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30 years after deadly Tokyo subway gassing, survivors and victims' families still seeking closure

30 years after deadly Tokyo subway gassing, survivors and victims' families still seeking closure

Fox News20-03-2025

Thirty years on from the fatal sarin nerve gas attack in Tokyo's subway network, survivors and families who lost loved ones are still seeking justice.
Thirteen people were killed and thousands were sickened when cult members released sarin nerve gas in the capital's subway trains on March 20, 1995. The attack remains one of the most shocking atrocities in Japan, a country known for its low crime rates.
The cult, Aum Shinrikyo or Supreme Truth, has since disbanded. Its founder, Shoko Asahara, and 12 of his disciples were executed in 2018.
But 1,600 former members still operate under renamed groups and have ignored an order to pay damages to survivors and bereaved families.
Shizue Takahashi lost her husband, a deputy station master, in the attack. The couple was just starting to enjoy time to themselves after raising three children when tragedy struck.
"My life is still being ruined by Aum and its successor groups," said Takahashi, 78. "We need to carry on and not let the memories fade."
People gasped for air and collapsed
At 8 a.m. during the morning rush, five cult members got on separate train cars on three subway lines converging at Kasumigaseki, Japan's government center, each dropping bags of sarin on the train floors. They punctured the bags with umbrellas, releasing the gas inside the train cars.
Within minutes, commuters poured out of the trains onto the platforms, rubbing their eyes and gasping for air. Some collapsed. Others fled onto the streets where ambulances and rescue workers in hazmat suits gave first-aid.
Kazumasa Takahashi didn't know the puddle he was cleaning on the subway car floor was sarin. He collapsed as he removed a bag — a sacrifice some survivors say saved lives — and never woke up.
The attack sickened more than 6,000. A 14th victim died in 2020 after battling severe after-effects.
The subway gassing happened after a botched police investigation failed to link the cult to earlier crimes, says Yuji Nakamura, a lawyer for the survivors and the bereaved families. "It could have been prevented," he said.
Two days after the gassing, Tokyo police, carrying a caged canary to detect poison, raided Aum's headquarters near Mount Fuji, where the cultists lived together, trained and produced sarin. Asahara was found in a hidden compartment.
Apocalyptic cult
Born Chizuo Matsumoto in 1955, Asahara founded Aum Shinrikyo in 1984. The cult combined Hinduism, Buddhism, Christianity and yoga, and attracted young people disillusioned with materialism. He taught that death could elevate their spirits and justified killing as a virtue.
Followers paid to drink Asahara's bathwater and wore electrical head gear they believed synchronized their brain waves with the guru's. He prophesized an imminent apocalypse, which only true believers would survive.
Asahara gathered doctors, lawyers and scientists from Japan's top universities as his closest aides.
Using donations from followers and earnings from yoga classes and health food businesses, they bought land and equipment. Asahara's scientists developed and manufactured sarin, VX and other chemical and biological weapons.
In 1989, its members killed Tsutsumi Sakamoto, a lawyer who opposed the cult, his wife and baby boy. Their criminal activities escalated after their defeat in the 1990 parliamentary elections. A 1994 sarin attack in the central Japanese city of Matsumoto killed eight and injured more than 140 others.
In all, Aum killed 27 people in more than a dozen attacks that culminated in the subway gassing. It was part of a plot by Asahara to hasten Armageddon, envisioning overthrowing the government.
Still seeking redress
Shizue Takahashi attended most of the Aum criminal trials. She has lobbied for government support, winning the enactment of a law to support crime victims and government benefits of 3 billion yen ($20 million) for more than 6,000 survivors and bereaved families of the Aum crimes.
The government has also enacted laws banning sarin production and possession, and restricted the activities of groups linked to mass killings. Police have since established nuclear, biological and chemical weapons units and beefed up training.
Aum's main successor, Aleph, has ignored a court order to pay 1 billion yen ($6.7 million) in compensation to survivors and bereaved families. The group has allegedly hidden billions of yen of income from yoga and spiritual seminars.
Many of the subway gassing survivors still suffer health problems and trauma, according to support groups.
Takahashi and others last week called on Justice Minister Keisuke Suzuki to do more to accelerate compensation by Aleph and keep them under close watch.
Survivors and their supporters say lessons have not been sufficiently shared with the public.
Shoko Egawa, a journalist and expert on Aum crimes, says attention on the group has largely focused on its crimes rather than teaching people to stay away from dangerous cults. "There is still a lot to learn from (the Aum problems), including how they attracted followers, so that we can prevent people from getting their lives ruined by cults," Egawa said.
Takahashi recently launched a website that compiles articles and comments by survivors, lawyers and writers, including Haruki Murakami's 2007 article about his 1997 book "Underground."
Aum's remnants
At its peak, the cult boasted more than 10,000 followers in Japan and 30,000 in Russia and elsewhere. Aum has disbanded, but about 1,600 people belonging to Aleph and two smaller groups in Japan still practice Asahara's teachings, said the Public Security Intelligence Agency, which monitors the groups.
Minoru Kariya, whose father was killed by Aum members in early 1995 while he was trying to get his sister to quit the cult, said authorities need to do much more to tackle the threat.
"It's scary that they still exist and are operating as organizations and recruiting new followers," he said.

