about 580 individuals. By cross-referencing the radiation exposure data of the parent generation, the study aims to verify whether radiation exposure has been inherited as mutations in the DNA of the next generation at the base level.

The background of this research has a long prehistory. The Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission (ABCC), the predecessor of RERF, has been conducting health surveys of hibakusha and their children since 1948. There is a wealth of cohort data accumulated over more than 70 years. However, it has been difficult to draw statistically significant conclusions regarding whether there are genetic effects solely through epidemiological studies. Many second-generation hibakusha have spent a significant part of their lives grappling with the uncertainty of the “unknown.”

The technology for whole genome analysis has only become practical at a reasonable cost in the last decade or so. When the Human Genome Project was completed in 2003, it cost about $3 billion to decode a single person’s entire genome. Now, that cost has dropped to a few hundred dollars. The maturation of technology has finally caught up with the “questions.”

It is important to note that this research is not designed solely to prove that there are effects. The absence of detected effects is also an important scientific finding. For second-generation hibakusha, the transition from “unknown” to “known” itself has the potential to change their quality of life—especially their psychological burden. The genomic record is finally on the verge of responding to those who have carried the “unknown” for 80 years.

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The Diary That Stopped on August 5—What the ‘Stopped Place’ of Records Tells Us

An upcoming exhibition at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum will center around the diaries of young girls that abruptly stopped on August 5, the day before the atomic bombing.

I want to pause here for a moment. A diary is originally a record for the writer themselves. It is not intended to be read by anyone else. That is why it has a texture that is absent in public documents that are conscious of censorship. The weather, friends, family—everyday continuity is suddenly cut off one day. The section for August 6 remains blank.

What the exhibition aims to convey is not just “what happened that day.” It is also the fact that “there was indeed a daily life up until the day before.” The point where the record stopped—the very blankness—tells the magnitude of what has been lost. Sometimes, the interrupted date speaks more eloquently than words can explain the tragedy.

This diary was donated as a personal belonging by the family. In other words, it passed from the hands of the girl who wrote it, through her family, and finally reached a public space, the museum, after several “handovers.” The time it takes for a record to find a person includes the time of those who held, preserved, and passed on the record. Imagining the connections behind the scenes changes the weight of the exhibition a bit.

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Mistake in the Memorial List—A Single Character Error Creates an 80-Year Distance

At the Atomic Bomb Memorial Tower in Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park, about 813 unclaimed remains are housed. The city of Hiroshima publishes this list annually and continues to search for the families of the deceased. However, a single character difference in the name—confusion between old and new characters, or transcription errors from handwritten ledgers—can lead families to conclude, upon seeing the list, that “this is not our family.” A single character error creates an 80-year distance.

Recently, a 90-year-old woman came forward, suggesting that the remains might belong to her brother, bringing the mistake in the list to light. According to reports, the woman had been searching for her brother for many years. The name on the list was slightly different from her brother’s name, which had prevented a match until now.

This episode illustrates how the accuracy of records can influence whether they “reach or do not reach” their intended recipients. It is not enough to consume this as a story of an emotional reunion. The questions we should ask are why the error in the record has not been corrected for 80 years and how many similar cases remain.

In recent years, the city of Hiroshima has begun rechecking the list using AI-based character recognition technology. By digitizing handwritten ledgers and combining them with automatic conversion of variant characters and old characters, they aim to identify matches that have been overlooked by human eyes. Technology is narrowing the “distance between records and people”—the same structure exists here as in genomic analysis.

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The Common Structure Among the Three Records—What Supports the ‘Time Until Delivery’

Let’s place the three together once more.

• Genomic Analysis: The genetic information inscribed in the body since immediately after the bombing has become “readable” due to advancements in decoding technology 80 years later.
• Diary: Written by a girl, preserved by her family, received by the museum, and publicly displayed. It took multiple handovers and decades for the record to reach people.
• List: A single character error in a record created by the administration has prevented the reunion of families and remains for 80 years.

All three records have existed from the beginning. What has been lacking is the technology, systems, or human hands to “deliver” the records.

Here, I want to pose a somewhat calm question. Leaving a record and delivering a record are two different tasks. The former is the work of scientists, writers, and administrators, but the latter includes the work of translators, curators, those responsible for cross-checking, and the media that conveys the existence of the records. What shortens the time it takes for a record to find a person is not the power of the record itself, but the power of the systems that stand between the record and the person.

The simultaneous movement of these three records at the 80th anniversary of the bombing is likely not a coincidence. As the parties involved age, the “time to deliver” is limited. The time a 90-year-old woman can come forward. The time a second-generation hibakusha can provide their blood. The time a family member who knows the context of the diary is still alive. Records may endure, but their recipients do not.

That is why the question being asked now is not “how to leave records” but “how to deliver records.” Whether the systems can keep up—that will determine whether records end as records or become part of someone’s life.

The records of Hiroshima are still searching for the recipients they are meant to reach.