Public Call for Registrars of Atomic Bomb Victims: What Changes When Inheritance Becomes a System?

Each Stroke Holds a Name

As of August 6, 2024, the Hiroshima City-managed registry of atomic bomb victims lists the names of 339,227 individuals. Every year, names of those who have passed away from August of the previous year to July of the current year are added, causing the registry to grow thicker. The meticulous task of writing each character by hand, known as “registration,” has traditionally been carried out by survivors, their families, or calligraphers individually commissioned by the city.

This year, the system has changed. For the first time, Hiroshima City publicly called for registrars, selecting 14 individuals from the applicants. The youngest is a 16-year-old high school student, while the oldest is in their 70s. Regardless of whether they have experienced the bombing, the act of “writing names” has been opened as a way to participate in remembrance.

Who does this make comfortable? When we ask this question, we see the contours of a quiet decision to shift away from relying on “personal goodwill” and to transform it into a structured system.

From Personal to Systematic: Why a Public Call Now?

The number of individuals undertaking the registration task has been steadily decreasing. The average age of atomic bomb survivors has surpassed 85, and as of the end of March 2024, the number of those holding atomic bomb survivor health cards has dwindled to about 106,000—less than one-third of the peak. Those who have taken on the registration task are also aging, and it is becoming increasingly difficult for them to hold a brush due to physical limitations.

Until now, Hiroshima City has sought successors for departing registrars through word of mouth or individual inquiries. It has been a system built on a chain of trust, saying, “This person will do it.” While this is beautiful in itself, it carries the risk that the system will come to a halt when the chain is broken—when there are no more people to introduce.

The choice to call for registrars publicly is nothing less than an act of “opening” that chain. The application requirements do not include whether or not the applicant has experienced the bombing. What is sought are calligraphic skills and a willingness to participate in remembrance. In other words, the door has been opened based on “what one can do and what one is prepared to undertake,” rather than “who one is.”

Here lies the transition from personal inheritance to systematic design. A system that relies on individual feelings will vanish when that person is gone. By establishing a system, it can continue even as people change. However, there is a natural concern that the moment it becomes a system, the “feelings” may diminish—can a 16-year-old selected through a public call wield the brush with the same weight as a survivor?

But I want to pause and think for a moment. The act of writing each name itself engraves something in the writer. The time spent carefully transcribing the name of a stranger without making mistakes—this is not the same circuit as “inheritance of experience”; it is a physical act of processing remembrance.

The Change in Leadership Reflects a Shift

In the same year as the public call for registrars, the Hiroshima Prefectural Atomic Bomb Victims Association (Hiroshima Prefectural Council of Atomic Bomb Victims) saw a change in leadership. The new chairman, Hiroshi Harada, was six years old at the time of the bombing and is one of the last generations able to share their memories.

Harada has repeatedly emphasized the importance of “the next generation communicating in their own words” as he takes office. Rather than simply memorizing and reciting the testimonies of survivors, he recognizes that the next stage of inheritance involves the younger generation constructing messages in their own context.

This direction is also reflected in the draft outline of the peace declaration. Against the backdrop of increasingly severe international circumstances—the prolonged invasion of Ukraine by Russia, the escalation of conflicts in the Middle East, and the rise of threatening rhetoric surrounding nuclear weapons—international solidarity towards realizing a “world without nuclear weapons” is being called for again, with “communication by the younger generation” being established as one of the pillars of the draft outline.

The change in leadership and the public call for registrars are not directly causally linked. However, when viewed from a distance, the significance of these events occurring in the same year becomes apparent. The head of the organization is steering towards “the next generation,” while a system enabling “the next generation to participate in remembrance” has begun to take shape. Individual decisions are, as a result, aligning in the same direction—this structure is present here.

The Symbolic Parallel of a 96-Year-Old and a 16-Year-Old

Before this year’s Atomic Bomb Day, a 96-year-old survivor gave a lecture in front of high school students. He shared his experiences of the bombing and handed a paper crane to each student.

When I read reports of this scene, what caught my attention was the act of “handing over.” The paper cranes could have been mailed or displayed. However, he chose to pass them hand to hand. Within that physical contact lies an intention to convey something that words cannot fully express.

On the other hand, the 16-year-old registrar selected through the public call holds a brush towards the registry. They write the names of people they have never met. They cannot know what kind of life that person lived or how they met their end; the name alone does not reveal this. Yet, they write each stroke carefully, without knowing.

The 96-year-old is on the “giving” side, while the 16-year-old is on the “receiving” side—this structure may be overly simplistic. Rather, what is noteworthy is that the 16-year-old is not just “receiving” but is becoming an active participant in remembrance through the act of “writing.” Listening and writing involve different uses of the body. The act of writing inevitably takes time. Within that time, the presence of the person behind the name gradually enters the writer.

The existence of these two scenes in the same year indicates that the forms of inheritance are becoming multifaceted. Inheritance through listening to testimonies, participation in rituals, and inheritance through the physical act of “writing”—none of these is the sole correct answer; rather, the significance lies in multiple circuits being opened simultaneously.

What Remains and What Changes When It Becomes a System

Establishing inheritance as a system always has two sides.

By institutionalizing it, the risk of losing the bearers is reduced. By adopting a public call format, new individuals can participate each year. The base of people who understand the meaning of the act of registration expands. This is a clear advantage.

On the other hand, the uniqueness of “the stroke that could only be written by that person” diminishes within the system. When a survivor writes the name of a deceased friend, the tremor in their brush carries something that cannot be replicated by a registrar chosen through a public call. This is a fact that must be acknowledged.

However, I want to slightly shift the question. Is inheritance about “reproducing the same thing,” or is it about “taking it on in a different form”?

The stroke written by a survivor and the stroke written by a 16-year-old high school student are not the same. The quality of the memories embedded in them differs. However, the weight of the act of holding a name remains unchanged, regardless of who the writer is. In fact, the act of “writing the name of a stranger” may carry a certain tension. When writing the name of someone known, emotions guide the process. With a stranger’s name, only willpower remains.

The public call system has guaranteed this circuit of “participating with intention” as a system. If there are people willing to raise their hands next year and the year after, it will continue. When there are no longer people willing to raise their hands—that will not be a failure of the system, but rather a problem visible to society as a whole. In a personal system, if the bearers disappear, it can be dismissed as “just a coincidence that no successor was found.” By establishing a system, the figure of zero applicants poses a question to society.

Future Points of Interest: Conditions for the System to “Continue”

Whether the public call ends as a one-time event or becomes established as an annual system will be the first point of divergence.

Several conditions will likely be necessary for establishment. Training and psychological support for registrars, transparency in selection criteria, and ongoing public relations to convey the meaning of the act of registration to society. The true value of the system will be tested not at its inception but in the second and third years.

Additionally, how the experiences of public registrars are shared is also crucial. What the writers felt—those words will attract the next applicants. If there is a design for circulating experiences, the system will begin to operate autonomously.

The act of registering names of atomic bomb victims is not a glamorous event. What is shown on television is only a few minutes of the ceremony, while the task of writing the registry takes place in a quiet room over several days. It is a behind-the-scenes, humble, yet indispensable arrangement.

A path has been created to welcome those who wish to “participate” in this behind-the-scenes work as a system. This may seem like a small change. However, it is a significant step towards shifting the act of inheritance from “someone’s goodwill” to “a societal system.”

The act of writing names is nothing less than re-engraving the fact that those individuals were indeed here in this world—16-year-old hands are attempting to take that on.