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Takeaways from AP's reporting on looming extinction of rare version of Christianity in rural Japan

Takeaways from AP's reporting on looming extinction of rare version of Christianity in rural Japan

Independent04-06-2025
On the rural islands of Nagasaki a handful of believers practice a version of Christianity that has direct links to a time of samurai, shoguns and martyred missionaries and believers.
After emerging from hiding in 1865, following centuries of violent persecution by Japan's insular warlord rulers, many of the formerly underground Christians converted to mainstream Catholicism.
Some Hidden Christians, however, continued to follow not the religion that 16th century foreign missionaries originally taught them, but the idiosyncratic, difficult to detect version they'd nurtured during centuries of clandestine cat-and-mouse with a brutal regime.
On Ikitsuki and other remote sections of Nagasaki prefecture, Hidden Christians still pray to what they call the Closet God — scroll paintings of Mary and Jesus, disguised as a Buddhist Bodhisattva and hidden in special closets. They still chant in a Latin that hasn't been widely used in centuries.
Now, though, the Hidden Christians are disappearing. Almost all are elderly, and as the young move to cities or turn their backs on the faith, those remaining are desperate to preserve evidence of this unique offshoot of Christianity — and convey to the world what its loss will mean.
'At this point, I'm afraid we are going to be the last ones,' said Masatsugu Tanimoto, 68, one of the few who can recite the Latin chants his ancestors learned 400 years ago.
Here are some key takeaways from The Associated Press' extensive reporting on a dwindling group of faithful who still worship today as their ancestors did when forced underground in the 17th century.
They rejected Catholicism even after the persecution ended
Christianity spread rapidly in 16th century Japan when Jesuit priests converted warlords and peasants alike, most especially on the southern main island of Kyushu, where the foreigners established trading ports in Nagasaki.
Hundreds of thousands, by some estimates, embraced the religion.
That changed after the shoguns began to see the religion as a threat. The crackdown that followed in the early 17th century was fierce.
Many continued to practice in hiding, and when Japan opened up and allowed Christianity, they emerged and became Catholics.
But others chose to stay Kakure Kirishitan (Hidden Christians), continuing to worship as their ancestors did underground.
Hidden Christianity developed when a lapse in secrecy could be deadly
Catholics have churches, priests and centuries of hard-fought dogma. But Hidden Christians were forced to hide all visible signs of their religion after the 1614 ban on Christianity and the expulsion of foreign missionaries.
Households took turns keeping precious ritual objects hidden safely and hosting the secret services that celebrated both faith and persistence.
This still happens today, and one of the most remarkable things about the religion is the ease with which an observer can feel unmoored from time, transported by rituals unchanged since the 16th century.
Different communities worship different icons and have different ways of performing the rituals.
In Sotome, for instance, people prayed to a statue of what they called Maria Kannon, a genderless Bodhisattva of mercy, as a substitute for Mary.
They take pride in clinging to the old ways
Many Hidden Christians rejected Catholicism after the persecution ended because Catholic priests refused to recognize them as real Christians unless they agreed to be rebaptized and abandon the Buddhist altars that their ancestors used.
Tanimoto believes his ancestors continued the Hidden Christian traditions because becoming Catholic meant rejecting the Buddhism and Shintoism that had become such a strong part of their daily lives underground.
'We are not doing this to worship Jesus or Mary," he said. "Our responsibility is to faithfully carry on the way our ancestors had practiced.'
An important part of Hidden Christians' ceremonies is the recitation of Latin chants, called Orasho.
The Orasho comes from the original Latin or Portuguese prayers brought to Japan by 16th century missionaries.
Tanimoto recently showed AP a weathered copy of a prayer his grandfather wrote with a brush and ink, just like the ones his ancestors had diligently copied from older generations.
Today, because funerals are no longer held at homes and younger people are leaving the island for work and school, Orasho is only performed two or three times a year.
Hidden Christianity is dying, and the faithful know it
There were an estimated 30,000 in Nagasaki, including about 10,000 in Ikitsuki, in the 1940s, according to government figures, but nobody has been baptized since 1994.
Hidden Christianity is linked to the communal ties that formed when Japan was a largely agricultural society. Those ties crumbled as the country rapidly modernized after WWII, with recent developments revolutionizing people's lives, even in rural Japan.
Hidden Christianity has a structural weakness, experts say, because there are no professional religious leaders tasked with teaching doctrine and adapting the religion to environmental changes.
Researchers are collecting artifacts and archiving video interviews with Hidden Christians in an attempt to preserve a record of the endangered religion.
Masashi Funabara, 63, a retired town hall official, said most of the nearby groups have disbanded over the last two decades. His group, which now has only two families, is the only one left, down from nine in his district. They used to perform prayers almost every month; now they meet only a few times a year.
'The amount of time we are responsible for these holy icons is only about 20 to 30 years, compared to the long history when our ancestors kept their faith in fear of persecution. When I imagined their suffering, I felt that I should not easily give up,' Funabara said.
Just as his father did when memorizing the Orasho, Funabara has written down passages in notebooks. He hopes the notes will help convince his son, who works for the local government, to one day be his successor.
___
Associated Press religion coverage receives support through the AP's collaboration with The Conversation US, with funding from Lilly Endowment Inc. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
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My eye-opening visit to Hiroshima, 80 years after the bombing
My eye-opening visit to Hiroshima, 80 years after the bombing

