During the Asia-Pacific War (1937–45), nearly 45,000 temple bells in Japan were recycled into munitions. Most Japanese Buddhist temples have a large bronze bell (bonshō 梵鐘), weighing hundreds of kilograms, that is rung by monks to announce time and enhance certain rituals, or by pilgrims at arrival, or by visitors on New Year’s Eve. Buddhist temple bells, made in Japan beginning in the seventh century, require a significant financial investment and technical skill to achieve an attractive form with good tone. These features make each a prized object, often with a singular status and prominent placement at a temple or shrine (fig. 1). Moreover, interacting with bells can be very personal, especially by the faithful when striking to offer a prayer, since bells respond immediately with sound so strong it is believed to reach the dead. These meaningful encounters made parting with them all the more difficult. This article considers the ramifications of turning bells over for recycling to transform their identities from treasured instruments into measurable hunks of metal before becoming weapons of destruction.

The theme of recycling/reuse serves as a critical framework to evaluate not only the process of how bells were shuttled to a furnace for smelting, but also the complex negotiations that were involved in each surviving bell’s escape from that fate. In turn, such negotiations reveal that these bells have a particularly strong ability to elicit a spectrum of emotions, even from a great distance.¹ Using a biographical approach based on Igor Kopytoff’s work in object biography, this article examines the life histories of four bells that survived different ordeals, as case studies to show how bells participated in recycling, repurposing, and reuniting.² Halle O’Neal’s article in this issue also employs object biography, in which she analyzes the transformation of personal letters into sacred documents with an additive process of layering stamps of deities and sacred texts. Similarly, Samuel Morse’s article in this issue examines the redeployment of damaged pieces of wood from famous temples to create Buddhist icons with layered meanings and authority. In contrast to the subjects of these two articles, where salvaged material is rescued and re-formed into new sacred objects, the bells discussed here were deliberately pursued for destruction and recycling into something as unholy as a weapon of war. My focus is on bells from the Edo period (1615–1868) because governmental authorities regarded most Edo bells, in contrast to those made in earlier generations, as so commonplace that they became appropriate targets to recycle into war munitions. Fortunately, a few escaped.

Beginning in 1938, the Japanese government issued statements calling for the recovery of superfluous metals with collection drives called kinzoku kyōshutsu 金属供出 as a response to the escalation of the war in China. The National Mobilization Law (Kokka sōdōin hō 国家総動員法) that passed that year placed the Japanese government in control of strategic industries that handled metal to build ships and munitions. The efforts to collect scrap metal moved quickly from playground equipment, public sculpture, post office boxes, manhole covers, and iron fences before extending to household pots and pans. Funeral homes were compelled to collect and hand over the gold teeth and rings from the ashes of those cremated.³ At first the goal of metal recovery was to preserve resources, but then it became necessary for the expansion of steel production, and finally it was to increase munition production.

In 1941, as pressure became more intense, the government issued orders for mandatory metal collection (kinzokurui kaishū rei 金属類回収令). These orders continued to be reissued and strengthened until the end of the war in 1945. Compliance from what were referred to as “urban mines” and “household mines” was compulsory.⁴ Aside from metal, there were many other categories of collection, such as oil (for aviation lubrication), charcoal (fuel), wood (construction), mulberry bark (clothing), dried grass (feed), cotton cushions (explosives), and, sadly, dogs (fur coats).⁵

Buddhist temple bells, with their large size and noticeable presence, were particularly obvious targets of “nonessential” metalwork. While this activity was referred to as a “donation” for the war effort, it was actually compulsory with compensation for bulk metal by weight.⁶ According to a study in Yamagata Prefecture, after a bell was handed over, it would pass through the city or village collection point (usually a train station), to a regional office, and then to a prefectural metal recovery office before arrival at the metal reclamation factory. Although no measure of a bell’s true worth, payment of .89 yen per kilogram would be made to the temple or shrine about six months after parting with its bell. As an example from 1943, one temple received 335 yen in compensation for an average-size bell weighing 354 kilograms.⁷ This amount was equivalent to two months of an average household income for a family of four in 1941.⁸

