The sun was shining brightly that afternoon when I got off at the Nagasaki Eki Mae stop, one of the busiest on the Nagasaki Electric Tramway Line 1. From there, I began a leisurely stroll, along the busy city sidewalk, crossed the zebra crossing, and then turned right as the road began to climb up Nishizaka Hill.
Clear signs at every intersection made the walk a breeze. About ten minutes later, I arrived at a fairly spacious park. Before me stood a large sign reading “Twenty-Six Martyrs Museum,” complete with Japanese and Korean characters.
In the distance, a white church stood on the hilltop. Its architecture was modern, with two towering spires that resembled a pair of praying hands, adorned with gleaming mosaics. The church looked modest yet graceful, blending in with Nagasaki’s typical hilly landscape of multi-story houses.
I took a break near the Nishizaka Park information board, where there was a drinking water fountain (insuisen)—quite refreshing after walking in the hot August sun. The board displayed a comprehensive map of the area, including monuments, museums, and the church, known in Japanese as Nihon Nijūroku Seijin Kinen Seidō (日本二十六聖人記念聖堂), or St. Philip’s Church, or Church of the Twenty-Six Martyrs of Japan in English.
The board also included a brief historical summary, revealing a dark chapter in Japanese history: the persecution of Catholics in the late 16th century. The park was designated an official pilgrimage site by the Vatican in 1956, and in 1962, the Monument and Museum of the Twenty-Six Martyrs was built to commemorate those who had fallen.
I moved closer to the main monument, which stood majestically in the center of the park. This monument was erected in memory of twenty-six Christians—both European Jesuit missionaries and Japanese citizens—who were crucified in 1597 by the Japanese government as part of a wave of persecution against Christianity.
The monument is a wide, solid white granite wall. In the center is a large bronze relief of a cross. On either side, 26 figures of martyrs stand in a row, as if immortalizing their final moments. Their faces look skyward, filled with determination. Some are very young—two of them were even altar boys. The most famous is Paulus Miki, a Japanese Jesuit who continued to preach from the cross, even as a spear pierced his body.
Their names are neatly carved in Latin and Japanese: Francisco Blanco, a Spanish monk; Cosmas Takeya, a baptized Japanese blacksmith; and Luis Ibaraki, a 12-year-old boy who died singing the Psalms. Their presence is palpable here—it’s like witnessing the steadfastness of faith standing before us.
This is more than just a park. This was the end of their painful journey—hundreds of kilometers on foot from Kyoto to Nagasaki, in the cold winter. Their ears were cut off as a warning, but they did not slow down. They sang the Te Deum, a hymn to God, as they journeyed to their deaths.
At the side of the monument, a black granite stele inscribed with gold letters in Portuguese and Japanese commemorates Father Luis Frois S.J., a Jesuit priest from Lisbon who died in Nagasaki in 1597. He was a key figure in the history of the encounter between Europe and Japan at that time.
Not far away, a white marble stele commemorates the visits of two popes to this site: Pope John Paul II in 1981, and Pope Francis in 2019. Both came not to inaugurate anything, but to pray, be silent, and pay their respects. Imagine, two of the highest leaders of the Catholic Church, traveling thousands of kilometers from the Vatican, just to stand for a moment on this silent hill.
At the back of the park, a small memorial commemorates the visit of Pope John Paul II. Inscribed above it is a quote he uttered during his visit on February 26, 1981:
“Love is stronger than death.”
Still in the same courtyard stands a statue of a man wearing the traditional Filipino white barong and black trousers. He is Saint Lorenzo Ruiz, a Filipino martyr who was executed here in 1637. Inscribed beneath his statue are his last words:
“I would rather die a thousand deaths than renounce my faith.”
Although from a different time and background, Lorenzo Ruiz’s words feel entirely appropriate in this place—where blood was shed for faith.
I walked again, this time toward the white church perched on the hilltop. Its name was fitting: the Church of the 26 Martyrs. The building wasn’t large, but it felt sacred. Inside, stained glass reflected a soft light onto the altar. On the back wall hung a wooden crucifix and paintings of revered martyrs.
Next to the church was a small but informative museum. It displayed relics of Japanese Christianity from the 16th to the 19th centuries. One of the most moving pieces was a fumi-e, a tablet depicting Christ that Christians were forced to step on to prove their apostasy.
There were also hidden rosaries, miniature crosses, and symbols of faith from the Kakure Kirishitan community—Christians who lived in hiding during centuries of persecution.
But most touching was a copy of St. Francis Xavier, the first missionary to set foot in Japan in 1549. He did not witness the tragic end of the martyrs at Nishizaka, but the seeds of faith he sowed grew into a timeless witness of blood.
Before leaving this place, I took a moment to read a Latin quote at the top of the main monument:
“Laudate omnes gentes, laudate Dominum”
(Praise be to the Lord, all nations.)
The lyrics of this psalm were likely the martyrs’ final song as they gazed up at the sky from the cross. It wasn’t a song of victory, but a praise that couldn’t be quenched by suffering, crosses, or spears. In a world that often undermines the meaning of faith, their praise still resonates—subtle, yet profound.
Down the Hill, Carrying Stories
I made my way back down to Nagasaki Station. As usual, the journey home felt quicker. But this time my steps felt heavy. Perhaps because the stories I carried still lingered. Maybe it’s because my heart still lingers up there—among the crosses and names that now feel more alive than those of us still breathing.
Before boarding the tram, I glanced back at the hill. The evening sun was beginning to fade. There was an inexplicable silence, but also a warmth that refused to disappear.
In an age when faith is often compromised for the sake of convenience, the story of the Twenty-Six Martyrs of Nagasaki serves as a poignant reminder: that faith is not just ritual, but courage. Courage that may not always win, but always remains faithful.
