The trial of Tetsuya Yamagami, the man accused of assassinating former Japanese Prime Minister Shinzo Abe, opened on October 28, 2025, in the city of Nara, drawing intense public scrutiny and reigniting debate over the shadowy ties between politics and religion in Japan. The proceedings, which have already drawn hundreds of would-be spectators vying for a mere 32 public seats in the courtroom, mark a pivotal moment in a case that has rocked the nation since Abe’s shocking murder in July 2022.
Yamagami, 45, entered the courtroom dressed in a black top and grey trousers, his long hair tied back, and offered little resistance to the charges. According to NHK and multiple international outlets, he responded to the judge’s inquiry with a barely audible, yet unequivocal, admission: "It is true. There is no doubt that I did it." The trial, held under Japan’s lay judge system, is expected to continue through mid-December, with a verdict slated for January 21, 2026.
The circumstances surrounding the murder are as extraordinary as they are tragic. On July 8, 2022, during an election campaign speech in Nara—a city not far from Kyoto—Abe was fatally shot with a homemade firearm. Yamagami was apprehended at the scene, and the weapon he used prompted a nationwide reckoning over Japan’s famously strict gun laws. In fact, the assassination was such a jolt to the country’s sense of security that lawmakers responded by passing a sweeping new arms control bill in 2024, which now penalizes the sharing of firearm-making instructions online with fines or up to a year in prison, as reported by France 24 and AFP.
But the trial’s most explosive revelations go well beyond gun control. Yamagami’s motive, as presented by both prosecutors and his own defense, centers on a deep-seated grudge against the Unification Church—a religious organization founded in South Korea in 1954, widely known for its mass weddings and controversial fundraising practices. The defendant’s mother, a devoted member of the Church, donated approximately 100 million yen (about $660,000 at the time) over the years, plunging the Yamagami family into bankruptcy and emotional turmoil.
"He developed a strong feeling of revenge against the religious group because his life and that of his family were at the mercy of it," Yamagami’s defense argued, according to Kyodo News. They further revealed a harrowing family history: Yamagami lost his father in 1984, his mother became a follower of the Church in 1991, his older brother died by suicide in 2015, and Yamagami himself attempted suicide in 2005. Defense counsel have asked the court to consider these extenuating circumstances, arguing that Yamagami’s actions were shaped by years of what they termed "religious abuse."
Prosecutors, however, have maintained that such a background, while tragic, does not justify the enormity of the crime. In their words, the consequences of Abe’s murder were "unprecedented" in postwar Japan, and they cautioned against allowing Yamagami’s personal suffering to become grounds for a substantially reduced sentence. The court is expected to hear from 12 witnesses—including Yamagami’s mother—before delivering its ruling.
The Unification Church itself has been thrust into the spotlight, facing a wave of lawsuits from Japanese families who allege that the organization manipulated members into draining their savings to make donations. The Church, often called the "Moonies" after its founder Sun Myung Moon, has denied charges of exploitation, but the fallout from Abe’s assassination has been severe. Investigations in the wake of the shooting revealed that more than a hundred lawmakers from Abe’s Liberal Democratic Party (LDP) had ties to the group. The public backlash was swift, prompting four government ministers to resign and leading the Tokyo District Court to order the dissolution of the Church’s Japanese arm earlier this year, citing "unprecedented damage" to society—a ruling the Church is currently appealing.
Abe’s own connection to the Unification Church traces back decades. His grandfather, former Prime Minister Nobusuke Kishi, played a role in introducing the group to Japan, and Abe was perceived by Yamagami as a key promoter of the Church’s interests. This perception, prosecutors say, motivated Yamagami to target Abe specifically, believing that the act would "draw attention and criticism" to the group and its political entanglements.
The case has also exposed the suffering of so-called "second-generation" followers—the children of Unification Church members—who, like Yamagami, have spoken of lives upended by their parents’ devotion and financial sacrifices. The trial has become a focal point for public debate about religious freedom, political accountability, and the limits of personal responsibility in the face of systemic abuse.
As the trial opened, the city of Nara was abuzz with both the gravity of the proceedings and the presence of high-profile visitors. On the very day of Yamagami’s first court appearance, U.S. President Donald Trump was in Japan for talks with newly appointed Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi, a conservative protégé of Abe. In a show of solidarity, Trump described Abe as "a great friend of mine and a great friend of yours," underscoring the late leader’s enduring influence on both domestic and international politics.
The courtroom drama has not been without its own twists. The trial’s start had been delayed previously after a suspicious object—later determined to be harmless—was discovered, prompting the evacuation of the Nara District Court in 2023. Now, with the proceedings finally underway, the defense has signaled plans to contest some of the charges, particularly those related to Japan’s Firearms and Swords Control Act, on the grounds that Yamagami’s homemade gun does not fall within the law’s strict definition of a handgun.
The nation is watching closely as the trial unfolds. The rare instance of gun violence, the complex web of political and religious ties, and the human tragedies at the heart of the case have all combined to make this one of the most consequential court cases in recent Japanese history. For many, the outcome will serve as a litmus test for how Japan grapples with the intersection of personal trauma, faith, and the rule of law.
With up to 17 more hearings scheduled before the verdict, the eyes of Japan—and indeed, much of the world—remain fixed on Nara as the country seeks answers, closure, and perhaps a measure of justice for a crime that shattered its sense of safety and trust.