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MORNING GLORY: Antisemitism is shameful and evil. None of us should ever be neutral on such hate
MORNING GLORY: Antisemitism is shameful and evil. None of us should ever be neutral on such hate

Fox News

timea day ago

  • Fox News

MORNING GLORY: Antisemitism is shameful and evil. None of us should ever be neutral on such hate

An attack on any Jew in America is an attack on every Jew in America. It does not matter if the victim of the intended violence was murdered, maimed or escaped unharmed. It does not matter in the least if the targeted Jew was an American, an American-Israeli, a Jew from a third country, or a gentile mistaken for a Jew or an Israeli, or a supporter of either the Jewish people or the state of Israel. The perpetrators of the violence are all evil. Deeply evil. Diseased in mind and soul. Their accomplices, whether in the display of action or via expressed or unexpressed sympathy —and including the apologists thereof attempting to explain motives — all are evil. As a Catholic Christian, I believe in Hell. Those who indulge antisemitism in act or word or in the silence of their mind are headed to Hell absent genuine repentance. For antisemitism is the exact opposite of Christian beliefs and practice. The "Church, mindful of the patrimony she shares with the Jews and moved not by political reasons but by the Gospel's spiritual love," stated the document, "Nostra Aetate of the Second Vatican Council in 1965, "decries hatred, persecutions, displays of antisemitism, directed against Jews at any time and by anyone." So, let's hear this in some homilies this Sunday and from the pulpits of Protestant churches. The Catholic Church's doctrine was unequivocal in its condemnation of antisemitism: "At any time." By "anyone." Including, of course, the attacks on Jews in Boulder, Colorado, on June 1, 2025, the murder of two Israeli diplomats in Washington, D.C. on May 21, 2025, outside the Lillian and Albert Small Capital Jewish Museum, and the firebombing of the home of Pennsylvania Governor Josh Shapiro on April 13, 2025. Antisemitism extends far back in the U.S. to the numerous attacks against Jews on American campuses and streets since October 7, 2023, and to the long trail of antisemitic violence before that horrific massacre which came primarily from the far right, including the attack on the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, on October 27, 2018, and the attack on April 27, 2019, at Chabad of Poway synagogue in Poway, California. The "Unite the Right" rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, in August of 2017, like its predecessor proposed march of the Nazis in Skokie, Illinois, in 1976, are more recent examples. (The march in Skokie never happened but was moved to Chicago after extensive litigation upholding the right of the antisemites to march.) Those are just incidents in my memory. American antisemitism has a long and shameful history. But so too does non-Jewish opposition to antisemitism have a distinguished pedigree which includes, most famously, President George Washington's 1790 letter to the Jewish congregation in Newport, Rhode Island. The "father of our country" wrote then that the new nation he was helping build would give "to bigotry no sanction, to persecution no assistance." President Donald Trump's condemnations of the violence directed at Jews has been equally unequivocal. Good. There has always been clarity on this issue. Too many, however, dodge the horror. Where is the non-Jewish chattering class today? Mostly silent or mumbling or posting attempts to link the criminals to Trump, or Elon Musk or a dozen different excuses. "But, but, but" is the first refuge of the Jew hater afraid to go public. There are some