The man who shot dead Japan’s longest serving prime minister finally stood before a judge on Tuesday and confirmed what the world already knew. “Everything is true,” Tetsuya Yamagami told the Nara District Court, his voice barely audible as he admitted to murdering Shinzo Abe in July 2022.
The 45-year-old appeared in court wearing a black T-shirt with his long hair tied back, escorted by four security officials. It marked the first time Yamagami has faced trial since that sweltering summer day when he fired a homemade weapon at Abe during a campaign speech, an act that would ultimately expose one of modern Japan’s most explosive political scandals.
While Yamagami pleaded guilty to murder charges, his legal team indicated they would contest certain secondary accusations, particularly those related to violations of arms control laws. His lawyers argue the improvised firearm he constructed doesn’t technically qualify as an illegal weapon under Japanese law as it existed at the time of the shooting, though legislators have since tightened those regulations.
The trial comes after multiple delays, including a dramatic incident in 2023 when authorities discovered a suspicious item near the courthouse that forced an evacuation. With 17 more hearings scheduled before year’s end, a verdict isn’t expected until January 21, 2026.
What makes this case particularly significant isn’t just the assassination itself but rather what investigators uncovered in its aftermath. Yamagami reportedly harbored deep resentment toward the Unification Church, a religious organization founded in South Korea in 1954 whose members are sometimes called Moonies after founder Sun Myung Moon. According to media reports, Yamagami blamed the church for bankrupting his family after his mother donated approximately 100 million yen, roughly $660,000 in today’s currency, as proof of her faith.
He allegedly targeted Abe not out of political disagreement but because he perceived the former prime minister maintained close ties to the sect. The church has consistently denied claims that it financially exploited members or caused family harm through excessive donation pressures.
Yet the slaying sparked something unprecedented in Japanese politics. Investigations into Abe’s murder led to cascading revelations about deep connections between the Unification Church and conservative lawmakers in Japan’s ruling Liberal Democratic Party. An internal party probe reportedly found that 179 of its 379 lawmakers had some association with the group, whether through attending events, accepting support, or relying on church members during elections.
The public outcry forced four cabinet ministers to resign as trust in the government plummeted. Earlier this year, the Tokyo District Court responded to widespread demands for accountability by issuing a dissolution order for the church’s Japanese branch, citing manipulative fundraising tactics that caused unprecedented damage to society. The church has indicated it will appeal that ruling.
The dissolution order means the organization will lose its tax-exempt status and must liquidate its assets, though it can continue operating as a private entity. It represents only the third time since World War II that Japanese authorities have moved to dissolve a religious organization, following cases involving the Aum Shinrikyo doomsday cult responsible for the 1995 Tokyo subway sarin attack and the Myokakuji group whose leaders were convicted of fraud.
The assassination also served as a profound wake-up call for a nation that prides itself on having some of the world’s strictest gun control regulations. Gun violence occurs so rarely in Japan that when Yamagami fired his first shot, security officials at the scene failed to immediately recognize the sound for what it was. A subsequent police report concluded that this confusion contributed to a delayed response that proved fatal for Abe.
That security failure prompted lawmakers to act. In 2024, they passed legislation further strengthening arms controls specifically to prevent people from manufacturing homemade weapons. The new rules prohibit activities like posting tutorial videos on firearm construction or sharing information about gun sales on social media, with violators facing fines or imprisonment.
Yamagami’s attorneys have detailed his troubled family history in court, including his father’s suicide when Yamagami was four years old and his own suicide attempt in 2005. His brother’s death a decade ago was also ruled a suicide. Defense lawyers argue that Yamagami came to believe the Unification Church had destroyed his entire life, creating what they describe as extenuating circumstances that should be considered during sentencing.
If convicted of murder with premeditation, Yamagami could face a lengthy prison sentence. Japan retains the death penalty, though courts typically reserve capital punishment for cases involving multiple victims. The verdict, when it arrives early next year, will close one chapter of this story. But the broader reckoning it sparked about religious organizations’ influence in Japanese politics and the vulnerability of public figures in a supposedly secure society continues to reverberate through the nation.
The timing of the trial’s opening proved symbolically significant. As Yamagami made his court appearance, U.S. President Donald Trump was visiting Japan to meet with Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi, who is widely regarded as an ideological heir to Abe. Trump had previously described Abe as a friend and praised their close working relationship during his first presidency.
For many Japanese citizens, particularly those who consider themselves victims of the Unification Church’s alleged financial manipulation, the trial represents a long-awaited moment of accountability. For others, it raises uncomfortable questions about how a single act of violence managed to expose institutional weaknesses that had been hiding in plain sight for decades.
