Brave blossoms and fallen petals

Brave Blossoms and Fallen Petals: How the Cherry Blossom Carries the Weight of Japan’s Past and Present

So big, in fact, that one of the country’s most recognizable folk songs is about them. The lyrics to “Sakura, Sakura” evoke a scene familiar to anyone who has experienced a Japanese spring:

Sakura, sakura
Across the spring sky
As far as the eye can see
Is it mist or clouds?
Fragrance wafts in the air
Come now, come now
Let’s go see them

And go see them I did—or at least, I tried. Like so many others chasing the perfect hanami (flower-viewing) moment, I arrived in Tokyo expecting a glorious pink-and-white spring canopy. Instead, I was greeted by grey skies, sodden petals, and a damp chill that gave new meaning to “mist or clouds.” The photo I posted to my Australian friends was more “puddle of sadness” than “blossoms in bloom.” So much for transcendence.

Yet, even in disappointment, I was reminded just how loaded these blossoms are with meaning—how they remain, in spite of weather and overexposure, among the most emotionally and symbolically charged objects in Japanese culture.

The Pathos of Petals

To answer that, we begin with a deeply embedded cultural sensibility in Japan: mono no aware (物の哀れ), often translated as “the pathos of things.” This concept expresses a sensitivity to the transient beauty of the world—a bittersweet awareness that nothing lasts, and that impermanence itself is what makes beauty so poignant.

Cherry blossoms embody this pathos perfectly. They bloom in a burst of color and vanish just days later, swept away by wind or rain. Their impermanence is the point: a gentle reminder of mortality, time, and change.

Closely linked is the Buddhist notion of mujō (無常)—the doctrine of impermanence. Cherry blossoms represent this transience not abstractly, but materially. Their short life span, their fragility, their yearly return: all mirror the rhythms of life and death, loss and renewal.

This symbolic freight has long been reflected in Japanese literature, especially haiku. Consider this verse by the 17th-century poet Matsuo Bashō:

さまざまの
こと思ひ出す
桜かな
Samazama no / koto omoi dasu / sakura kana
“How many things / they call to mind— / cherry blossoms!”

A single glance at a tree in bloom brings forth a cascade of memories, emotions, and associations. In this way, the cherry blossom becomes not just an object of beauty, but a vessel of reflection.

Of Rugby and Reverence: A Jarring Juxtaposition

From the late Meiji period (1868–1912) through the militarist era of the 1930s and 1940s, the cherry blossom was transformed from a poetic symbol into a potent weapon of nationalist ideology.

As anthropologist Emiko Ohnuki-Tierney details in her book Kamikaze, Cherry Blossoms, and Nationalisms, the state appropriated the flower’s associations with fleeting beauty and reinterpreted them as metaphors for noble sacrifice. Young soldiers were taught to “fall like cherry blossoms”—to die beautifully and willingly for the Emperor.

During World War II, kamikaze pilots painted cherry blossoms on their planes, soldiers carried sakura petals into battle, and poems and propaganda likened wartime death to blossoms falling in full bloom.

Cherry trees were even planted on military bases. The soft flutter of petals became a state-sponsored metaphor for youth mown down in their prime—glorified not in spite of their deaths, but because of them.

“Cherry blossoms, once symbols of life’s ephemerality, were transformed by the state into symbols of noble sacrifice: young men falling in battle were likened to the petals fluttering from the tree in full bloom.” — Emiko Ohnuki-Tierney (2002, p. 5)

Rugby, Sacrifice, and Symbol

Imported by British expatriates in the late 19th century, rugby in Japan quickly became associated with elite universities like Keio and Waseda. By the 1930s, it had evolved into a sport admired for its demands of discipline, courage, and bodily risk—qualities that aligned neatly with the militarist values being propagated at the time.

Naming the national team the Brave Blossoms—Yūki aru sakura—was not just poetic. It was political. The name merged the elegance of sakura with the valor expected of soldiers and athletes alike. Rugby, with its emphasis on discipline, teamwork, and physical courage, became a vehicle for cultivating the same ideals prized by the military. In this way, the cherry blossom symbol served a dual purpose: it continued to inspire aesthetically through its natural beauty and cultural resonance, while also being deployed by the state to stir patriotic sentiment and glorify sacrifice. It became both a comforting tradition and a tool of emotional persuasion.

From Sacrifice to Resilience: Postwar Reclamation

After Japan’s surrender in 1945 and the subsequent U.S.-led occupation, militarist symbolism—including that of the sakura—was rapidly dismantled or scrubbed of its darker meanings.

But symbols can be hard to kill.

The cherry blossom didn’t disappear. Instead, it was reclaimed. In the postwar decades, it was gradually re-associated with peace, renewal, and national recovery. Hanami festivals—paused or subdued during the war years—rebounded in popularity. Cherry blossom viewing became apolitical, joyful, communal. The flowers once used to aestheticize death now offered a way to reconnect with older, gentler meanings.

Even the rugby team’s name underwent reinterpretation. Though its origins are rooted in militarism, Brave Blossoms has come to represent something else entirely: grit, unity, pride, and yes—resilience.

Today, sakura metaphors in advertising, school songs, and sports culture emphasize:

• Strength in fragility

• The power of rebirth

• Quiet defiance against adversity

After the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami, for example, cherry blossoms became symbols of hope and survival—many blooming even in devastated landscapes.

In Japan, the cherry blossom is more than just a flower. It is an idea clothed in petals. A philosophy that blooms.

Final Reflections

On that cold, rainy day in Tokyo, my cherry blossom experience didn’t go to plan. The photos were muddy. The skies were sullen. And the moment I had imagined was washed away in drizzle.

But perhaps that was appropriate.

The pathos of things doesn’t require perfection. Sometimes it lives in disappointment, in missed timing, in sodden petals that still cling to meaning. Even in failure, the cherry blossom had something to say.

And maybe that’s the point: its power lies not in its bloom alone, but in the way we keep returning to it—each spring, each generation, each cultural context—asking again what it might mean.

References

• Ohnuki-Tierney, Emiko. Kamikaze, Cherry Blossoms, and Nationalisms: The Militarization of Aesthetics in Japanese History. University of Chicago Press, 2002.

• Sakura Song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Hvo4Db3NT8