Martyrs of one fire, witnesses in two lands

Borneo Post

2 days ago

It was a true joy to host Fr. Albert Musinguzi, a vibrant diocesan priest from Uganda, who is spending his summer holidays with my family here in Sabah. Our paths first crossed in Rome during my family's pilgrimage in the Jubilee Year — a providential encounter that reminds me heaven has impeccable timing.
He recently completed his Licentiate in Sacred Liturgy at the Pontifical Institute of Liturgy, Sant'Anselmo. His thesis? Brace yourself: 'A Liturgical Hermeneutical Study of the Divine-Human Exchange in the Three Proper Prayers of the Mass for the Memoria of St Charles Lwanga and Companions, Martyrs in Uganda.' Yes, it's a theological mouthful. I needed a glass of water just reading it.
But beneath the Latin in the prayers lies a blazing, human story that caught me off guard.
Through Fr. Albert, I was introduced to the Uganda Martyrs. They were a group of 45 young Catholics and Anglicans who were killed between 1885 to 1887 because they chose to defend their faith. Pope Francis calls this 'ecumenism of blood' highlighting the unity of Christians who have suffered martyrdom. There were also Muslim Ugandan converts who were martyred.
Burned, beheaded, speared — but not defeated — their blood became the seed of a flourishing Church in Africa. Among them was Charles Lwanga, protector of young pages. The feast of St. Charles Lwanga and his companions is celebrated on 3 June by the Catholic Church. Today, Namugongo Shrine draws pilgrims from around the world, drawn by the power of a faith worth dying for.
Their martyrdom wasn't about death. It was about unshakable love for God. The 22 Catholic martyrs were beatified by Pope Benedict XV in 1920 and canonised as saints by Pope Paul VI in 1964, during the Second Vatican Council — a momentous recognition of Africa's deep and growing Christian roots.
Fr. Albert gifted my family a profound treasure, a book — African Holocaust: The Story of the Uganda Martyrs. The word 'holocaust' comes from the Greek 'holokaustos' , meaning 'completely burnt' — once describing offerings wholly consumed on the altar. In spiritual terms, it evokes lives poured out in love. In this light, the Uganda Martyrs' story is not just tragedy. It is sacred offering, a fire that still burns.
The book by Fr. John Francis Faupel, first published in 1962, places their deaths within the swirl of colonialism and Buganda's court politics. Yet at its heart, it's not about empire. It's about love of God, of truth, of faith unshaken by flame.
As I leafed through its pages, my thoughts drifted home to Sabah to a book launched on March 15, 2025. I recalled Reverand Fr. Cosmas Lee's book, Ultimate Sacrifice: The Tragic and Unaccounted Death of Catholic Missionaries, chronicling the fate of Catholic missionaries and laymen executed by Japanese forces in 1945.
Their bodies were never found. Their names nearly forgotten. But like the martyrs of Uganda, they died not as victims of war — but as witnesses of the Cross.
One Church, Two Stories, One Fire. Why Martyrs Matter?
Two stories — one from the heart of Africa, the other from the highlands of Borneo — began to echo across time. Different empires. Different flames. But the same fire of faith.
With kopi-O in hand and a notebook open, I did what any reflective soul might do: I drew quiet, reverent parallels. What follows isn't just a comparison, it's a celebration. Of two lands, two histories, but one Church. One of martyrs beatified and canonised — and others who, God willing, will be.
In the Catholic faith, martyrs embody the ultimate witness to Jesus Christ — offering their lives out of love for God. Their sacrifice echoes His Passion, reminding us that faith is not merely belief, but the total gift of self.
Martyrs deepen our courage, strengthen our devotion and draw us closer to God. Their stories unite believers, inspire hope in persecution and reveal the quiet power of grace. In honouring them, the Church proclaims: holiness can flourish even in suffering — and love is stronger than fear.
Some die in fire. Others in silence. Some leave behind relics. Others vanish into the forest. But all leave behind a light that never goes out.
Namugongo: Martyrs of the Flame
In 19th-century Buganda (now Uganda), as colonial powers clashed and old kingdoms trembled, King Mwanga II ruled with paranoia and ruthlessness. Threatened by Christianity's influence, he demanded absolute allegiance from his court — including the young pages who had embraced the new faith.
In a time of growing Christian influence, the King saw the new faith not only as a political threat but also as a personal challenge especially when Christian converts refused to indulge his sexual advances. Charles Lwanga became the protector to the younger boys under his care, shielding them from the king's sexual exploitation. His defiance, along with that of others infuriated the king.
