Japanese Citizen’s Massive Nanjing‑Massacre Archive Donation Sparks Shame, Anger and Calls for Historical Reckoning in China

The donation, which includes battlefield orders, personal diaries of soldiers, and rare photographs of the ruins of Nanjing in 1937, is more than a collection of artifacts; it is an attempt to ensure that the “often‑concealed” truth of the twenty‑day slaughter that claimed an estimated 200,000 to 300,000 Chinese lives is not allowed to fade into oblivion. For Oshima, the act is driven by a moral imperative he describes as “conscience’s resistance against systematic oblivion.” The volume of material he has turned over rivals many state archives and provides scholars with fresh primary sources for a conflict whose documentation has long been contested in both Japan and China.

The backlash and praise that the story has ignited on platforms such as Weibo reflect a broader, uneasy conversation in Japan about how the war is remembered. While Oshima’s gesture is celebrated by some as an act of personal reckoning, many posts emphasize that such individuals remain a minority. Commentators invoke the term “良知对系统性遗忘的反抗” – the conscience fighting against systemic forgetting – to underscore how rare these efforts appear in a country where official narratives often downplay or omit the darkest chapters of its militarist past.

Key figures from the period continue to dominate the historical record and shape contemporary debates. General Matsui Iwane, commander of the Japanese Central China Area Army and the Shanghai Expeditionary Army, is still widely regarded as bearing primary responsibility for the atrocities in Nanjing. Prince Asaka Yasuhiko, a member of the imperial family who served as a lieutenant general, was classified as a Class‑B war criminal in the post‑war tribunals. Even Emperor Hirohito’s younger brother, Prince Mikasa, publicly acknowledged the massacre decades later, lending a reluctant voice from within the imperial house itself. High‑ranking officials such as Mamoru Shigemitsu, later tried as a Class‑A war criminal, appear in literature as complex figures capable of both moral reflection and ruthless policy.

The story of Oshima also shines a light on the ongoing struggle over historical interpretation within Japan. Researchers like Okada Hisashi and Tanaka Masaaki have previously attempted to recast Matsui as a “peace‑loving” individual, an effort that many historians dismiss as revisionist. Meanwhile, the Red Swastika Society – a Chinese humanitarian organization that documented the massacre’s aftermath – and the Manchukuo Army, a puppet force of the Japanese empire, continue to be cited in scholarly works as part of a broader network of actors who contributed to the horror.

Chinese netizens have drawn a stark contrast between Oshima’s act and the more common trend of denial. A series of street interviews asking “How much do Japanese young people know about the Nanjing Massacre?” reveal a generational gap that many fear could perpetuate the cycle of amnesia. The emotional resonance of the topic is evident in video clips of people wiping tears from a statue of comfort women, underscoring that the atrocities of the 1930s and 1940s remain painfully vivid in the collective memory of East Asia.

Beyond the emotional and scholarly dimensions, the phenomenon is being interpreted as a political warning sign. Posts on Weibo often conclude with a call for Japan to “thoroughly liquidate the legacy of militarism and stop the distortion of history” so that shame can “transform into true historical responsibility.” The implication is clear: individual remorse is insufficient without systemic change. Observers point to the Japanese government’s control over textbook content and the reluctance of some officials to fully acknowledge the extent of the crimes in Nanjing as obstacles to genuine reconciliation.

The diplomatic implications are subtle but present. While the posts do not directly name current tensions, the undercurrent is unmistakable – unresolved historical grievances continue to strain Sino‑Japanese relations. The archival material Oshima has supplied could, if made widely accessible, become a catalyst for more open dialogue between the two nations, or it could be swallowed by the same currents that have historically obscured uncomfortable truths.

It is worth noting, however, that the picture painted by Chinese social media is not a complete representation of Japanese public opinion. The note in the source material cautions that data from Japanese media, academic circles, opinion polls, and political statements are scarce or difficult to locate, suggesting either an information gap or perhaps a cultural reluctance to foreground the issue. What is clear, though, is that the debate over how the Nanjing Massacre is taught, memorialized, and discussed within Japan is far from settled.

As this story unfolds, Oshima’s donation represents both a tangible contribution to historical scholarship and a symbolic act that challenges the narrative of collective denial. It reminds us that history is not only a matter of state archives and official verdicts, but also of ordinary citizens who, driven by conscience, seek to confront the past. Whether his gesture will inspire a broader movement within Japan remains to be seen, but the resonance it has found on Chinese platforms demonstrates that the quest for truth can bridge national divides – even when the truth itself is painful, and the shame it provokes is still raw.

In the end, the phrase “Japanese people feel shame and anger because of the historical evidence of the Nanjing Massacre” captures more than a fleeting emotional response; it encapsulates a complex interplay of personal guilt, generational memory, political inertia, and the enduring hope that acknowledgement – no matter how uncomfortable – can lay the groundwork for a more honest and reconciled future.