notable exceptions to the quiet or the equivocal. "The Editors" podcast from National Review of June 2, titled "Horror in Colorado," set an excellent bar of condemnation, but it has far too few equivalents in either the conservative or legacy press. Indeed, there are many accomplices to the ancient evil online and in print. Silence is indeed complicity right now, and outright complicity in knowingly platforming antisemitism is especially repugnant at a moment when diseased minds seem poised to follow the examples of the criminals in D.C. and Boulder. Match meet gasoline. Who and where, exactly, is today's equivalent of the French journalist and novelist Émile Zola played a key role in defending Alfred Dreyfus through his famous "J'accuse" open letter, published in the newspaper L'Aurore in January 1898. (If you'd like to learn the outline of the Dreyfus affair, try the excellent 2013 novel by Robert Harris, "An Officer and a Spy." The complicated persecution of Dreyfus can be difficult to trace more than 125 years after the fact, but Harris does it for the reader in an excellent example of the good that historical fiction can do to repair the damage done by the collapse of elementary and secondary education in world history in the U.S.) There are columnists and platforms of note. Have they filed yet? There are athletes and musicians and actors who are quick to rally to popular causes which trigger cascades of virtue signaling. Have they posted? I have yet to see a hashtag or open letter demanding the shaming and shunning of antisemitism in America. Perhaps such a statement is circulating now and about to appear. Perhaps a "We Are the World" is even now being rehearsed, recorded and set for release that will condemn this latest American variant of the ancient evil. Thus far, though, the silence is deafening. Singer-songwriter John Ondrasik of "Five for Fighting" has set the example. Will anyone else from the vast community of media join him? Hugh Hewitt is a Fox News contributor, and host of "The Hugh Hewitt Show" heard weekday afternoons 3 PM to 6 PM ET on the Salem Radio Network, and simulcast on Salem News Channel. Hugh wakes up America on over 400 affiliates nationwide, and on all the streaming platforms where SNC can be seen. He is a frequent guest on the Fox News Channel's news roundtable hosted by Bret Baier weekdays at 6pm ET. A son of Ohio and a graduate of Harvard College and the University of Michigan Law School, Hewitt has been a Professor of Law at Chapman University's Fowler School of Law since 1996 where he teaches Constitutional Law. Hewitt launched his eponymous radio show from Los Angeles in 1990. Hewitt has frequently appeared on every major national news television network, hosted television shows for PBS and MSNBC, written for every major American paper, has authored a dozen books and moderated a score of Republican candidate debates, most recently the November 2023 Republican presidential debate in Miami and four Republican presidential debates in the 2015-16 cycle. Hewitt focuses his radio show and his column on the Constitution, national security, American politics and the Cleveland Browns and Guardians. Hewitt has interviewed tens of thousands of guests from Democrats Hillary Clinton and John Kerry to Republican Presidents George W. Bush and Donald Trump over his 40 years in broadcasting. This column previews the lead story that will drive his radio/tv show today.

Ex-boxer opens up about being granted clemency by Trump and the president potentially pardoning Diddy
Ex-boxer opens up about being granted clemency by Trump and the president potentially pardoning Diddy

Fox News

time3 days ago

  • Fox News

Ex-boxer opens up about being granted clemency by Trump and the president potentially pardoning Diddy