Times

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My eye-opening visit to Hiroshima, 80 years after the bombing

'Those days, Nakajima was a very happy place – with markets, restaurants and even a movie theatre,' says Keiko Ogura, 87, fondly recalling a neighbourhood close to her childhood home in Hiroshima. These days the place of Ogura's memory is known worldwide. But Nakajima no longer resembles the bustling commercial district it once was. Now the 30-acre wedge of land between the Motoyasu and Honkawa rivers is the Hiroshima City Peace Memorial Park, laid down in 1955 to mark the destruction caused by the world's first atomic bomb. It targeted the T-shaped Aioi Bridge just to the north, destroying almost everything within a one-and-half-mile radius and killing 80,000 people instantly. Today the Peace Park is visited annually by 720,000 overseas travellers who, like myself, have come to learn more about the bombing and its legacy and pay our respects. For me, the visit is also a chance to explore the contemporary city beyond its tragic past, including its vibrant food scene, and the wider Hiroshima region. 'My memory is so clear and, while I have a clear memory, I want people to hear my story,' Ogura tells me when I arrive to meet her in a private room at the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum. There is a steeliness in her gentle voice. Ogura is a hibakusha — an atomic bomb survivor. She was just eight years old when the 'Little Boy' was dropped on Hiroshima at 8.15am on August 6, 1945. Ogura has agreed to meet me during my few days in Hiroshima to share her first-hand account of the bombing and its aftermath. She is the founder of Hiroshima Interpreters for Peace (HIP), an activist group that 'tells the facts of Hiroshima to the world' — including to travellers interested in gaining a deeper understanding of what happened. The weighty privilege of meeting Ogura is underscored by our location: the Hiroshima Peace Memorial Museum, which houses a necessarily shocking collection of personal stories and artefacts about the bombing in Kenzo Tange's unadorned modernist building. Ogura pulls up a map on her PowerPoint presentation. 'We couldn't make our own bomb shelter in the city centre so my father was worried,' she explains. By August 1945 most Japanese cities had been heavily bombed, and Hiroshima residents had become used to the sound of American bombers and reconnaissance aircraft regularly flying over. Recognising that Hiroshima — a military city — would eventually be targeted, Ogura's father wanted to build his family an air-raid shelter. 'So we moved here, to Ushita.' She points to a suburb a mile and a half from their former home in the city centre, beyond the sacred Mount Futaba, the location of many temples and shrines. It was a decision that saved their lives. 'There was a strong flash and a blast,' she says. 'Then everything started to burn.' She recalls lying on the road beside her partially collapsed home. 'I couldn't breathe.' But Ogura was alive, as were her immediate family — Mount Futaba had shielded their neighbourhood from the full force of the bomb. But death was all around her, inescapable. 'I lived near a shrine, and people rushed there to seek help. So many people died in front of me. My father cremated bodies every day — over 700 victims,' she says, recalling the terrible smell of burning that permeated the city air. 'Those were my childhood memories; that is the reality of nuclear weapons.' Ogura carried her 'invisible scars' silently into her forties, when she was persuaded to start speaking publicly — adamant that by sharing her first-hand account she could encourage people to take action to prevent a repeat (an undertaking that perhaps now seems more critical than ever). Her testimony is disarmingly frank, yet told with warmth and not a hint of pity or anger. 'There are not so many witnesses left; I want to tell my story until the last moment.' Two hours later I emerge into the Peace Park, which is full of trees and shrubs donated by regions across Japan. Ogura's story is overwhelming and I am relieved that I have an unscheduled afternoon ahead to slowly take it all in. I wander between the stone monuments, such as the Flame of Peace and the Children's Peace Monument, topped with the statue of an origami crane and tragic 12-year-old Sadako, a local child who folded thousands of these enduring symbols of peace during her battle with leukaemia caused by the atomic radiation. Close by the graceful arching cenotaph contains books listing the names of the 344,306 victims within the radius of the hypocentre, with new names to be added during this year's 80th anniversary commemorations, as hibakusha pass away. It's a reminder that life presses on, and that Hiroshima moves ceaselessly like any other city. The Hiroden streetcar trundles commuters past the A-Bomb Dome — the shell of the former Hiroshima Prefectural Industrial Promotion Hall that is a symbol of the city — and modern buildings surround the Unesco world heritage site. A new 28,520-seat football stadium has just opened nearby, alongside an events spot with cafés, shops and a grooming parlour selling bentos for dogs. • Read our full guide to Japan That evening I walk from the Hilton Hiroshima — my excellent hotel base with mountain and sea views where President Biden stayed during the 2023 G7 summit — to the Hondori central entertainment area. Here teens linger