Fernando Franco Castro Escobar（Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences, Keele University）
1. Introduction: Me and Japan
Growing up in Mexico, Japanese anime was a staple of my daily life, with Dragon Ball Z and Pokémon being broadcasted on national TV, and favourites such as Neon Genesis Evangelion and Full Metal Alchemist streamed online. A good chunk of my youth was spent consuming content made in Japan. Yet, hibakusha narratives—such as through Sadako Sasaki or Barefoot Gen—never reached my childhood. In fact, the concept of nuclear weapons was largely absent from my education and social life. Perhaps the atomic bomb was deemed too niche, too dark, or otherwise undesirable among educators, media, and fandom networks despite Mexico’s pro-disarmament diplomatic stance.
As I write this, Nihon Hidankyo has been awarded the 2024 Nobel Peace Prize—a recognition of the hibakusha’s relentless efforts to achieve a world free of nuclear weapons, a sobering reminder of the ongoing existential threats posed by nuclear weapons, and a call for the “new generations in Japan”1 to carry forward survivor testimonies once we transition to a post-hibakusha era. However, why did hibakusha testimonies fail to reach a young person like me whose daily life was inundated with Japanese content? And what has led some young people to become involved in the antinuclear movement while most of us remained disconnected from this critical issue?
In the summer of 2024, I travelled to Japan seeking answers to these questions. Supported by the Hiroshima Peace Institute (HPI) and Keele University, I spent three months conducting interviews with young people in Hiroshima, Nagasaki, and Tokyo. I am profoundly grateful to Akishima-san, Bo-sensei, and the HPI’s exceptional staff for their unwavering support, which made this research possible. My heartfelt thanks also go to the interviewees and volunteer interpreters who generously offered their expertise and life stories. My time in Japan was a period of profound learning and discovery—much of which is yet to come—and I look forward to my next visit to Hiroshima.
2. Antinuclear successors: recipients or sources?
People who visit or live in Hiroshima and Nagasaki have a wealth of opportunities to hear first-hand accounts of the atomic bomb directly from hibakusha. Yet, as the survivors pass away, so too will the chance to hear their testimonies in-person, take guided tours through Peace Park with them, join their international voyages on Peace Boat, or hear them speak in elementary schools engaged in peace education programs. If nuclear weapons outlast Japanese hibakusha, what options remain for "new generations" to carry forward their testimonies? Two key paths stand out: bloodline and formal training.
Firstly, if hibakusha are “the ultimate bearer of moral authority” (Zwigenberg, 2014, p. 3) on nuclear weapons, it is understandable that their children and grandchildren—second and third generation hibakusha—be seen as their natural successors and next-in-line testimonial sources. Yet, having not suffered directly from the bomb, descendants can struggle with perceptions of diluted legitimacy and vicarious or inexistent memories. Some hibakusha I spoke with in Japan mentioned that their descendants show little interest in the atomic bomb and often resist being associated with intergenerational labels. Consequently, many hibakusha offer their testimonies hoping that students, tourists, or younger people will receive and spread them.
The second path is more formalized. The A-bomb Legacy Successor program allows Japanese individuals to undergo rigorous training, lasting two to four years, to learn a hibakusha’s testimony and become certified to pass it on. If the hibakusha dies before the training is complete, previously certified successors can help assess and approve the trainee’s qualifications to ensure the testimony is passed down reliably. This program provides a sustainable means of succession that does not depend on bloodline continuity. In fact, many Legacy Successors are second or third-generation hibakusha who never heard enough from their own family’s testimony and therefore share someone else’s story. Critics of the program argue that it standardizes testimonies leading to overly similar narratives that may align too closely with governmental interpretations or avoid controversial topics like nuclear deterrence, abolition, or disarmament. Currently, Legacy Successors devote about 60% of their presentations to the hibakusha’s A-bomb experience, 20% to their wish for peace, 10% to the bomb’s damage, and 10% on the successor’s personal reflections. This distribution prioritizes 90% of testimonial information about the past (the Hibakusha) and 10% about the present (the successor), which is aligned to the program’s mission to preserve Hibakusha A-bomb experiences. The program also organizes events, networks, and financial compensation for successors, thus establishing active and credible sources of oral testimony who belong to a larger workforce formally working for peace.
Beyond these two paths, there are avenues for succession that are less natural, less formalized, and less obvious or visible. I was impressed by the artwork produced by students at Motomachi Elementary School, where each student is paired with a hibakusha and, after a year, creates a painting based on their testimony. These drawings not only help hibakusha recall forgotten or blocked memories but also serve as a visual complement to testimonies. Young people become co-creators of testimonial spaces and collective memory. This program therefore applies young people’s skills to make drawings that would otherwise be too time-consuming, difficult, or expensive for some hibakusha. Moreover, young people gradually become sources of moral authority on the topic, reinterpreting testimony when they present their work at exhibitions, and create emotional bonds with survivors grateful to have new materials.
Throughout Japan, I encountered young people exploring such alternative avenues: writing A-bomb poems, drawing manga, singing peace songs, performing in plays set in 1945, training as tour guides, giving speeches from schools to the United Nations, collecting signatures, and protesting in the streets. These activities already represent a form of antinuclear succession—a continuation of the work once carried out by survivors. These actions often require time, resources, learning, and reinterpretation, all of which can foster social capital. And none of these activities depend on bloodline, government certification, residence in Hiroshima or Nagasaki, or even Japanese nationality. However, only a small number of these activities are compensated; peace work is largely seen as voluntary. This poses a challenge for today’s youth, who live in increasingly unequal societies (Bessant, 2017). Doing unpaid peace work may feel as a heavier burden for them than it did for previous generations.