Former professional boxer Duke Tanner remembers witnessing a murder on his first day in prison in 2004. "I watched the guy walk out the unit, blood seeping out of his neck. He dropped on the floor and ended up dying later," Tanner told Fox News Digital, recalling his thoughts at the time. "'It's my new environment. I got to survive. I'm not going to die in here. I'm not going to be him.'" He wound up in jail after getting caught in a drug trafficking sting operation while trying to make additional money for his family. "I thought it was a robbery at first. So, when I saw it was cops, I was really at peace," he said. He wa sentenced to two life terms, ending his boxing career and separating him from his family, including his son, who was just 2 at the time, for 16 years. He dedicated his time in prison to embracing Christianity and taking up every rehabilitation program available. And Tanner remembers the night in 2018 when he realized President Donald Trump would end his sentence early. "I had a dream, and I woke up," Tanner said. "I started writing a letter once a week to the White House after I had that dream, and, two years later, I was let go." After being denied clemency by former President Barack Obama in 2016, Tanner was granted clemency by Trump in 2020. In May, the former boxer was granted a presidential pardon. Tanner visited the White House to thank Trump in person. "I got to thank him, and he remembered my case. And he said, 'Man, you had a bad road, but you got a beautiful son. I hear you're doing great things. And continue the good work. I'm watching you,'" Tanner said. In August, Tanner published a book, "Duke Got Life: A Boxer's Fight for Freedom and One Last Shot at Redemption," detailing his story. Weeks after Tanner received his presidential pardon, Trump floated the idea of giving a presidential pardon to hip-hop artist Sean "Diddy" while he's on trial for sex trafficking. Tanner, who admits he hasn't followed the "Diddy" case closely and isn't "at liberty" to discuss the rapper's charges, revealed how he would feel about the idea of Combs getting a pardon from Trump. "This administration is going to read every piece of paperwork. They're going to get to the facts. They're going to get to the bottom of everything. And if he decides to make that move, it's a positive move, because he went through the system," Tanner said, referencing Trump's criminal trial last summer over alleged hush money to adult film star Stormy Daniels. "He knows what they did to him to try and make him a convicted felon, to make him get found guilty of all those counts. So, he knows the prosecution misconduct. He knows how they do it. He knows that it's a broken system." Tanner also suggested Trump's pardons are a means of holding those involved in the criminal justice system accountable. "And he's trying to show them, 'You guys do y'all job right, or I'm going to come and fix it for you and embarrass you,'" Tanner added. "So, with that being said, if he decides to do it, evidently he saw something, and he got the best lawyers around him. … I'm not at liberty to even speak on [the Diddy trial]. I don't know what's going on. I'm just saying I don't care who it was. If the president said that he wanted to do it, believe me, there's a reason behind it, and that the law wasn't handled correctly." Tanner said he knows a lot of other people who are incarcerated who he believes deserve clemency. "I definitely know there's so many men and women that need clemency to be let out of the system," Tanner said. Tanner has already witnessed another president give a series of controversial pardons in the last year. Former President Joe Biden granted a series of pardons before leaving office in December, including to his son Hunter Biden, who was due to be sentenced for federal gun and tax convictions. "I heard about it. He freed his son," Tanner said. "It can never be comparable to my own because he never went to prison. He never even got charged. I did 16 years, six months and 21 days, taken away from my 2-year-old son. … He can never compare to the pain I went through. And then I came home still fighting for other people. "What has [Hunter] done? Have we even heard from him since he got the pardon? Did he even speak about it? Did he even thank his father about it? So, we can never compare a guy like that to me." Still, Tanner said he's not offended by Hunter Biden's pardon. Trump's Justice Department is reviewing the list of people granted pardons by former President Joe Biden in response to new concerns about Biden's use of an AutoPen to automatically sign documents and concerns about his state of mind in his final months in office, Fox News Digital previously reported. Tanner declined to comment on the investigation. The former boxer is focused on continuing to do community service and helping his 19-year-old nephew become a future boxing world champion. Follow Fox News Digital's sports coverage on X, and subscribe to the Fox News Sports Huddle newsletter.

