Camp
The Executive Order extended across the Western United States, targeting over 120,000 people of Japanese ancestry. No, it was no mistake. They were not mistakenly summoned because of something they may or may not have done. They weren’t summoned because they were suspects or accused of any illicit activity. They were summoned—along with the Aratani family, who never quite assimilated to American ways, and the Nakano family, whose father sometimes wrote critical articles about local government—for one simple reason: they were people of Japanese ancestry.
Mom and her family, along with an entire community of Japanese Americans, were forced into a surreal and incomprehensible journey together.
On Tuesday morning, they closed up their empty home. Obāchan, Ojīchan, Mom’s older sister Laurie, brothers John and Bill, and her two baby sisters Molly and Betty each dressed in multiple layers and packed what they could carry. Mom brought a small suitcase with toiletries, an extra pair of shoes, a few hats, and her favorite dresses, leaving behind her dancing shoes, photo albums, trophies, and awards.
They were loaded onto buses and transported to an "assembly center"—a temporary holding site until their permanent new "living facilities" were built. There was no evidence of any threat to national security, no reason for suspicion, yet anti-Japanese sentiment had reached such a fevered pitch that the government acted swiftly and mercilessly. In their supposed effort to keep them "safe," they stripped them of their homes, livelihoods, and dignity, relocating them to converted horse stables at a nearby racetrack.
For Mom’s family of ten—nine since Happo had died—sharing cramped spaces was familiar. Their modest two-story home with two bathrooms always felt too small on busy mornings. But nothing could have prepared them for the indignities they faced upon reaching the assembly center.
At the center, they underwent medical exams assembly-line style, their bags searched for contraband like razors, radios, and liquor—all confiscated. The family was assigned two 10'x20' horse stalls as their new living quarters. Once designed for a single animal, each stall held two cots and straw tick mattresses on cold linoleum floors recently laid over manure-stained wood. The pungent odor of pine-oil failed to mask the stench of manure.
Privacy, once a refuge at home, was gone. The family now shared open showers and latrines with over 3,600 other detainees. Meals in the crowded mess hall consisted of canned lima beans, Vienna sausages, and chili con carne—foods foreign to Japanese palates, leading to digestive discomfort. Combined with the open latrines, the situation became unbearable. After months of this dehumanizing existence, the family was tagged with ID numbers, assigned a location, and shuffled onto trains bound for their next destination.
Mom never spoke of this time—not the horse stables, the lack of privacy, or the food. Never once.
When most people hear about the Japanese Internment camps, they think of Manzanar. It’s widely known today as an historic landmark and has been covered in numerous articles, books, and films. Ansel Adams famously captured life there, portraying internees overcoming despair to build a vibrant community in the shadow of the Sierra Nevada mountains. His photos, featuring smiling faces amidst picturesque barracks and makeshift gardens, offered a sanitized narrative.
There was also a Hollywood film, called “Come See the Paradise” with Dennis Quaid and Tamlyn Tomita - a love story about an interracial couple during the Second World War. The Manzanar camp was part of the setting in this heart-breaking story of forbidden love and family obligations during this unjust period of hateful discrimination. But Manzanar, located at the foot of the beautiful Sierra Nevada mountains, was only one of 10 War Relocation camps. The others spanned the nation from Arkansas to Idaho; Wyoming to Utah; and Colorado to Arizona.
Mom’s family was sent to Poston, Arizona—the largest of the camps. Situated on the Colorado River Indian Reservation, Poston was a barren desert where summer temperatures soared to 115°F and winter nights dipped below 20°F. For many internees accustomed to California’s coastline, the desolation was alien, like landing on the moon.
Poston was notorious for its harsh conditions. Red desert dust seeped into the flimsy tar-paper barracks, coating every surface. Disease outbreaks spread through the overcrowded, poorly maintained facilities. Lack of adequate healthcare caused unnecessary suffering and deaths. Unlike Manzanar’s romanticized resilience, Poston was marked by unrest. The violent beating and death of a protestor speaking out against injustice fueled anger and despair.
The internees were prisoners of their own country, held captive under their flag. Guard towers loomed ominously, manned by armed soldiers ordered to shoot anyone who tried to escape. The early months were filled with fury and frustration.
Yet, despite the conditions, many internees sought to reclaim a sense of normalcy. Clubs were formed, sports teams organized, and music and art classes offered brief respites from the relentless heat and dust.
Mom was the Odori dance teacher in camp, and is the only thing she has ever told me about her camp experience.