late around soft-serve ice-cream stands and clothes shops such as Uniqlo, which opened its first store in Hiroshima in 1984. At the Golden Garden bar I try deep-fried oysters from the Seto Inland Sea, washed down with fragrant Teagarmot Journey IPA by Hiroshima Neighborly Brewing, a star on the city's craft beer scene (@goldengarden_beer). It's the warm-up for the main event: okonomiyaki, Hiroshima's ubiquitous savoury pancake. On a recommendation from the hotel concierge I take a counter seat at the family-run Henkutsuya Horikawa and watch as the owner cooks up crêpes, cabbage, pork and soba noodles in a tightly choreographed dance at the teppan. The layers are piled up, flipped and topped with a fried egg and tangy okonomiyaki sauce, and the whole thing is slid over, piping hot and tasty (mains from £4; 2-20 Nagarekawacho). The next morning I walk with Joy Jarman-Walsh, who has been a Hiroshima resident for 30 years. She reveals that okonomiyaki has roots in the postwar city, when destitute war widows sold simple pancakes with cabbage and American flour to survive. 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With its photogenic views and cute deer (often seen on the beach in front of the red torii gate), Miyajima is beautiful but over-touristed. It is the best-known tourist attraction of the Seto Inland Sea, closely followed by the so-called Art Islands — including Naoshima, home of Yayoi Kusama's giant spotty pumpkin — almost 125 miles to the east and which have helped to put the region on the map in recent years. • 16 of the best Japan tours It's a real contrast to the quiet stops on the slow rail route running east along the Inland Sea coast — my next direction of travel as I delve deeper into the region. I ride the train for two hours, watching forested islands drift past in a blue haze, the calm waters interspersed with oyster farms and faded shipbuilding towns such as Kure, where the Second World War battleship Yamato — the largest ever constructed — was built. Slowly but surely the trains grow shorter and emptier. I disembark in the former salt-trading town of Takehara to explore its preserved Edo-period (1603-1868) townscape. It's disarmingly quiet as I stroll through alleyways lined with wooden houses, earthen walls and intricate bamboo latticework. This is what the Japanese call inaka — the countryside. And that evening, as I cross onto the island of Ikuchijima, I am deep in inaka. My destination is Azumi Setoda, a 22-room contemporary ryokan housed in the grand former residence of the Horiuchi family, the wealthiest salt traders in Setoda town. It's a sought-after property, created by Adrian Zecha, the visionary founder of Aman Resorts. I check into my 50 sq ft room, with its futon bed, wooden panelling and pocket garden concealed behind elegant yuki-mi — snow-viewing screens — that slide up and down instead of sideways. There is time for a bath. The deep Japanese cypress (hinoki) soaking tub looks inviting, but instead I head across the road to the public bathhouse (sento), which has been renovated by the hotel for guests and locals; for the latter, a sento visit remains a daily ritual. That evening a fantastic multi-course meal is served beneath a lattice of ancient beams inside Azumi Setoda's lofty main building, presented on antique Kyushu pottery once owned by the Horiuchi family. The chef Kenya Akita's menu uses produce from a 30-mile radius (including Inland Sea fish and vegetables from his garden), with dishes such as octopus bisque and sea bream carpaccio. The elevated, Japanese-style hospitality, known as omotenashi, is highly personalised and reason enough to seek out Azumi Setoda, but so too is the chance to become immersed in rural life: picking citrus fruits, fishing and sailing. I seize the chance to borrow a hotel bike and cycle through lemon groves along part of the Shimanami Kaido, a 37-mile purpose-built bike route that connects Honshu with Shikoku via islands in the Inland Sea. • 14 of the best places to visit in Japan Before I depart Azumi Setoda I take a walk with the hotel's guide, Julian Rodriguez, who has weaved together an illuminating history of life in this once-vital port, in part by listening to the stories of local octogenarians. There's the stone lantern lighthouse that guided ships through narrow rapids, the island-hopping library boat and the overgrown sauna-like 'stone bath' caves once used by locals. There are 'sketch points' marking the exact spots where the local watercolour artist Ikuo Hirayama painted scenes of Setoda. One such view is of the vermillion Kojoji pagoda, built by Buddhist monks who outgrew their monastery on the mainland 600 years ago — now designated an official 'National Treasure'. I think back to my time with Ogura. 'When I tell my story I see people's faces and I let them think,' she said. 'I show them the direction; I want them to decide to do something.' For me, that is to pass on the message that Hiroshima is a place of compelling stories and friendly, open people eager to share them. I urge you to visit, to listen and make a life-affirming connection to authentic Japan. Kate Crockett was a guest of Hiroshima Tourism Association ( and InsideJapan Tours, which has nine nights' B&B with stays in Kyoto, Osaka and Hiroshima from £4,273pp, including all domestic transport, some private guiding and activities ( Fly to Tokyo or Osaka Have you visited Hiroshima? Share your memories in the comments

