A woman was walking along the empty approach toward the main hall of Yasukuni Shrine

The approach to Yasukuni Shrine was surprisingly empty, its silence reigning oddly supreme despite being in the very heart of Tokyo. I strolled leisurely along the broad flagstone path. Ahead of me walked a lone woman, holding a parasol. Perhaps she was shielding herself from the spring sunlight, or perhaps it was simply part of her attire. In Japan, however, the parasol has long been a symbol of fair skin, often depicted in Edo-period ukiyo-e. Today’s models boast UV-cut materials and scientific claims, yet their function remains unchanged since the days of town maidens in Edo.

Beyond the woman stood a torii gate, and further still the main hall of Yasukuni Shrine came into view. Founded in 1869, Yasukuni is relatively new by shrine standards, yet it bears a unique role: enshrining the war dead. Tokyo is home to countless shrines and temples, but few are so thickly entangled with politics and history. Some tourists, unaware of its origins, come merely to admire a “grand shrine,” but unlike the local guardian shrines of Edo or the popular Senso-ji, Yasukuni exists in a very different register.

Within the precincts, the air was strangely tranquil, as though the city’s clamor had been cut off the moment I stepped through the torii. Only the rustle of leaves in the breeze reached my ears. It was a perfect place for a walk, though in my idle wandering I half-imagined the spirits of the fallen stepping from behind a stone lantern to join me. If that were to happen, perhaps it would be nothing unusual for them either—a daily routine, a stroll within their own Yasukuni. A woman with a parasol walking through Tokyo’s Yasukuni Shrine, the spirits of the war dead, and myself: three very different walkers, overlapping for a moment. It was, in its way, a kind of Tokyo-style absurdity, where the living and the dead cross paths in the guise of a simple walk.

Yasukuni Jinja on Google Map

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