As outspoken Japanese hibakusha pass away, it is crucial to remember that their testimonies carry an implicit desire for recipients not just to remember the information given, but to complement and utilize it meaningfully to stand against nuclear-weapon challenges. Otherwise, A-bomb testimonies become full of evidence but devoid of purpose. For young people interested in becoming antinuclear successors, I believe it is essential to seek opportunities that transform recipients of testimony into active sources of it.
3. First encounter: “When did you first hear about nuclear weapons?”
Youth is often regarded as a formative period when our identities and values take shape. Therefore, understanding when and how we first learn about nuclear weapons is crucial for those working toward a world without them. I ask this question in all my interviews, and like many of my interviewees, I find it difficult to pinpoint the exact moment I first encountered the concept of nuclear weapons. However, I can recall when and how my active interest in the topic originated: my grandparents are not from Hiroshima and Nagasaki, I am not fluent in Japanese, I am new to the field (less than two years), and my interest in the subject originated while I was looking for a meaningful job. I was an unemployed student interested in peace and justice and found a paid opportunity to do research on nuclear disarmament.
Some interviewees respond to this question with, “Do you mean the atomic bomb?” and then discuss the importance of peace education in elementary schools. For many, stories like Barefoot Gen—which was a mandatory part of the curriculum for many Japanese students—or Sadako Sasaki, left an indelible mark on their memories. Others recall visits to the Peace Memorial Museum, particularly before the removal of its mannequins, which gave them childhood nightmares that persist even today. Some wonder if they were perhaps too young to see such things but acknowledge that without those shocking encounters, they may never have become involved in antinuclear activities. But like me, many interviewees developed a deeper interest in nuclear issues while searching for something filled with meaning and purpose.
New technologies will likely influence how future generations will first encounter the subject of nuclear weapons. In the 1970s or 80s, children could not browse the internet to search for the A-bomb Dome or stream hibakusha testimonies on YouTube. Today, there is no shortage of online information about these topics. As we progress further into the 21st century, young people might first encounter nuclear-related topics through artificial intelligence chatbots—some of which may be trained with Hibakusha testimonies as datasets to resemble survivor personalities. It is conceivable that schools might assign peace education projects involving homework with AI chatbots or holograms, once hibakusha are no longer with us (e.g., “ask the hibakusha AI replica ten questions about the atomic bomb and write a reflection about it”). Virtual reality tours through Japan’s museums and Peace Parks could make these sites accessible to anyone with an internet connection and VR goggles. Yet, despite these advances, there may always be something irreplaceable about speaking to a hibakusha in person—an experience that will become impossible should nuclear weapons never be used again.
Museums also play an important role in children’s early education. They capture collective memory and make it visible by curating audio-visual content and narratives. They continually add temporary exhibits and revise permanent ones as our comprehension of history evolves and political climates fluctuate. During my time in Japan, I visited more than 20 museums and exhibitions tied to the country’s memorial culture. I am convinced that physically entering these spaces allows us to glimpse hibakusha’s “parallel worlds” (Yuasa, 2024, p. 46)—experiences that defy description or comprehension. While Japanese hibakusha experienced the atomic bomb before understanding it conceptually, most of us only learn about nuclear-weapon concepts and hope never to experience one. I believe museums will continue to influence our understanding of how the world is organized and how it should be.
4. Conclusion: too young to be antinuclear?
While documenting antinuclear life-stories from youth in Japan, I encountered no shortage of voices. I found people working hard and creatively for a world free of nuclear weapons. These were ordinary individuals—volunteers, interns, students, unemployed, trainees, full-timers, freelancers—who were seeking spaces to be included and heard by those in positions of power or by the public. Some had moved to Hiroshima or Nagasaki, seeking to feel a sense of pride in becoming residents there. Others self-described as “too young” to formally join disarmament groups but not too young to give guided tours in Peace Park. I met people who were motivated enough to share their life-stories with me in English, mobilizing their networks to find interpreters who could assist in our conversations.
I also encountered people already reinterpreting not just the legacy of the atomic bomb, but also the colonial histories and complex relations between their countries—Japan, Korea, China, the United States, among others. Many of the people I spoke to held a vision of peace not only grounded in technical terms of nuclear weapons and international law, but also on local and global complex relations, and in ideas of sustainability, friendship, and justice. These antinuclear young organizers are pushing against strong political and economic tides. The 21st century is increasingly reliant on nuclear deterrence and gravitates towards rearmament. In Japan, I saw people grappling with the implications of this reality. While some viewed the erosion of nuclear arms control treaties as warning sign, others see it as bonfire already burning.
I would like to reiterate my commitment to the HPI and Keele University to produce a typology that helps explain how young people come to be involved in antinuclear groups. Equally important, I am confident my research will inspire greater access for young people to archival sources and engagement with our collective memory linked to the struggle against the bomb.
References
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Pino, C. C. D. (2018). At the Center of the Periphery: Remediating Anime to and through Mexico City [Ph.D., The University of Wisconsin - Madison]. In ProQuest Dissertations and Theses (2086502081). ProQuest Dissertations & Theses Global; Social Science Premium Collection. https://www.proquest.com/dissertations-theses/at-center-periphery-remediating-anime-through/docview/2086502081/se-2?accountid=11814
Yuasa, M. (2024). Challenging Nuclear Pacifism in Japan: Hiroshima’s Anti-Nuclear Social Movements (First edition.). Routledge.
Zwigenberg, R. (2014). Hiroshima: The Origins of Global Memory Culture. Cambridge University Press. https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=uc2KBAAAQBAJ
1 Press release. NobelPrize.org. Nobel Prize Outreach AB 2024. Mon. 14 Oct 2024. <https://www.nobelprize.org/prizes/peace/2024/press-release/>