Don't be afraid to be a behind-the-scenes worker. Always hold a heart that wishes others well.
— Maejima Hisoka（前島 密, 1835–1919）
I often think of those who shape a city's infrastructure and daily life as stagehands, working behind the scenes to keep everything in motion. Maejima's words speak to this idea, a collectivist ethic favouring quiet contribution over individual acclaim. He lived this principle as the bureaucrat who founded Japan's modern postal system. Across a storied career, it was his defining accomplishment—the kind that fundamentally alters a nation but brings little adoration. In today's culture, which rewards visibility and self-promotion, Maejima offers a counterpoint that affirms the social value of unseen labour.
Even as public life grows more individualised, I sense Maejima's ethos in the Japan Post worker buzzing through neighbourhood streets on a red Honda Super Cub, dutifully completing their rounds. I sense it in the handwritten slip pushed through my letterbox after a missed delivery, offering the chance to reschedule, sometimes later that same day. And I sense it in the glossy red postboxes stationed across Tokyo, waiting purposefully for the day's mail.
Few work harder than the humble postbox among the city's many pieces of street furniture. Of the approximately 155,000 postboxes across Japan, around 9,000 are located in Tokyo. Within the capital, roughly 1,800 sit inside konbini, 1,500 are affixed to post offices, and 70 are placed in areas inaccessible to the public. The remaining majority stand on street corners, line arterial roads, or perch between play parks, vending machines, and utility poles. Throughout the day, Tokyoites pass by, dropping in letters—until, four times daily, the boxes are relieved of their load.
Japan's postboxes were not always glossy and red. Maejima launched the Yūbin Yakusho (郵便役所) postal service on April 20, 1871, with a single daily route between Tokyo and Kyoto. That day, the country's first postboxes made their debut. They were simple wooden containers mounted on stands, known as shojō atsume bako (書状集め箱), or "letter collection boxes", with roofs echoing the lines of traditional architecture.
Twelve shojō atsume boxes were installed in Tokyo, five in Kyoto, eight in Osaka, and 62 in post towns along the Tōkaidō route connecting the three cities. In Tokyo, they were placed at prominent sites: certain gates of the Imperial Palace, in front of Sensō-ji Temple and Shiba Daijingū Shrine, and beside significant bridges such as Ryōgokubashi and Kyōbashi.
The year before launching the Yūbin Yakusho, Maejima studied Britain's postal system firsthand. During the 1870s and 1880s, the Meiji government often sent officials abroad on kenbunshō—fact-finding missions designed to gather knowledge for domestic reform. What Maejima brought back became the foundation of Japan's modern postal system. It was unlike anything the public had encountered, and the original shojō atsume boxes were tasked with explaining how it worked. Attached to each were notices announcing the new service, including tables of postage rates, delivery times, and helpful “instructions for letter writers.”
In 1872, just a year later, the postal system expanded to cover most of Japan, and the shojō atsume boxes could no longer meet demand. As the number of post offices grew, so did the need for sturdier boxes with greater capacity. These circumstances led to the introduction of kuro-nuri hashira bako (黒塗柱箱), or "black-painted pillar boxes", built from wooden boards and reinforced at the corners with iron.
In retrospect, the black pillar boxes were a crossroads in Japan's postbox design. The earlier shojō atsume carried an antique Japanese character, but their shortcomings were apparent. The black pillar box retained a Japanese sensibility while offering a more robust, functional, and minimal design. It might have become the foundation for the national postbox. However, its colour posed challenges: with Tokyo still dimly lit at night, the box was hard to spot, and some reportedly mistook it for a public toilet.
Rather than changing the colour and iterating on the black-painted pillar box, Japan looked back to Britain for inspiration. By 1874, the British had standardised red as the official colour for their National Standard pillar boxes. In 1901, Japan followed—adopting red not only to discourage public urination but also introducing a newly designed cylindrical postbox in painted iron. The Ministry of Posts and Telecommunications invited two designers to propose new postbox models: Tawarayatsu Takashichi , who created the Tawarayatsu-shiki Posuto (回転式ポスト), and Nakamura Kōji, who developed the Nakamura-shiki Posuto (中村式ポスト). Both bore more than a passing resemblance to their British counterpart.