There are no proper statistics, but it is estimated that of 45,000 bronze bells collected for the war effort, 60 percent (approximately 27,000) were made during the Edo period (1615–1868) and nearly 40 percent were newer. Although special exemptions were made, when counting those taken by the government and those obliterated by bombings, over 90 percent of Japan’s temple bells were destroyed. There are estimates that at war’s end about 3,000 bells made after 1615 survived, including some 2,000 that had been slated for recycling not yet carried out.⁹

The Ministry of Interior, the Religion Bureau of the Ministry of Education, and the Ministry of Commerce and Industry jointly issued the orders for bell requisition. While the exact guidelines were left to each prefecture, exemption was largely based on the following criteria: (1) bells related to the imperial family, (2) inscriptions referencing someone or something famous, (3) bells of superior form, and (4) old bells. Fear of desecrating an imperial sixteen-petal chrysanthemum crest led to disputes over the identification of multi-petaled lotus flower designs.¹⁰ That stories persist about certain bells being hidden from authorities by burial attest to the great stress people felt over whether a bell would qualify for exemption.¹¹

Bells made before the end of the Keichō (1596–1615) era were considered old and thus exempt from seizure. Keichō is generally considered to be the last era before the Edo period began. In 1939, world-renowned bell expert Tsuboi Ryōhei (1897–1984) published the book Keichō matsunen izen no bonshō 慶長末年以前の梵鐘 (Buddhist bells made before the end of the Keichō era), just in time to serve as a guide for wartime bell evaluation.¹² Tsuboi wrote in 1947 that over 90 percent of Japan’s bells had been lost during the Asia-Pacific War and could never be replaced. He was aware that the guidelines were not always followed and some bells as old as the thirteenth century had been seized.¹³ Distressed as he was over their decimation, Tsuboi made his dismissive opinion of post-1615 bells clear in a lecture he gave in English to the Asiatic Society of Japan in 1948.

Tsuboi’s low opinion of Edo-period bells is reflected in his 1939 book with the 1615 cutoff date, which was in turn followed by the government to authorize seizure. Tsuboi also explained to the audience that this was not the first time in Japanese history that bells had been confiscated to make weapons—it had also happened during the Edo period.¹⁵

In the preface to the 1976 book Maboroshi no bonshō 幻の梵鐘 (Phantom bells), written to reclaim the history of Yamagata bells taken during the war, noted geologist Anzai Tōru 安斎徹 (1889–1976) explained that while he was working as a member of the committee responsible for wartime bell collection, he not only recorded information on each bell but also took samples of their metal and made drawings.¹⁶ The book’s author, Ogata Rikichi 小形利吉 (1912–2006), who was a curator at a local history museum and a former high school student of Anzai’s, told the story of how Anzai begged him to take over cataloging the remaining bell samples before he died. In his storehouse, Anzai had kept ten boxes, consisting mostly of bell knobs, which he referred to as “warts” (ibo 疣) (fig. 2). After the war, Anzai continued to make drawings of each one (fig. 3). He viewed each knob as an important record of the former bell’s material makeup and indication of size. Unofficially, some boxes of knobs had gone to Anzai’s high school for students to use in chemistry and physics experiments. On an emotional level, he said, extracting samples was like taking locks of hair from soldiers going off to war.¹⁷

Eventually, Ogata had the time and assistance to create a survey (sent out by postcard) asking temples and shrines about their former bell’s inscriptions, measurements, and photographs, in addition to details about when each was taken, circumstances of the farewell ceremony, and when (or if) it had been possible to get a replacement bell. Since the request included a statement that the survey was being done to celebrate Professor Anzai’s eighty-eighth birthday, it implied a sense of urgency. Nearly sixty responses, which comprised 20 percent of the surveys sent, were ultimately returned.¹⁸

Anzai’s boxes of “warts” show how in the midst of being accessed as material commodities, bells were often humanized. The author of the book’s foreword made the comparison of a bell to a mother’s body because another word used for bell knob is nipple (chi 乳).¹⁹ Anzai’s passion for capturing the lost history of the bells, as carried out by Ogata, led to a cooperative effort far different from that when the bells were surrendered to the government.

