A Japanese Memory
Coming Soon…
“Before COVID-19 and before the Myanmar coup, I thought that ‘memory of war’ meant only World War Two inside Myanmar. But after 2021, I realized for local people the condition is like a war now.”
Hitoshi Kameyama, a Japanese photographer, first visited Burma in 2005 on a photography tour organized by his teacher. At the time, he admitted he had little interest in the country itself, but upon arrival his impressions quickly shifted. He had expected something akin to a closed and repressive state like North Korea, but instead he encountered open markets, colorful goods, and smiling, welcoming people. This warmth and vibrancy drew him back, and he soon began returning again and again—eventually making more than 25 trips before the pandemic.
These repeated visits allowed Kameyama to build lasting relationships with villagers. He often photographed people in their homes or daily routines and then returned on later trips with prints of those photographs to give back. This cycle of exchange deepened his bond with communities and became a foundation for his long-term engagement with Myanmar.
The political reforms beginning in 2011 opened new opportunities. After Aung San Suu Kyi’s NLD party won in 2015, photography and journalism became freer, and Kameyama began to reflect on what it meant to be a foreign photographer in a rapidly changing country. While Japanese companies expanded their investments, he turned toward a different focus: documenting the remnants of the Japanese occupation during World War Two and the stories carried by villagers who had lived through it.
In 2017, he was invited into the home of an elderly woman who shared how Japanese soldiers had stayed in her village for over a year, giving salt, sugar, and tea in exchange for labor. Stories like this inspired him to launch a long-term project, eventually published as Burma Myanmar Memories of War 2019–2024. At first, his plan was to focus solely on memories of World War Two, but the COVID-19 pandemic and the 2021 military coup forced him to adapt. Unable to enter the country, he redirected his efforts to the Indian and Thai borders, where refugees had fled. In places like Imphal, Moreh, and Mae Sot, he sought out displaced families, teachers, and injured resistance fighters, expanding his project to encompass Myanmar’s ongoing conflicts.
He discovered that Burmese views of Japan were layered and complex. Many expressed gratitude for postwar support and development assistance, while at the same time acknowledging the suffering their families had endured. One woman told him that her brother had been killed by Japanese soldiers in front of her during the war, yet she insisted she did not harbor hatred. She had even preserved a Japanese grenade and other items in her home for decades, believing that one day someone from Japan might return to collect them. Kameyama was deeply moved by such forgiveness, wondering if it came from Buddhist beliefs or simply the passage of time.
Other images he captured symbolized the transformation of violent objects into benign artifacts. A young boy wearing a Japanese helmet as a toy demonstrated how something once tied to fear and trauma could, seventy years later, become part of children’s play. Similarly, he found a small Japanese tank abandoned in Chin State, tiny enough to be mistaken for a toy itself. At a later exhibition in Japan, an elderly man approached his work and revealed that he had helped build that very model of tank during the war, although his fellow technicians who went with it to Burma never returned.
Kameyama also attended annual ceremonies in villages that continue to commemorate World War Two. He met a 94-year-old man who as a boy had climbed a tree to watch a battle between Japanese and British forces and who still attends the memorial each year. These encounters demonstrated how communities themselves sustained reconciliation and remembrance, often independently of official government actions.
His project connected with Japanese cultural memory as well. The novel and film The Burmese Harp resonated with him deeply, both for its anti-war message and for its enduring popularity in Japan. Each August, the film is broadcast nationwide as a reminder of the war’s costs, reinforcing how cultural artifacts, like the physical remnants in Burmese villages, carry memory across generations.
Beyond the wartime focus, Kameyama also documented moments of Myanmar’s democratic transition. One photograph from 2012 showed villagers meeting to discuss a fish hatchery project. Under military rule, gatherings of more than five people had been prohibited, but during this brief period such meetings became possible. At the time, he viewed it as ordinary, but after the 2021 coup reinstated restrictions, the image came to symbolize a fleeting moment of grassroots democracy. Exhibited after the coup, it gained new meaning as a record of freedoms now lost.
His book concludes with a photo taken from the Thai side of the Moei River, looking across at an internally displaced persons camp inside Myanmar. He quips that while taking the picture, his phone received a message welcoming him to Myanmar, underscoring the closeness of conflict across the river. The camp itself houses hundreds of families and is being regularly bombed by the military, while he and others tried to provide aid.
Kameyama expresses concern about Japan’s role in Myanmar today. He criticizes the Japanese government and companies for maintaining business ties with the junta, warning that while such activity may support local livelihoods, it also funds the military. He urges that these ties be cut for the sake of both Myanmar’s people and Japan’s future relations with the country.
Reflecting on two decades of engagement, Kameyama emphasizes that his connection to Myanmar has always been rooted in personal relationships rather than politics. He speaks warmly of the character of the Burmese people, their kindness, and their resilience even under harsh conditions. He acknowledges that some aspects of their outlook remain a mystery to him but stresses that this very mystery keeps him interested. Even when many foreigners turned away after the coup, he continues to stay involved, supported by the voices, images, and stories sent to him by his friends across the country.