The people carrying peace banners outside Germany’s parliament are growing older. Many marched against nuclear weapons during the Cold War. Some protested NATO missile deployments in the 1980s. Others opposed the Iraq War or campaigned for nuclear disarmament. Their hair may be greyer now, but their message has changed little: military power, once unleashed, acquires its own momentum.
Across the world in Tokyo, the scene is remarkably familiar. Outside the National Diet, survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki still appear at rallies defending Article 9 of Japan’s Constitution. Their numbers diminish each year, but their presence carries unusual moral weight. They are among the last living witnesses to the events that gave birth to Japan’s postwar pacifism.
In both countries, the protesters are confronting an uncomfortable reality. History appears to be moving in a direction they hoped it never would. Germany is rebuilding its armed forces at a pace unseen since the Cold War. Japan is undertaking the largest defence expansion in its modern history.
Military budgets are rising. Strategic doctrines are changing. Political leaders increasingly speak the language of deterrence, readiness and resilience. Yet the most important question is not how many missiles Germany and Japan will acquire or how much money they will spend on defence.
The deeper question is whether countries that built their postwar identities around restraint can strengthen their military capabilities without changing the political cultures that made such restraint possible.
Can Germany and Japan rearm without becoming militarised societies? The answer may shape not only their futures but also the future of the postwar democratic model they helped create.Subscribe
The Last Guardians of Memory
The debate unfolding in Germany and Japan is often described as a strategic argument. In reality, it is also a generational one. The generation that built the postwar order is disappearing.
The men and women who experienced World War II firsthand—the bombings, occupations, displacements and deprivations—are now in their late eighties, nineties or older. With them disappears a direct memory of the catastrophe that shaped modern Europe and Asia.
For decades, those memories acted as a powerful restraint on political imagination. In Germany, memories of Nazi aggression created deep scepticism toward military power. In Japan, the devastation of Hiroshima and Nagasaki became inseparable from national identity.
These experiences were not simply historical facts. They became political instincts. preference. It was a lesson written into family histories, classrooms and public institutions.
Today’s leaders inherited those lessons rather than lived them. German Chancellor Friedrich Merz was born in 1955. Japanese Prime Minister Shigeru Ishiba was born in 1957. Neither witnessed war. Neither experienced occupation. Neither saw cities reduced to rubble. This does not make them less conscious of history. But inherited memory differs from personal memory.
Konrad Adenauer, born in 1876, lived through imperial Germany, the First World War, the collapse of the Weimar Republic, Nazism and the destruction of Europe. The generation that followed him governed with those experiences etched into their consciousness.
Merz and Ishiba belong to a different world. They grew up in societies that had already been rebuilt. Their formative experiences were prosperity, stability and alliance politics rather than war and reconstruction.
The shift matters because it changes how political leaders understand risk. For Adenauer’s generation, excessive military power represented the greatest danger.
For many contemporary policymakers, the greater danger may be insufficient military power.
The Streets Push Back
Yet public opinion has not moved as quickly as governments. In Germany, opposition to rearmament remains visible, even if it is no longer politically dominant.
Peace organisations, church groups, trade unions and anti-war activists continue to challenge the logic of expanding defence budgets. They argue that Europe risks entering a new cycle of militarisation reminiscent of earlier eras.
Some critics fear that military spending will gradually crowd out investments in education, infrastructure and social welfare. Others worry about a broader cultural shift.
For decades, Germany’s international identity rested upon diplomacy, economic cooperation and civilian engagement. The Bundeswehr existed, but it rarely occupied a central place in national life. Today, that is changing.
The language of security increasingly dominates public debate. Military readiness is discussed openly. Defence industries are expanding production. Politicians speak about deterrence with a directness rarely heard since the Cold War.
Many Germans accept these changes as necessary. Others view them with unease. The debate is even more emotionally charged in Japan.
Article 9 remains one of the most revered provisions of the Japanese Constitution. For many citizens, it represents a moral commitment born from the devastation of war. Whenever governments reinterpret or expand military capabilities, demonstrations follow.
Constitutional scholars warn against altering the meaning of Article 9 through administrative reinterpretation rather than democratic amendment. Peace groups argue that Japan risks abandoning a distinctive contribution it has made to the modern world.
Survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki often frame the issue in deeply personal terms. For them, pacifism is not an abstract principle. It is a response to lived experience.
Their concern is not simply that Japan is acquiring new military capabilities. It is that future generations may gradually forget why Article 9 was written in the first place.
A Different Kind of Arms Race
The challenge facing Germany and Japan differs fundamentally from the military competitions of the twentieth century. Neither country seeks territorial expansion. Neither harbours imperial ambitions. Neither is preparing for conquest.
The issue is not militarism in its traditional form. Rather, both countries are responding to a security environment that increasingly rewards preparedness.
Russia’s invasion of Ukraine demonstrated that a major war remains possible in Europe. China’s rise has transformed strategic calculations throughout Asia. North Korea continues to expand its missile and nuclear capabilities. Across both regions, policymakers have concluded that peace cannot be maintained through goodwill alone.
Yet there is a paradox. The stronger Germany and Japan become militarily, the greater the need to reassure their own citizens—and their neighbours—that military strength will remain firmly embedded within democratic institutions.
This challenge is particularly significant because history still matters. Germany’s neighbours may welcome a stronger Bundeswehr today, but memories of the twentieth century have not disappeared.
Japan’s growing military role is supported by some regional partners, particularly those concerned about China. Yet historical memories continue to shape perceptions throughout East Asia.
In both cases, rearmament requires not only new capabilities but also new forms of trust.
The Constitutional Question
The constitutions of Germany and Japan continue to exert influence even as security policies evolve. Germany’s Basic Law never prohibited armed forces. It prohibited aggressive war. This distinction has allowed Germany to expand military capabilities without fundamentally altering its constitutional framework.
Japan faces a more complicated situation. Article 9 remains intact, yet its interpretation has evolved steadily over the decades. Each expansion of military capability requires legal and political justification.
Supporters argue that the Constitution must adapt to changing realities. Critics counter that endless reinterpretation risks creating a gap between constitutional language and political practice. The debate is unlikely to disappear. Indeed, it may intensify as security challenges grow more complex.
The larger question concerns the relationship between constitutional restraint and national security. Can constitutional principles remain meaningful if they are continually adapted to strategic circumstances? Or is flexibility itself a source of resilience?
Germany and Japan are becoming laboratories for these questions.
Beyond Europe and Asia
The significance of these debates extends beyond Berlin and Tokyo. For decades, Germany and Japan were presented as evidence that democratic societies could achieve prosperity and security without placing military power at the centre of national life.
Their success became part of a broader narrative about the postwar international order. That narrative is now under pressure. Across the world, governments are increasing defence spending. Strategic competition is intensifying. Military alliances are gaining renewed importance.
In such an environment, Germany and Japan face a challenge shared by many democracies. How can nations prepare for conflict without becoming defined by it? How can they strengthen deterrence without weakening democratic oversight? How can they respond to genuine threats without allowing fear to dominate political life?
These are not merely technical questions. These are questions about the character of democratic societies.
Rearmament Without Militarism?
The phrase sounds contradictory. Yet it captures the central dilemma confronting Germany and Japan. Both countries have concluded that the world has become more dangerous. Both believe stronger defence capabilities are necessary. Neither wishes to abandon the constitutional and moral foundations established after World War II.
The challenge is therefore not whether to rearm. The challenge is how. Can military strength remain subordinate to democratic values? Can deterrence coexist with constitutional restraint? Can nations increase military capabilities while preserving cultures shaped by the rejection of militarism?
No historical blueprint exists. Germany and Japan are navigating territory that few societies have explored before. The outcome remains uncertain.
What is certain is that the postwar era has entered a new phase.
The assumptions that sustained constitutional pacifism after 1945 and strategic optimism after 1991 have both weakened. Yet the values that emerged from those eras remain powerful.
The protesters outside the Reichstag and the National Diet understand this. So do many of the policymakers pursuing military reforms. Their disagreement is not over whether peace matters.
It is over how peace can best be preserved in a world where geopolitical rivalry has returned. That debate will continue long after today’s defence budgets have been spent and today’s political leaders have left office. For Germany and Japan, the question is no longer whether history has returned. It clearly has.
The question now is whether they can confront that reality without surrendering the lessons that history taught them in the first place. The answer may determine whether the promise of “never again” survives as a living principle—or becomes merely a memory.