In 2001 Manabe Takashi 眞鍋孝志 (1930–2015) and Hanabusa Kenjirō 花房健次郎 (b. 1924) published the results of their twenty-year survey of 148 Edo-period bells remaining in the Tokyo area. They followed Tsuboi’s methods but did not share his low opinion of Edo-period bells.²⁰ While many are not as refined as those from earlier times, Edo bells do exhibit a greater variety of designs. During the span of the Edo period, as bell production rapidly increased to meet the needs of the growing number of temples, bells became more commonplace. The gazetteer Edo meisho zue 江戸名所図会 (Illustrated famous places of Edo), initially published in 1834 (Tenpō 5), included an illustration of an area in Edo called Ōmondōri 大門通, where great quantities of bronze items were sold (fig. 4). Amid the newly made metal furniture hardware, braziers, and lanterns are bells (four small, one large, and another being carted away). Two roughly clad men engaged in recycling metal stand in front of the shop. One holds up a scale with which to weigh scrap, and another rakes broken items into a pile for reuse in new objects.

Temples were also under societal pressure to accede to official orders to submit their bells as patriotic duty. Beyond their material value, bells are an active part of temple life: the monks who use them, the donors, living or dead, who invest in their creation, and the parishioners who ring them for merit all have personal relationships with the bells.²¹ Thus, for many, parting with a bell was an enormous emotional sacrifice. We must ask how religious institutions managed to hand over their bells for the unthinkable conversion of an instrument of solace into an instrument of death.

In 1941 the journal Shashin shūhō 写真週報 (Photographic weekly report) published photographs of monks at Buddhist temples handing over metal items with a biting text that sarcastically asked:

What is the point of temple bells that are never even rung once, just hanging there uselessly? And too many unused incense burners, candlesticks, and the like heaped together only become the playground of mice and the home of spiders. How much better for them to “return to society” as iron and brass. The people handing them over to make cannons and ammunition are really helping the nation.²²

An eerie 1943 propaganda article from Asahi gurafu アサヒグラフ (Asahi graph) written in the “first-person” voices of bells was published to convince the public of the imperative to recycle. The bells themselves exclaim that their mission has been to save humans from suffering, but now they declare their patriotism and ultimate sacrifice to protect their emperor and country. They insist that because Japan is the leader of Asia they must fight valiantly. At the end of the article, the bells take an ultra-nationalistic tone to proclaim:

I am happy because my genuine patriotism will be known to the entire country. I want to turn into a weapon as soon as possible so I can bite into the throats of the arrogant Americans and British. Countrymen! Even though my original bell shape disappears, I will now be on the front lines protecting you all.²³

This article begins with a benevolent Buddhist tone and quotes the Heart Sutra (Hannya shingyō 般若心経), but halfway through, the mood dramatically shifts into an aggressive call for action. With their willingness to fight, the bells in the story not only try to convince people of the necessity to give up metal, but by comparing their inner core and surface to human blood and skin, they may also inspire people to donate their own bodies. Japanese legend is full of tales about the supernatural voices of bells. These voices are usually calming, wistful, or salvific—but sometimes indignant when humans try to force them into doing something against their will.²⁴ In this case, however, instead of the reassuring voice of the Buddha, we find a shocking turn of events in which the bells speak gleefully of committing violence in the name of their country. As evidence of human support of their sacrifice, a 1942 photograph shows a crowd with arms raised, cheering “Banzai!” in front of Ayukai Hachiman 鮎貝八幡宮 Shrine in Shirataka, Yamagata Prefecture, as its bell is carted away to be recycled in service of the war (fig. 6).²⁵