Remembering the Mother Emanuel Church Shooting 10 Years Later
Remembering the Mother Emanuel Church Shooting 10 Years Later

Yahoo

time3 days ago

  • Yahoo

Remembering the Mother Emanuel Church Shooting 10 Years Later

Tim Grant is comforted during a prayer vigil on June 22, 2015 at the Charleston Southern University for the victims of the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church mass shooting where nine people were killed, including two of Grant's cousins. Credit - Joe Raedle—Getty Images Ten years ago this month, a 21-year-old misfit who imagined himself a white supremacist zealot walked casually through the unlocked door of the oldest African Methodist Episcopal Church in the South. Without hesitation, he was invited into a basement fellowship hall to join 12 African American worshippers at their weekly Bible study. After roughly 45 minutes, once the congregants had closed their eyes in benediction, the young man removed a .45 caliber Glock from his waist pack and began to methodically assassinate nine men and women, ranging in age from 26 to 87. Three were on the ministerial staff, including the pastor, who also was serving his fourth term in the state senate. Each was shot at least five times, with the oldest, church matriarch Susie Jackson, shredded by ten hollow-point bullets. The survivors reported that the shooter made his racist intentions explicit as he fired, and he eagerly confirmed his sickening purpose to investigators after being captured the next day. As a journalist who had chronicled progress and regress in my native South across four decades, I was deeply affected by the murders on June 17, 2015, at Emanuel African Methodist Church in Charleston, S.C.—Mother Emanuel, as it is known. It was a blunt force reminder of the persistence of racial violence despite our fitful progress on civil rights. The timing toward the end of Barack Obama's second term seemed a pointed rebuke to any who still saw in his elections the heralding of a 'post-racial' America. Two days later, I was, like so many, simultaneously awed and befuddled by the scene at Dylann Roof's televised bond hearing, when five victims' family members rose one after the next to offer some measure of forgiveness to the remorseless killer. 'I will never talk to her again, I will never be able to hold her again,' wailed Nadine Collier, the now motherless daughter of church sexton Ethel Lance. 'But I forgive you. And have mercy on your soul.' Even to the faithful, it seemed among the purest expressions of Christianity ever witnessed, and it inspired Obama to deliver a stirring eulogy that, while remembered for his warbling of 'Amazing Grace,' also was his most searing and authentic effort at grappling with race. But what did the extension of grace really mean in the context of this tragedy? What did it mean, for that matter, in the context of 400 years of Black suffering, oppression, and injustice? Was it as simple as 'forgive us our trespasses' and 'forgive them, for they know not what they do?' Or were those Scriptural entreaties the foundation for something more self-protective that had evolved from centuries of systemic victimization? While writing a book about Mother Emanuel, I devoted much of the next decade to exploring those questions, convinced that answers might be found through a deeper study of the backstories of the congregation and its denomination. Where better to search for the intersections of history and theology, I figured, than in Charleston, the steepled Holy City, where nearly half of all enslaved Africans disembarked in North America and where the Civil War began? As I came to better understand the subversive role played by the Black church in resisting oppression, it grew clearer that forgiveness was not always for the forgiven. Read More: How Do You Forgive a Murder? Black Charlestonians, as it ends up, have had a lot to forgive. The intensity of their suffering, and of their resistance to it, reverberates through the now 207-year story of Mother Emanuel and its predecessor congregation. When that body formed in 1818 after a bold walkout from white Methodist churches, it prompted an immediate and ruthless response. Congregants were arrested in mass and ministers jailed. Four years later, a purported slave insurrection plot was uncovered before it matured, and city authorities sourced its incubation in part to the church. Thirty-five men were led to the gallows, 17 with ties to the congregation. By order of the authorities, the sanctuary was dismantled board by board, and church leaders were forced into exile. What followed was a vicious legislative crackdown on the already limited rights of both enslaved and free Black Carolinians; then the broken promises of Reconstruction; then the lynchings and beatings and Klan intimidation; then the incessant indignities and denial of rights of the Jim Crow era; then the jailings of peaceful civil rights demonstrators, including Emanuel's pastor; then the flying of an offensive Confederate flag over the State Capitol; and then, in 2015, the fatal shooting of an unarmed Black man by a white policeman, followed 74 days