Four whales beached in Japan could have been stranded by huge earthquake
Four whales beached in Japan could have been stranded by huge earthquake

Daily Mail​

time2 days ago

  • Daily Mail​

Four whales beached in Japan could have been stranded by huge earthquake

Four whales that became beached in Japan could have been stranded by the huge earthquake that triggered tsunami warnings, experts have revealed. Filmed in Tateyama, Chiba prefecture, heartbreaking footage shows the huge creatures laying within a few feet of each other on the beach. Parts of Japan have recently been struck by 5ft waves, but the whales appeared to have become stranded before they hit. Sad incident: Heartbreaking footage has revealed that at least four giant whales are stranded on a beach in Japan amid the tsunami warnings This poses the question – how did the whales end up there in the first place? According to Professor Peter Evans, Director of the Sea Watch Foundation, the answer may lie in an increase in underwater noise, causing the whales to become disorientated. Speaking to the Daily Mail, he said: 'Whales, particularly deep diving species, are susceptible to hearing damage from underwater noise. 'Sea quakes are one source of very loud noise. 'I imagine that the earthquake off Russia has caused major tremors initiating the tsunami and that all of that has had impacts on whales.' The evidence: Filmed in Tateyama, Chiba prefecture, the footage shows the huge creatures laying within a few feet of each other Japan was struck by tsunami waves approaching five feet on Wednesday as the biggest earthquake for 14 years saw millions having to evacuate. Tidal waves struck parts of Russia, Japan, and the United States in the aftermath of a magnitude 8.8 earthquake off Russia's eastern Kamchatka Peninsula. The earthquake was the sixth most powerful on record, and the strongest in Kamchatka region since 1952, with aftershocks of up to 7.5 magnitude expected to hit. It is the largest earthquake globally since 2011, when a 9.1 megaquake hit northeast Japan and left 19,747 people either dead or missing. Rob Deaville, Project Manager of the UK Cetacean Strandings Investigation Programme the Zoological Society of London, agreed that underwater noise could be to blame for the whale strandings. Speaking to the Daily Mail, he said: 'From the pictures, it looks like a small group of sperm whales – a species known to mass strand quite frequently. 'It's certainly true some species are quite sensitive to noise – whether it's manmade or natural – but without any context, I'd be a bit cautious about trying to link the events at this stage. 'Until a post–mortem is carried out, we can't jump to any conclusions.' Usually, most whales are unaffected by tsunamis, according to David Rugh, a retired whale expert at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) Writing in an article for Journey North, he said: 'Whales will be almost unaffected. 'At sea they will have the sensation of a wave passing when the tsunami goes by, much as vessels at sea do, without any deleterious affect. 'The place where there might be a problem would be near shore when a tsunami rapidly pulls water out to sea before a wave hits the shore. 'Whales might be stranded for a moment and then pushed hard against tidal rocks as the tsunami overwhelms them. 'Therefore, the degree of impact may be a function of proximity to the coast.' The expert highlights that tsunamis vary in size and dynamics, so it will not be consistent in how they impact whales. 'Videos of tsunamis sometimes show a beach becoming exposed for a short while, and then a high wave comes in.' North added: 'If a whale was very near the beach at that moment, it might be pulled out to sea or - for a few tens of seconds - it might be stranded. 'It's the force of the incoming wave that could be especially hard on living things.'