When these bells were removed from religious duty, they were often given a memorial service much like a person’s funeral. Since the seventeenth century in Japan, Buddhist memorials were common for certain inanimate objects that served humans in an intimate and dedicated manner, such as the needles and knives that seamsters’ and chefs’ livelihoods were dependent upon.²⁶ Fabio Gygi’s article in this issue explores the memorial services performed for dolls in contemporary Japan. In a similar manner, services were also carried out for bells, especially during the Asia-Pacific War. Commemorative photographs were often taken of the events and later hung in the halls in remembrance of the departed bells.²⁷ One example shows a dour-faced crowd posing with the bell from Enmeiji 延命寺 in Sakata City, Yamaguchi Prefecture, sitting on a makeshift altar with a sign that reads “conscripted bell” (ōshō bonshō 応召梵鐘) (fig. 7).²⁸

In 1943 novelist Ibuse Masuji 井伏鱒二 (1898–1993) wrote the short story Kane kuyō no hi 鐘供養の日 (Day of a bell memorial service), which gives a detailed description of a rite as well as the mood of such an occasion.²⁹ In fiction Ibuse could convey the personal sorrow surrounding a bell’s departure more poignantly than in a factual account. The setting is an imaginary temple called Ryūzenji 龍禅寺 in Hiroshima, where Ibuse grew up. The story centers on conversations between the temple’s abbot and its main patron about a fitting farewell as they relinquish their bell for the war effort.

In spite of careful planning, during the ceremony just before the abbot was about to ring the bell, he realized that because it had already been hoisted up for transport, the bell was in a bad position to ring. When he hit the bell, instead of a clear tone there was a dull thud. Even knowing each strike would be poor, everyone in the crowd just followed the abbot and one by one continued to strike the bell, becoming more distraught with every thud. After the bell was taken down, the abbot and the patron accompanied it to the train station, where it was unloaded at a collection point for bronze bells. As they watched the snow start to fall on the bells, they mused about whether bells feel the cold. Then they noticed that their own bell bore an inscription stating it was made in the “fire-sheep” year of the Meiwa era (1764–1772). They began a debate over the bell’s age and appearance, as well as the morals and ideals of earlier generations. When the patron instructed the abbot in the proper order of era names to determine the date, the abbot countered that the bell’s design of simple elegance seemed to belong to an earlier, classic period.³⁰

While the details of this memorial are fictional, Ibuse conveys the solemnity of the occasion by recounting the order of the Buddhist texts used: Heart Sutra, a commonly recited prayer; Ten Names of Buddha (Jūbutsumyō 十佛名), often read at funerals; and Marvelously Beneficial Disaster Preventing Dhāraṇī (Shōsai myō kichijō darani 消災妙吉祥陀羅尼), which is chanted in Zen temples. Ibuse wrote that in addition to a place for the patron’s individual remarks in the ceremony, there was to be a formal reading of a text titled “Commentary on Memorial Service for Donated Buddhist Bells” (Kyōshutsu bonshō kyōshutsu nensho 供出梵鐘供養念疏). Although this title sounds official, Ibuse invented the name of a text to accompany a ritual that had become common practice at the time but was not standardized.³¹ Benedetta Lomi’s essay in this volume shares related traditions of protocol for “sending away” Buddhist icons.

Ibuse punctuated the sadness of the memorial with repeated descriptions of the bell’s awkward sound. Keiko Takioto has suggested that Ibuse wrote the story as a metaphor for how, even though people came to realize Japan was unprepared for war, it was too late to turn back.³² Although this piece was first published in a military journal while Ibuse was working for the government writing war propaganda, it was later considered the author’s most antiwar story.³³ The fact that Kane kuyō no hi is set in Hiroshima, and was written two years before the United States dropped the atomic bomb there in 1945, makes it seem prophetic. When the abbot tells the patron he thinks the bell has an older design, this might be interpreted as his wish to claim the bell was made before the Edo period and thus is exempt from confiscation. Even so, at the end of the narrative the two recognize the futility of their conversation.