later by the murders of nine churchgoers by a young neo-Nazi. The weight of it all, the duration of it all, can take your breath away. And for many, forgiveness might seem an inadequate response, given available options like anger, bitterness, hatred, revenge, retribution. A more natural one, perhaps a more human one, might even be 'Where was God?' But this presupposes that the forgiveness expressed toward Dylann Roof was for Dylann Roof. That, I concluded after interviewing survivors, family members, and theologians, likely misinterprets its intent and misunderstands the distinctive role that grace plays in the African American church. Each of the forgiving family members explained that they acted not out of concern for Roof's physical or spiritual welfare, but for their own. No slate had been wiped. Some did not care much whether Roof lived or died. (He remains on federal death row in Indiana, one of three inmates whose sentences were not commuted to life in prison by President Biden at the close of his term.) Survivor Felicia Sanders, who had witnessed the executions of her son and her aunt, wished God's mercy upon Roof at his bond hearing, but damned him 'to the pit of hell' at his trial. Those who forgave depicted the moment in mystical terms—unpremeditated, unexpected, the words just flowed. It was God talking, and they were mere vessels. But each also recognized in their act a timeworn survival mechanism, a tactic that had helped African Americans withstand enslavement, forced migration, captivity, indentured servitude, segregation, discrimination, denial of citizenship, and the constant threat of racial and sexual violence with their souls still, somehow, intact. Distilled over the centuries from pulpits and prayer meetings, it had become almost learned behavior, church elders told me, allowing Black Christians to purge themselves of self-destructive toxins. It served as an unburdening, not an undoing, a means not only of moral practice but of emotional self-preservation. Because the choice to forgive was one dignity that could not be taken away, it also served as a path to empowerment. It might be mistaken for submission, but in Charleston it reflected a resolve to leave the killer to the courts and to God. In that way, forgiveness resurrected agency for victims who had been robbed of it. 'He's not a part of my life anymore,' Rev. Anthony Thompson said to me of his slain wife's killer. 'Forgiveness has freed me of that, of him, completely. I'm not going to make him a lifetime partner.' Read More: Searching for Signs of a Change in Charleston Telling this history—the history of white supremacy and of Black suffering and resistance—matters now more than ever. It explains our past. It gives needed context to our present. It is a prerequisite to a just and empathetic future, ideals that have somehow fallen from fashion. Yet, we now confront a campaign to banish this history, to deny it and erase it, for crassly transparent political purposes. The telling of the entire story of America, after all, calls into question the greatness that Donald Trump pledges to restore, and agitates a base that remains threatened and excitable by our multicultural reality. Ten years ago, Roof's self-identification with the Confederate battle flag prompted the Republican leadership of South Carolina to remove it from the state Capitol grounds after more than fifty years of affront to a fourth of the population. A wildfire movement to eradicate Confederate symbolism swept the South, and Charleston's mayor and council used the fifth anniversary of the Emanuel tragedy, three weeks after the killing of George Floyd, to remove a statue of slavery defender John C. Calhoun from the city's central square. Today, we move in the opposite direction. Personnel and educational policies that recognize the value of diversity and acknowledge past injustices are under withering assault. Within the first three months of this administration, books about racism had been banned from the U.S. Naval Academy library, and a National Park Service webpage had been scrubbed of references to Harriet Tubman (decisions that were eventually reversed in part after public outcry). Pete Hegseth's Pentagon restored the names of Forts Benning and Bragg, asserting that they now honored soldiers who happened to have the same surnames as their former Confederate namesakes. A presidential executive order in March required the removal of "improper, divisive or anti-American ideology" from the Smithsonian Institution and the restoration of monuments and memorials that had been removed 'to perpetuate a false revision of history.' The Orwellian language only reinforced the point. Read More: The Battle for Our Memory Is the Battle for Our Country But debasing our history through censorship and ideological cherry-picking insults the memory of the nine saints who were murdered at Mother Emanuel, desecrating its sacred space all over again. In whitewashing the inglorious chapters of America's past, we leave a void in 'these truths' that may not prove forgivable. Contact us at letters@

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