In May 1886, the King convened a court session and demanded that all his pages declare whether they were Christian. When a group boldly stepped forward affirming their faith, he ordered them imprisoned. They were given a stark choice: abandon Christianity or die. None recanted.
On June 3, 1886, a group of Catholic, Anglican and Muslim converts were marched to Namugongo, a place that would soon become hallowed ground. Along the way, some were executed by spear or beheading, but most were reserved for a gruesome public spectacle of burning. At Namugongo, they were stripped, tightly bound in reed mats and tied to posts over a massive pyre.
As the fire was lit, the martyrs prayed aloud, sang hymns and offered words of forgiveness to their executioners. One of the guards later testified, awestruck, that they died 'not like boys, but like angels.' These brave witnesses were not part of a political rebellion — they were peaceful believers who refused to leave their faith.
All the converts were accused of embracing either Christianity or Islam, thereby being seen as undermining the authority of the monarch. In a heartfelt gesture of recognition and unity, the Government of Uganda has officially acknowledged these Muslim martyrs. Beginning in 2024, it has allocated funding to support the annual commemoration of Muslim Martyrs' Day. This move underscores the government's commitment to promoting religious tolerance and historical acknowledgment in Uganda.
Today, Namugongo is one of the largest Christian pilgrimage sites in Africa. Every year on June 3, millions gather to honour their memory. The story of the Uganda Martyrs continues to inspire Christians worldwide, a testament to youthful courage, sacrificial love and the power of faith to withstand even the fiercest flames. Their legacy is not merely one of suffering, but of triumph — proof that even in death, light shines through.
Tenom: Martyrs of the Mist
Half a century after the Uganda Martyrs, and thousands of miles east in the highlands of North Borneo, another chapter of quiet 'martyrdom' was written. This time in the misty hills of Tenom. It was 1945, the final months of World War Two. As Japanese forces crumbled under Allied pressure, paranoia and brutality surged through the interior.
In this chaos, 12 men of faith— nine missionaries and three local lay Catholics — were arrested by Japanese troops between May 19 and 20, 1945. Among them was Monsignor August Wachter, the Apostolic Prefect of North Borneo, a towering figure who had served in Borneo for 40 years. Their decision to stay was not born of recklessness but of love. They had planted seeds in the hearts of the people. And like all good shepherds, they did not abandon the flock during World War Two.
The missionaries were German-speaking Austrians, members of the Mill Hill Missionary — men whose homelands, ironically, were aligned with Japan in the Axis pact. By the cold logic of wartime alliances, they should have been safe — spared the suspicion and hostility faced by British or other nationals. But war, as history often reminds us, obeys neither reason nor righteousness. These men were no ordinary foreigners. They had immersed themselves in the lives of the people, speaking their languages, walking village trails and bearing the burdens of the poor. They were shepherds of souls. Fathers, teachers, friends. They didn't just serve the communities; they became part of them.
It is believed they had witnessed atrocities committed by retreating Japanese forces — forced labour, executions, acts of cruelty. And in those final desperate months of war, knowledge became a threat. When Japan's defeat was inevitable, fear overtook reason. The missionaries, it seems, became liabilities. In the eyes of their captors, they were men who might speak truth when the silence ended.
Under Japan's war doctrine of 'Senjō' — the battlefield purge. Anyone deemed a danger to military withdrawal or future accountability was to be eliminated. Priests, too, became targets. Not for action, but for the possibility that they might bear witness.
The official version claimed the missionaries perished in an Allied bombing of Sapong Estate on July 3, 1945, supposedly vapourised without a trace. But there were no bomb craters, no bodies, no evidence. Only a silence too clean to be believed.
Yet in the kampungs, the people whispered. Stories passed in hushed voices — of blindfolds and ropes, of final prayers in the jungle, of graves that disappeared beneath the earth and vines. For years, these whispers went unheard, swept aside by colonial politics and post-war rebuilding.
They were not spies. They were not soldiers. They were men of peace, caught in the storm and eliminated not for what they did, but for who they were: steadfast shepherds in the image of God. Their deaths were not collateral damage; they were a deliberate silencing of moral witness.
Their bodies were never found. But their names remain etched into the soul of Tenom, in the chapels they built, in the generations they catechised and in the courage of a Church that remembers.
Thus, we honour them not as pawns of politics, but as martyrs of mercy. In a world gone mad, they chose to stay. When flight was an option, they remained. When silence was survival, they still stood for truth.