Beyond a commemorative photograph of a memorial service, a more material way to memorialize a bell taken during the Asia-Pacific War was to have a substitute made of concrete or stone. Renshōji 蓮昌寺 in Tokyo has a wonderful example of a concrete replacement bell (fig. 8). Renshōji is a Nichiren 日蓮, or Hokke 法華, School temple said to have been founded in the fourteenth century. Measuring 174.3 centimeters in height, the concrete bell has a large dragon loop, 108 bosses, and inscriptions, all just like a real bell. Most of the text is worn, but the prominent text “Namu Shakamuni butsu” 南無釈迦牟尼佛 (Homage to Śākyamuni Buddha), is in the distinctive elongated calligraphic style associated with Nichiren’s hand. Other decipherable parts of the text tell us that the temple’s original bell was donated to the war effort in 1944 and names the two main donors of the replacement who had it made in 1951 to transfer merit to the whole universe and all spirits. While the souls of many war dead were certainly fresh in the minds of those who commissioned and constructed the concrete bell, the inscription also memorializes the bell that was removed from the temple.

According to the gazetteer Shinpen musashi fudokikō 新編武蔵風土記稿 (Newly edited records of Musashi local history), compiled in 1835 (Bunsei 8), the bell that formerly hung in Renshōji’s belfry was cast in 1765 (Meiwa 2).³⁴ Today a bronze bell from 1966, serving as the temple’s main bell, has an inscription explaining in detail that this bell replaces the 1765 bell that was given up for the Asia-Pacific War effort in 1944, but it does not mention the concrete monument (fig. 9).

Because bell towers were constructed in a way that might collapse without the counterweight of a suspended bell, some temples hung substitutes made of concrete, stone, or ceramic.³⁵ A light gray stone carved into a bell shape is suspended inside the belfry at Enmyōji 圓明寺 (fig. 10), a temple in Nagoya that gave up its bell in 1941 and decided to keep its replacement.³⁶ Measuring approximately 80 centimeters in height, it is carved in the design of a bell but has no inscription. Attached to the bell tower is a hanging wooden beam that only makes a soft, dull sound when it strikes the stone bell.

Surviving bell memorials made in different forms and materials are scattered across Japan. As the surrogate bells crumble, more and more of them are being preserved in a new status as Asia-Pacific War memorials by a new generation who did not witness war firsthand. The muteness of the stone and concrete bells speaks eloquently of the great void left by the war dead.

At the end of the Asia-Pacific War, some servicemen took bells home as war trophies. US military officials authorized transport on six or more warships, including the USS Atlanta, Boston, Duluth, Iowa, Pasadena, and Topeka that were in Tokyo Bay at the end of the war. Other unauthorized Japanese bell “souvenirs” were removed from the country, and while at least fifteen have been returned, others are likely to be discovered. The four case studies below were selected to show the variety of paths that surviving conscripted bells took to return.

Following the lives of the four temple bells from Myōkeiji, Shōjuin, Genkakuji, and Nensokuji provides a sample of bells known to have survived the destruction of 45,000 of their kin. Through the perspective of the different paths taken by the four bells, we can consider their roles in the devastation and recovery from the Asia-Pacific War. The bells’ life stories not only demonstrate the process of how bells traveled great distances but also the intense emotional investment they carried. Those feelings were anything but stable. While some constituents were clearly willing to shout “Banzai!” in support of the war, others needed persistent persuasion through written and visual propaganda in addition to peer pressure.

Originally, these bells solidified their institutional lineage, memorialized past patrons, and instantiated the hopes of parishioners. As they were threatened with recycling into weapons of destruction, during such a time of desperate circumstances the government’s limited compensation made it a little easier to part with them. Although these four bells averted being melted down, in order to survive before returning home they had to assume new identities: as trophies, pieces of junk, curiosities, or a proxy representing a different sectarian lineage. Along the way, after the bells’ worth was assessed by weight and their positions shifted, the range of human emotions they carried spanned the spectrum of indifference to embarrassment, patriotic passion, respect, grief, pain, solace, and joy.