The masterpieces of Sussex's radical Christian commune
The masterpieces of Sussex's radical Christian commune

Spectator

time3 days ago

  • Spectator

The masterpieces of Sussex's radical Christian commune

Ditchling in East Sussex is a small, picturesque village with all the trappings: medieval church, half-timbered house, tea shops, a common, intrusive new housing developments down the road, a good walk from the nearest train station and the Downs on its doorstep. But the resonance of the place owes much to the remarkable artistic activity that has bloomed since Eric Gill moved his family there in 1907. It was part craft commune, part lay monastery, a living experiment in distributism, the radical Christian political philosophy that held that land should be distributed as widely as possible. It was an attempt to resurrect the medieval guild. Gill's Catholic community even had its own: that of St Joseph and St Dominic, which held that 'all work is ordained to God and should be Divine worship' and 'making the goodness of the thing to be made the immediate concern in work'. Dominican friars were frequent visitors. In the early 1920s, Gill's distributist experiment was something of a tourist attraction, with a succession of visitors dropping by to observe this community of craftsmen (Gill repudiated the effete term 'artist'), with its woodworking, stonecutting, silverwork and printing. (Hilary Pepler ran St Dominic's Press, and Edward Johnston – the one member of the group who declined to convert to Catholicism – was their lettering man.) David Jones, painter and poet, was introduced to Ditchling by Mgr John O'Connor – G.K. Chesterton's original Father Brown – and was, for a time, engaged to Gill's daughter Petra. The women did the domestic chores and some skilled work such as weaving. Jones would much later say that 'if I were to write down a typical day at Ditchling in 1922, it would be very hard indeed to convey the naturalness, unaffectedness, happiness, sincerity, rightness, freshness which we at the time felt and that in spite of the usual tensions, strains, squabbles, etc. But just to give an account of it now would seem affected, arty-crafty, self-consciously 'religious', eccentric, mistaken if not actually bogus.' In the same letter he reflects on the 'extreme difficulty of conveying to chaps now the particular freshness or springtime… of the… Weltanschauung of the 1920s'. The workshops and chapel of the group were – unforgivably – demolished in 1989, and the houses sold privately (one owner painted over a mural by Jones) but the establishment of the Ditchling Museum of Art + Craft was some compensation for the loss. It was reinvigorated in 2013 and, notwithstanding its small size, has held excellent exhibitions of local artists and associates of the Ditchling group, including Edward Johnston and Frank Brangwyn. Now, 40 years on, it presents another reworking to expand the range of artists on show and deal with the problem of Eric Gill – now best known for interfering with his daughters, plus his dog. On the first, there is a striking assembly of portraits on show of individuals associated with Ditchling, extending beyond the Guild, from Mary Gill, Eric's wife, eyes bent on her work, to Amy Sawyer, a flamboyant artist who wrote plays for local performance. There's fine textile work, notably Grace Denman's striking silkscreen prints, and a reimagining of Ethel Mairet's weaving workshop, complete (for the multisensory route is the way to go nowadays) with an olfactory station for smelling her dye plants, including cabbagey woad. Ditchling's tradition lives on: the illustrations here by John Vernon Lord for Aesop's Fables are exquisite and playful. But it's the work of the Guild that remains outstanding and that ethos of 'the goodness of the thing to be made' is evident in every medium, from Dunstan Pruden's exquisite silver work to Joseph Cribb's curvy, sensual carvings in wood and stone to Johnstone's calligraphy. The radical character of distributism is there in Philip Hagreen's funny anti-capitalist wood engravings. In one, the snake in Eden, 'The First Advertiser', is seen coiled around a tree. 'Eat More Fruit,' it demands. But it's David Jones who steals the show without dominating it: his moving 'Our Lady of the Hills' (1921) is the poster image and I loved the engaging, perky 'Agnus Dei' he created for the guild chapel. Wedding dress, made and worn by Petra Gill, c.1930. DITCHLING MUSEUM OF ART + CRAFT Gill, we know, experimented sexually with his two older daughters (the incest with his sister was consensual). There's a curious little room, established on the advice of the Methodist Survivors' Advisory Group, to which entrance by under-16s is discouraged, which aims to represent the achievements and personality of the girls in their own right, including Petra's hand-woven wedding dress (see above). But separating these things from the rest means that lovely pieces – such as Gill's studies of his daughters in admirable clear line and David Jones's affectionate depiction of Petra – are presented as part of a problem. I'd have put the lot out on general display with a panel offering information about his sins. 'The Plait', 1922, by Eric Gill. IMAGE: DITCHLING MUSEUM OF ART + CRAFT COLLECTION Unless you're a local, it's a hike to get to Ditchling. But it's worth it.

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