Memory as Destiny: China and East Asia 80 Years After World War II

Eighty years after the guns fell silent in the Pacific theater of World War II, the region it reshaped continues to remember – and forget – in strikingly different ways.

In China, the memory has never faded. A major military parade is scheduled for September 3, marking the victory over Japan with full state ceremony. Today’s youth, born generations after the war, know its details intimately – not just from family stories, but from textbooks, museum visits, battlefield reenactments, and cinema. The most popular film of the summer is “Dead to Rights,” a graphic portrayal of the Nanjing Massacre.

For the Chinese Communist Party (CCP), the war’s memory is not just history – it is ideology, identity, and political capital.

In the United States, by contrast, the war in Asia has largely slipped from public consciousness. Few young Americans today know the names of Guadalcanal or Iwo Jima, or understand the critical role their grandfathers played in ending the Japanese Empire in East and Southeast Asia. In March 2025, U.S. Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth controversially praised the valor of Japanese troops during an 80th anniversary speech on Iwo Jima, saying that “the Japanese commander, General Kuribayashi, led his soldiers and sailors with stoicism, determination, and bravery.” American WWII veterans might have been stunned to hear such words, yet the speech drew more attention for Hegseth’s rollback of DEI (diversity, equity, and inclusion) policies than for the memory of the war itself.

In Taiwan, 2025 also marks 80 years since the island’s return to China at the end of the war – a historical milestone largely omitted in official commemorations. President Lai Ching-te framed the anniversary not as a liberation from empire, but as a warning to democracies: “Just as Europe once faced fascist aggression, Taiwan now confronts authoritarian coercion.” In his August 15 speech, Lai did not mention Japan even once, nor did he address Japan’s colonial rule on the island. The omission is telling. In today’s politics, the history of Taiwan’s “return” to mainland rule is inconvenient – its historical narrative has shifted away from anti-imperial liberation toward democratic self-definition.

In Japan, memory is again contested and sensitive. In his speech at the 80th anniversary ceremony on August 15, 2025, Japanese Prime Minister Ishiba Shigeru chose his words carefully. He expressed “remorse” – but notably stopped short of offering a direct apology for Japan’s wartime aggression against its Asian neighbors. 

A recent poll reported by The Tokyo Shimbun revealed a striking insight into Japan’s current historical consciousness: only 42 percent of Japanese respondents consider the Pacific War to be a war of aggression, while 12 percent view it as a war of self-defense, and 44 percent say they either don’t know or hold no clear opinion. Even 80 years later, more than half of the Japanese public remains unwilling to recognize the war as one of invasion.

As the saying goes: history is always contemporary, and memory is always selective. Eighty years is both long and short. For those who witnessed the war’s end, today’s world – where the memory of the conflict is institutionalized in some places and ignored in others – might be unrecognizable. But history in East Asia is never just history. It is weaponized, re-scripted, and deeply entangled in present-day struggles for legitimacy, identity, and power.

Memory as Ideology: Why the War Still Lives in China

In China, the memory of World War II is not just history. It is national story and a master narrative – a shared ideational framework that defines how the country views its history, present, and future and a foundational belief about how the nation should act. Unlike in many other societies where historical memory of World War II is fading with time or is confined to textbooks and museums, the memory of what China calls the War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression has been institutionalized, ritualized, and even personalized.

This memory project intensified after Xi Jinping came to power in 2012, and became a central pillar of legitimacy-building and statecraft for the Chinese Communist Party (CCP). As a part of the institutionalization, in 2014, Xi declared two new national commemorations: December 13 as National Memorial Day for the Nanjing Massacre, and September 3 as Victory Day of the Chinese People’s War of Resistance Against Japanese Aggression. These dates are now marked by nationwide ceremonies, school activities, media coverage, and moments of silence – ensuring that war memory is not just acknowledged, but felt.

Such efforts are not limited to official rituals. The state has embedded patriotic education into the entire ecosystem of knowledge and culture. School curriculums emphasize victimhood and heroism in equal measure. Textbooks are designed to present the war not only as a historical fact, but as a founding trauma that justifies the existence and leadership of the Communist Party. Museums, memorials, and “red tourism” sites – such as historical battlefields – reinforce these themes, while television dramas and blockbuster films like the newly released “Dead to Rights” dominate screens, especially around commemorative dates. Viewership numbers for “Dead to Rights” surged past 400 million within weeks of release, making it the most-watched historical film of the summer – and a vivid example of how popular culture has become a vessel for political memory.