Over 100 Tawaraya-style boxes and 15 Nakamura-style boxes were field-tested across Tokyo, Osaka, Kyoto, and other cities. In Tokyo, a Tawaraya stood on the north side of the Nihonbashi Bridge, while a Nakamura was placed on the south—a friendly rivalry. Over time, a series of adjustments were made, resulting in the Kaiten-shiki Posuto (回転式ポスト), featuring a rotating mail slot, and later, the Marugata Hisashi-tsuki Posuto (丸形庇付ポスト), which replaced the often-faulty rotating mechanism with a protective overhang.
The 1901 models also debuted the iconic service symbol, the yūbin kigō (〒), a visual element still central to Japan Post's branding. In 1885, the newly formed Ministry of Communications (逓信省), or Teishin-shō, was established, bringing telecommunications under the same administrative umbrella as the postal service. Over time, the postal service came to be known as the Teishin-shō Yūbinkyoku (逓信省郵便局), or the "Ministry of Communications Post Office". Here lie the origins of the yūbin kigō symbol: it is a stylised rendering of the katakana syllable te (テ), taken from teishin.
The yūbin kigō is an elegant mark that hasn't noticeably aged. Its utility expanded in 1968 with the introduction of the postal code system. For instance, Tokyo Station's postcode is written "〒100-0005". Accordingly, the yūbin kigō is often needed in digital text and can be summoned directly from the keyboard. With your operating system set to Japanese input, try typing "ゆうびん" (yūbin) and cycling through the kanji conversion options until 〒 pleasingly appears. A few variations also exist: 〶 is used to mark post offices on maps and 〠 is a cheerful mascot that represented Japan Post between 1966 and 1996.
During the Second World War, the Konkurīto-sei Posuto (コンクリート製ポスト), or "concrete postbox", appeared on city streets. Its arrival reflected the constraints of the time. With materials scarce, iron postboxes were requisitioned for weapons and ammunition, and these concrete "National Policy" postboxes stepped in as replacements. They were stripped of ornamentation, their low, flat roofs more reminiscent of a newsboy cap than the crown-like tops of earlier designs. Like the civilian population, postboxes, too, made sacrifices. Their slots froze in winter, and their paint cracked in the cold.
During the U.S. occupation following the war, the Teishin-shō was dismantled as part of a broader reorganisation of government institutions. In 1949, the Yūsei-shō (郵政省), or Ministry of Posts and Telecommunications, was established, and postal services continued as a direct arm of the government. In line with these changes came Japan's first genuinely iconic postbox: the Yūbin Sashidashi-bako Ichigō – Marugata (郵便差出箱1号 丸型). Officially, it means "Mail Collection Box No. 1 – Round Type", but we'll refer to it simply as Marugata No. 1.
Marugata No. 1 became the standard iron postbox of the post-war era. It is now a staple in Shōwa Retro-themed amusements, museums, and venues. For businesses of this kind, acquiring a Marugata brings instant yesteryear appeal. The design captures the essence of Shōwa aesthetics: shaped by foreign influence yet refined through numerous filters of Japanese design logic into something distinctly Japanese yet familiar to Western sensibilities. Wherever it is placed, it evokes a universal wave of nostalgia. Only five remain within Tokyo's 23 wards, preserved mainly for commemorative use. In western Tokyo's Kodaira City, 37 Marugata No. 1 postboxes remain in active service for those wishing to see them on the streets.
During the 1950s and '60s, several square, metal box designs were trialled to meet evolving demands. Marugata No. 1 was loved but not without its limitations, and its functional shortcomings gradually became harder to ignore. Mail Collection Box No. 3 introduced an internal container with mailbag support, easing the once-cumbersome task of retrieving letters from the cylindrical models. No. 4, painted a vivid blue, was used for express mail. No. 6 added a compartment for undelivered items, and No. 7 featured dual mail slots for destination-based sorting.
By 1970, the Ministry of Posts and Telecommunications had resolved to modernise Marugata No. 1 ahead of the postal service's centenary. Three prototypes were developed to test new mail retrieval and weather protection solutions. Types B and C featured protruding hoods or canopies, while Type A offered a recessed mail slot set into a square column, favouring simplicity and clean lines. Though questions were raised about its resistance to rain, Type A was ultimately selected for its streamlined form and ease of production. This design became Yūbin Sashidashi-bako Ichigō – Kakugata, or "Mail Collection Box No. 1 – Square Type". With it came the retirement of its cylindrical predecessor.
