Once, on a concrete island floating off the coast of Nagasaki, over 5,000 people packed into just a few city blocks. It was so tightly crowded that not even the wind could slip through its narrow alleyways. But the strangest part? No one was allowed to die there. That’s right—death was considered bad luck. When someone grew old or too sick, they were taken to the mainland. This eerie island, with its haunted silence and crumbling walls, was once the most crowded place on Earth. Locals called it Gunkanjima—Battleship Island. Today, it stands frozen in time, abandoned to the sea and shadowed by secrets.
A City in the Sea
Just 15 kilometres from Nagasaki, Hashima Island juts out of the water like a sunken warship. Its official name may be Hashima, but its shape earned it the nickname Gunkanjima, which means “Battleship Island” in Japanese. At just 6.3 hectares in size, it’s smaller than a city park, but during the 1950s, it held more people per square metre than anywhere else on the planet.
The story began in the early 1800s when coal was discovered beneath the seabed. By 1887, mining operations were fully underway. In 1890, the Mitsubishi company bought the island and turned it into a fortress of productivity. To protect against typhoons, they built a giant concrete sea wall and Japan’s very first multi-storey concrete apartment block. The island grew skyward with stair-stepped buildings, all tightly packed like Lego bricks on a child’s bedroom floor.
Life in a Concrete Jungle
By 1959, over 5,200 people lived and worked on the island. That’s a population density of more than 139,000 people per square kilometre in some areas. Life was intense. The community had its own school, hospital, shops, bathhouses, and even a rooftop garden. Children played on stairwells and rooftops. Residents got around using ladders and narrow corridors. Every centimetre mattered.
But Hashima wasn’t just about hard work. The miners and their families tried to create a life filled with small joys. There were movie nights, games of pachinko, and even summer festivals. Despite the noise and the heat, people found moments of warmth in a world built entirely from stone and steel.
Still, there were strict rules. The dead could not be buried on the island. Those close to dying were quietly moved to the mainland. This wasn’t just about superstition. With space at a premium, every square metre had to be used for the living.
A Darker History
Hashima’s past hides a more troubling truth. During World War II, the island became a place of forced labour. Korean and Chinese workers were brought to the island against their will. Many worked under brutal conditions and never left. Historians estimate that hundreds—possibly over a thousand—died in the mines or from exhaustion and malnutrition.
This part of the island’s history sparked controversy when Hashima was listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2015. Critics argued that Japan must fully acknowledge the suffering that happened there. Some efforts have been made to include this in museum displays, but debates continue.
Silence After the Storm
As the world turned to oil in the 1960s, coal lost its shine. Mitsubishi shut down the mines in 1974. Almost overnight, Hashima was emptied. Families packed up their lives and never came back. What remained were hollow buildings, rusted pipes, and rooms left exactly as they were.
For 35 years, no one was allowed to visit. Nature took over. Ivy climbed walls, rain battered the structures, and the sea crept into forgotten corners. In 2009, parts of the island reopened to tourists, though most of it is still off-limits for safety reasons.
Walking through Hashima today feels like stepping into a ghost city. Shoes, books, toys—reminders of lives once lived—still sit undisturbed.
From Ruins to Pop Culture
Hashima’s strange beauty and spooky silence have attracted attention from around the world. It served as the villain’s lair in the James Bond film Skyfall and inspired a South Korean blockbuster called The Battleship Island. Its haunting landscape draws photographers, historians, and thrill-seekers alike.
Even in ruin, Hashima continues to capture imaginations. It tells a story of industry, ambition, and isolation—of people building a city on a rock, only to leave it behind.