When memory permeates daily life, it becomes impossible to simply switch off – regardless of one’s preferences. A recent debate on Chinese social media centered on whether parents should take their children to see “Dead to Rights.” China has no official film rating system, and the movie’s intense scenes have visibly affected younger viewers. On platforms like Douyin (Chinese TikTok), countless short clips show children in tears after screenings, visibly shaken by what they saw. Even parents who choose to keep their children away from the theater find the film hard to avoid. Online discussions, viral video clips, and classroom chatter ensure that this narrative reaches nearly every school-aged child. The war, once distant history, is now part of their lived emotional world.

In an age when many democratic societies – from the United States to Taiwan to South Korea – are grappling with deep domestic polarization, China appears remarkably unified. This cohesion is not just a result of censorship or propaganda; it also reflects the impact of the past three decades of patriotic education, which has contributed to cultivate a shared national narrative. For Beijing’s rulers, the results of the patriotic education must appear reassuring. There is no indication they plan to stop or soften the approach. Even U.S. President Donald Trump has called for a return to “patriotic education” in the United States, highlighting its political appeal beyond China.

Yet whether this will serve China well in the long run is another question: while much of the world’s education systems now emphasize critical thinking and pluralism, China continues to prioritize ideological cohesion and collective identity. As a new generation shaped by this education rises to power, it remains to be seen how they will engage with global society and handle tensions and conflict with China’s neighbors.

This sustained narrative of past trauma and national revival has produced what I have previously described as two key paradoxes that help explain China’s contemporary history and the legacy of war memory.

First is the paradox between one-party rule and democracy. China’s rise as an independent, unified, and strong state has occurred under authoritarian governance, despite growing awareness of democratic values among its population. Many Chinese still remember old China as “a pan of loose sand” and view strong centralized leadership as essential to preserving unity, resisting foreign aggression, and defending national interests.

Second is the paradox between nationalism and democracy. In China, nationalism has been seen by many as a positive force that enabled national independence, unity, and modernization. Many Chinese, including many intellectuals, continue to regard nationalism as necessary to holding the country together, especially in the face of perceived stronger external pressure – from the “trade war” and “chip war” to anti-China media campaigns.

These two paradoxes help explain why the memory of the war remains such a potent political resource. It allows the Communist Party to justify both its domestic authority and its increasingly assertive posture in foreign affairs. At the same time, this deeply embedded memory narrows the space for alternative narratives and compromise in times of tension – especially on issues of sensitive territory and sovereignty – where toughness is perceived as the only legitimate choice. Together, these paradoxes reveal why war memory in China is not simply a backward-looking narrative, but a forward-driving engine – shaping how the nation evaluates and justifies its future actions.

Historical memory, as both national story and master narrative, offers a powerful and profound lens through which to understand China’s domestic politics, foreign relations, and the deeper forces shaping its collectivist nationalism, ideology, and social discourse.

The Memory War Over Taiwan: Historical Wounds and Strategic Risk

If the Taiwan Strait is now the most dangerous place on earth, as The Economist famously declared in 2021, it is not only because of military buildups or power competition. It is because the conflict is rooted in historical memory – traumas, myths, and identities that cannot be negotiated in the usual ways.

Understanding the present requires returning to the past. Taiwan was ceded to Japan in 1895 after China’s defeat in the First Sino-Japanese War, marking the beginning of five decades of colonial rule. For China, this was a national humiliation. For Taiwan, it became part of a layered identity – Japanese colonial legacy, Chinese postwar rule, and eventually, a democratic transformation that diverged sharply from the mainland. These diverging histories continue to shape how each side sees itself, and each other.

In Chinese classrooms today, reunification is taught as a historical mission – a matter of national dignity and destiny. The separation of Taiwan is framed not as a political disagreement, but as an open wound from a century of foreign invasion and civil war. Reunification, in this view, is not only logical – it is morally necessary.

Meanwhile in Taiwan, students learn about the 1947 “2-28 Incident,” when the Kuomintang (KMT) government, then newly arrived from the mainland to take over from the Japanese, violently suppressed civilians, killing thousands. That event, now approaching its 80th anniversary, is commemorated each year as a symbol of authoritarian trauma and the struggle for democracy. The Taiwanese identity that has since emerged is rooted in this memory – not in civilizational unity with China, but in a hard-won democratic difference.

These two educational narratives – one about historical restoration, the other about local trauma and democratic selfhood – produce what scholars call an “identity deadlock.” When both sides view their position as historically justified and morally righteous, space for compromise narrows. The result is a conflict less about interests and more about identity and legitimacy.

This is where memory becomes dangerous. Historical narratives do not just shape identity – they justify action. In China, the belief that Taiwan’s separation is an unresolved injustice feeds public tolerance for more assertive policies, including the potential use of force. In popular discourse and state rhetoric, military reunification is increasingly discussed not as aggression, but as historical correction.