The Tek family shared a special moment with Fr Cosmas Lee and Fr Albert Musinguzi through the gifting of books.
The Priest Who Would Not Forget
Then came Fr Cosmas Lee — a Sabahan priest turned quiet investigator — who refused to let truth fade into silence. Over decades, he gathered testimonies, pored over wartime records, and built a case: the missionaries weren't casualties of war, but deliberately executed just weeks before Japan's surrender. 'No remains were found. The bomb was too small. Their deaths too convenient,' he said.
With the heart of a pastor and the eye of a historian, Fr Cosmas spent 15 years uncovering this painful chapter of Church history. He travelled to Rome, Amsterdam, London, and Tokyo, sifting through letters, war reports, and dusty archives. He spoke with villagers, heard survivors' stories, and pieced together long-buried truths.
This wasn't just research — it was an act of love. As a boy, he had heard whispers of what happened. As a priest, he vowed to 'unturn every stone.' Silence, he believed, should never be the final word.
His book presents compelling evidence that the missionaries were executed. It stands as the first detailed account of priests who died not in combat, but in faithful service. A turning point came from a 1952 memoir by Ain Yamazaki, wife of Japanese officer Kenji Yamazaki, who plainly stated the priests were executed — a long-awaited affirmation for grieving villagers.
The book's launch was more than literary — it was spiritual. Parishioners wept. Elders remembered. Young people listened, many for the first time.
Fr Cosmas reminded us that memory is sacred — and these men must never again be forgotten. Their legacy now fuels calls for recognition as martyrs. With the Church newly stirred, a cause for beatification is on the horizon.
Recently, Archbishop Datuk John Wong led a two-day clergy pilgrimage retracing the path of Msgr Wachter and his companions. Marking 80 years since their deaths, the journey — from Kota Kinabalu to Tenom — paused at historical sites with prayers of gratitude and renewal. Guided by Fr Cosmas's reflections, the pilgrimage became not only a tribute to their sacrifice but a call for priests to rekindle courage and perseverance in their vocations.
Archbishop John Wong led a Pilgrimage of Hope (23–24 June 2025), retracing the steps of WWII martyred missionaries in remembrance and renewal. (Photo: Fr Terans Thadeus)
When Uganda Meets Sabah: Convergence and Contrast
At first glance, the Uganda Martyrs and Sabah missionaries seem worlds apart—different lands, cultures and eras. But look closer and a shared spirit emerges. Both faced fear and violence, yet chose to stay, to serve and to surrender their lives to God. What follows is a reflection on the parallels and contrasts between these two martyrdoms—two lights that rose from very different soils, yet shine with the same unwavering flame.
One Church, One Memory, One Hope
Unlike their canonised Ugandan brothers, the missionaries of Sabah have not yet been formally declared martyrs. But as Fr Cosmas Lee reminds us, the road to sainthood begins with remembrance.
To be recognised as a martyr, the Church looks for three things: that the person truly died for their faith, that their death stemmed from hatred of the faith, and that it was accepted willingly — a conscious 'yes' to God, even unto death. By these measures, the twelve victims of Tenom surely qualify. They didn't flee. They stayed — and bore witness with their lives.
While martyrdom permits beatification without a miracle, a verified miracle is generally needed for canonisation—the final step to sainthood. The Church in Sabah now hopes to open this cause. If affirmed, they would join a sacred lineage — from the Colosseum to Namugongo, and perhaps one day, to Tenom's misty forests.
Namugongo rejoices today. Its shrine sings with pilgrims and praise. The Uganda Martyrs live not only in stained glass, but in Africa's young hearts.
In Sabah, we still wait — praying for the day when Tenom becomes holy ground, and Msgr August Wachter and his companions are remembered not just in history, but in liturgy and prayer. Hope does not disappoint.
From Namugongo's fire to Tenom's silence, the Church walks with her martyrs. Though their deaths were separated by continents and centuries, they share one sacred thread: unwavering faith and surrender to God.
In both Uganda and Sabah, holiness wore ordinary faces: young pages, seasoned missionaries, faithful laymen. All said yes. All gave all. They remained. They witnessed. They trusted.
And because they did — we remember, we honour and we carry the flame. In the end, their stories speak the same truth: That the Church is built not only on stone and incense, but on the quiet courage of those who refuse to leave when the cross appears.
And that martyrdom, whether by fire or silence, is never the end. It is always a beginning.