10 Years of Maintaining a Flower Bed

In the Yagi district of Asaminami Ward, Hiroshima City, the neighborhood association president has been tending to a flower bed for ten years—since the Hiroshima landslide disaster on August 20, 2014, which claimed 77 lives.

The flower bed is handmade. It is not funded by any special budget nor designated as an administrative project. Every year, as the seasons change, new flowers are planted, and local residents stop by. It is somewhat different from standing in front of a memorial. There is a place in the flow of daily life to remember those who have passed away. This very design embodies the essence of the flower bed.

However, we must take a step back and consider something. The reason this flower bed continues to exist is not due to a system, but rather the will of one individual. What will happen to the flower bed when the neighborhood association president can no longer move? When the flowers wither, will the memory circuits of the people who gathered there also be interrupted?

This is not just a story about the Yagi district. It is a structural question regarding the transmission of memory that the city of Hiroshima faces.

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Astram Line Bridge Beam Collapse Incident—The Temporal Limits of the “Place” for Mourning

On March 14, 1991, a bridge beam fell at the construction site of the Hiroshima Rapid Transit Astram Line, resulting in the deaths of 15 people, including workers and passing citizens, and injuring 8 others. Due to the nature of the accident occurring before the line’s opening, the memory of the incident is not tied to the experience of “passengers.” This is why acts of mourning at the site have become the sole anchor for remembrance.

Every March, a memorial service is held near the accident site. Family members and related parties lay flowers and offer silent prayers. However, 33 years after the incident, the faces of the attendees are gradually changing. Fewer people who directly remember the event remain, and the number of those who can explain “why there are flowers here” is also dwindling.

Continuing the memorial event involves practical tasks such as arranging the venue, contacting attendees, and notifying the media. Who takes on these responsibilities? In many cases, it is the core members of the bereaved families’ association or local volunteers. Thus, once again, public memory rests upon the personal burdens of those who continue.

The government provides “cooperation” for the memorials but does not “host” them. This subtle distance affects the sustainability of the memorials. Cooperation will vanish if there are no organizers. Only those with a structure for hosting will remain as a system.

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“In War, Both Unrelated and Related People Are Involved”

There is another scene. It is when Shizue Tomoda, a close-range hibakusha, stands at a primary school lectern and speaks to the children.

Ms. Tomoda was exposed to the atomic bomb approximately 1.5 kilometers from the epicenter. Her words, which she has shared through testimony activities for many years, differ in quality from textbook descriptions. “War is sad”—this simple statement is not merely a transmission of historical fact; it is an act of offering what the adult in front of them has learned through personal experience. What the children receive is not “information” but “temperature.”

However, there is also a temporal barrier here. The average age of hibakusha has exceeded 85 years. As of the end of March 2024, there are approximately 106,000 holders of hibakusha health cards known to Hiroshima City, a decrease of more than 70% from the peak of about 370,000. The number of hibakusha who can engage in testimony activities is even more limited.

Ms. Tomoda’s lectures are based on a one-on-one relationship where the school requests her, and she agrees. When Ms. Tomoda can no longer give lectures, will that school seek the “next storyteller,” or will they stop the classes altogether? In many cases, it will be the latter. The circuit built on the trust between individuals will close if either side is missing.

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Common Structure Among Three Scenes—The Paradox of “Personal Publicness”

The neighborhood association president tending to the flower bed, the bereaved family standing before the bridge beam, and the hibakusha at the lectern. These three scenes differ in the types of events—disasters, accidents, and wars—as well as in their timelines. However, the structures are remarkably similar.

What they share is that “public memory is maintained through private devotion.”

I would like to call this “personal publicness.” The preservation of memory, which should ideally be supported by the community or society as a whole, depends on the sense of mission, physical ability, and time of specific individuals. As long as that person is present, the memory remains alive, but the risk of the memory circuit disappearing entirely exists the moment that person is gone.

Why does this happen? One reason is that memorialization and transmission are difficult to design as “projects.” For the government to allocate a budget, objectives, outcomes, and deadlines are necessary. However, there is a deep-rooted discomfort in setting “performance indicators” for memorialization. How many flowers bloomed in the flower bed, how many people attended the memorial, what did children learn from the lecture—once quantified, something essential is lost. Therefore, institutionalization does not progress, resulting in a structure where “those who want to do it do it.”

Another reason is that there are cases where the individuals involved do not wish for “systematization.” For those who feel that planting flowers with their own hands, speaking with their own voice, and standing at the site with their own feet is the essence of memorialization, the very idea of “passing it on to someone else” can seem to dilute the meaning of the act.

These two dynamics intertwine, allowing the “continuing individuals” to remain isolated while fulfilling their public roles.

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Can We Design a System as a “Foundation” Rather Than a “Substitute”?

So, what can be done? “Let’s involve young people” and “let’s enhance school education”—these suggestions are correct, but they are not enough. The core of the problem lies not in finding someone to “substitute” for individual actions, but in designing a “foundation” that allows the memory circuits to remain even when individual actions are interrupted.

Some clues already exist.

Hiroshima City’s “Hibakusha Experience Transmission System” is a mechanism where trained citizens listen to the testimonies of hibakusha and share them in their place. As of the 2024 fiscal year, about 200 transmitters are active. This is an attempt to embed individual experiences as “narrative techniques” within a system, maintaining personal elements while also creating a dual circuit.

Regarding the flower bed in the Yagi district, for instance, if a day for replanting is set as an annual event of the neighborhood association, and multiple households take turns participating, the burden on one individual can be distributed. The key is not to take over the “management” of the flower bed but to design a relationship that shares the “time to plant flowers.” Management becomes an obligation, but sharing becomes a culture.

For the memorial of the Astram Line accident, it is worth considering whether Hiroshima Rapid Transit Corporation can institutionalize the hosting of the memorial as the operator. The responsibility of the company to apply the lessons of the accident to safety management does not contradict the continuation of memorialization. Rather, the very act of the operator declaring “we will not forget” can serve as a foundation for social trust.

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Do Not Isolate the “Continuing Individuals”

Finally, I want to confirm one thing.

Designing a system does not negate the existence of “continuing individuals.” The movements of the neighborhood association president’s hands tending to the flower bed, the tremor in Ms. Tomoda’s voice, the profile of bereaved family members with closed eyes before the bridge beam—these cannot be replicated by a system, nor should they be.

The role of the system is to lay a foundation so that when these individuals fall, their memories do not vanish. And it is to create an environment where they do not have to bear the burden alone while they are “continuing.”

It is easy to consume personal devotion as a beautiful story. “For ten years, the flowers have never withered” or “continuing to speak despite old age”—if we close it off as a moving tale, the structure does not change at all.

Who does this make easier? It is necessary to have individuals who think about the system with that question in mind. Even if they have never touched the soil of the flower bed or heard the testimonies, they can stand next to the “continuing individuals.”

Memory is too heavy to place on one person’s back. That is why a foundation is needed—a foundation that quietly and reliably bears that weight.