This mirrors what we’ve seen in Ukraine. Before the 2022 invasion, Russian President Vladimir Putin framed Ukraine not as a neighbor, but as a lost piece of historic Russia – its separation a Western-imposed injustice. War, in his view, was not conquest but rectification. China has not taken that step, but the logic is hauntingly similar. Memory, when harnessed by nationalism and grievance, makes war not only imaginable but morally acceptable.

On the other side, many in Taiwan also carry a powerful dream – of full independence, international recognition, and permanent separation from the mainland. That dream, shaped by memories of authoritarian repression and bolstered by democratic pride, likewise motivates people to take risks. It drives support for actions that confront Beijing and seek protection from third-party powers, particularly the United States. Much like Ukraine’s quest for NATO and Western guarantees, Taiwan’s search for security is deeply intertwined with a historical desire to affirm its identity – and to never return to an unwanted past. 

The danger is compounded by the fact that many observers – especially outside the region – underestimate just how deeply this conflict is rooted in memory and identity. They focus on deterrence: more arms sales, more deployments, more red lines. But deterrence alone cannot defuse a crisis that people see as sacred. In identity-driven conflicts, threats and cost calculations often fall flat. When leaders and citizens believe they are fulfilling a historical mission, they are willing to take extraordinary risks. As the war in Ukraine shows, military buildup can provoke rather than prevent conflict when one side sees its identity or destiny under siege. In the Taiwan Strait, deterrence without reassurance risks reinforcing the very fears it seeks to contain.

Taiwan’s future, then, is entangled not just in power politics but in historical psychology. What each side remembers – and how they remember it – shapes what they believe is possible, legitimate, or even inevitable.

To prevent catastrophe, strategies must begin by understanding this: in identity-based conflicts, historical memory is not background – it is the battlefield. Effective conflict management and peacemaking cannot afford to overlook the power of history and memory; they are not peripheral forces, but central drivers of perception, beliefs, and the potential for peace or war.

Whose Reconciliation: Can China and Japan Really Accept Each Other?

Eighty years after the end of World War II, reconciliation remains an unfinished process in East Asia. Compared to post-war Europe – where Germany and France rebuilt mutual trust through institutional integration and a shared commitment to remembrance and peace – the region has struggled to overcome its historical divides. The relationship between China and Japan remains the clearest example of this lingering tension, shaped as much by memory as by geopolitics.

Much of the conventional narrative focuses on how China and South Korea have not fully reconciled with Japan due to unresolved issues of wartime atrocities and perceived revisionism. But public opinion trends over the past decade reveal a more complicated picture – one that calls into question whose reconciliation is truly incomplete.

Surveys by Genron NPO and the China International Communications Group show that, despite long-standing historical grievances, Chinese society has, to a significant extent, normalized its relationship with Japan in practice. In China, anti-Japan sentiment has fluctuated sharply in response to specific political or historical events – from the 2012 Senkaku/Diaoyu Islands crisis to the 2024 release of treated radioactive water from Fukushima. These incidents triggered noticeable spikes in unfavorable views. Yet in more stable periods, Chinese public attitudes have shown a clear capacity to soften. Between 2017 and 2019, for example, unfavorable views declined steadily: from 78.2 percent in 2017 to 64.2 percent in 2018, and reaching a low of 53.2 percent in 2019. Over the same period, favorable opinions rose to nearly 46 percent – the most positive outlook recorded in over a decade.

Even more telling are the patterns of behavior: beyond surveys, Chinese citizens have actively engaged with Japan. China has been Japan’s largest source of international tourists, with nearly 9.6 million Chinese visitors in 2019 alone, accounting for over 30 percent of all foreign arrivals. Many of these travelers returned repeatedly, spending on shopping, cuisine, and cultural experiences. In parallel, affluent Chinese individuals became the largest group of foreign property buyers in Japan, particularly in cities like Tokyo, Osaka, and Hokkaido. These patterns suggest a practical acceptance of Japan – not as a historical adversary, but as a desirable, stable, and even aspirational society.

In contrast, Japanese public opinion toward China has remained strikingly negative and persistently so. Since 2013, unfavorable views of China in Japan have never dropped below 84 percent, peaking at 93.0 percent in 2014 and remaining around 89 percent as recently as 2024. During the same 2017-2019 period in which Chinese views of Japan were improving, Japanese unfavorable views stood consistently high: 88.0 percent in 2017, 86.3 percent in 2018, and 84.7 percent in 2019. Even periods of high-level diplomacy and economic engagement failed to shift public sentiment in any substantial way.