Britain never made a comparable shift. Its original 1859 National Standard pillar box became the enduring model for most of the country's present-day postboxes. In contrast, Japan's Kakugata No. 1 brought Japanese postbox design full circle—its squared form tracing a more direct lineage back to the black-painted postbox of 1872. It served reliably through the 1970s and 1980s, surviving boom and bust.
In 1996, as Japan dealt with the prolonged stagnation that followed the burst of its bubble economy, change arrived on the streets in the form of "Mail Collection Box No. 10". This postbox marked a shift in design thinking: rounded edges, a seamless, softened exterior, and a durable steel-plated mouth, all finished in a refreshed, more luminous red. The face of the box bore a modernised graphic lockup fusing the yūbin kigō with the kanji characters for yūbin (郵便) and letters spelling "POST." It came as a set with models No. 11 through 14, each tailored to different sizes and needs. Together, they formed a unified design system distilled from decades of accumulated knowledge.
No. 10 reflected the shifting priorities of its era. It was designed for durability and cost-efficient production but also carried a degree of future-proofing for what lay ahead. In 2001, postal services moved to the newly formed Postal Services Agency. It was the first step away from direct governmental control. By 2003, this became Japan Post, a state-owned corporation unifying postal, banking, and insurance services. Japan Post Holdings Co., Ltd. was established in 2007, and in 2015, a triple IPO of its three core subsidiaries—Japan Post, Japan Post Bank, and Japan Post Insurance—marked the next step toward privatisation. As of 2025, the group operates as a publicly traded conglomerate under majority government ownership, balancing public legacy with commercial aims.
Mail Collection Box Numbers 10 through 14 still stand, with at least one within walking distance almost anywhere in Tokyo. I'm not sure whether there will be another redesign. This week, Denmark's state-run postal service, PostNord, announced it would end letter deliveries by the close of 2025, concluding a tradition that spans more than 400 years. It follows a 90% drop in letter volume since 2000, a shift driven by the adoption of digital communication. In response, PostNord will focus on parcel delivery, reflecting the prominence of e-commerce.
Japan’s letter volumes have also declined. In 2001, Japan Post handled around 26.2 billion domestic standard postal items; by 2023, that number had fallen to 13.6 billion—a 48.3% drop. For now, its banking and insurance divisions effectively subsidise the cost of maintaining the mail service, but as the company becomes more fully privatised, it’s not unthinkable that shareholders might push for more commercially driven decisions regarding the post.
Still, it seems unlikely to me that Japan Post will follow Denmark's lead in discontinuing letter deliveries outright. Japan has the highest proportion of elderly citizens in the world. Seniors account for more than 29% of the population—a unique demographic reality that sustains reliance on traditional services. In many respects, Japan moves slowly compared to its global peers. It is a trait often criticised but one that grants its ageing population time and dignity in adapting to digital change. In contrast to the UK, where older adults are left behind amid the non-negotiable shift to online-only services, it feels simplistic to frame Japan’s measured pace as mere bureaucratic inertia. It resembles, instead, an inadvertent act of kindness.
Anecdotally, I'd say Mail Collection Box No. 13 is the most common design seen across Tokyo. Its thickset twin slots encased in Japan Post red are welcoming and accessible. Within the streetscape, it is a neutral, dependable face—postwar modernism filtered through bureaucratic clarity and built for longevity. No. 13 doesn't romanticise its purpose; it fulfils it kindly. As is often the case in urban Japan, it is a universal public utility—designed to remain usable for those who need it most.
Instead of conceding that the postbox is destined for extinction, I find myself wondering what shape Mail Collection Box No. 15 might take. One might ask whether Japan Post will recall Maejima—holding a heart that wishes well for others—to imagine a new, digitally enabled postbox designed to meet the complexities and contradictions of the current era. Since 1871, each model has done just that: behind-the-scenes workers patiently awaiting the next envelope.
Until we meet at the postbox,
AJ
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Note
Today's images of Japan’s postboxes through time were sourced from the Postal Museum Japan—a excellent local museum near Skytree where you can see many of these models in person, from the shojō atsume bako to Mailbox No. 14. If you find yourself nearby, do drop in and offer your support.