Internment Camp

BY YOSHI OSAKA Haunted by shadows of the past, a JapaneseAmerican returns to

On the first panel is the seal of the Colorado River Indian Reservation for it is on its land that the monument stands. There is also a dedication to the Japanese internees "who suffered countless hardships at the hands of a nation misguided by hysteria, racial prejudice, and fear. May it serve as a constant reminder of our past so that Americans in the future will never again be denied their constitutional rights." The other five panels tell the story of how Poston came to be, about the camp, the nisei drafted into the armed forces, and the 24 servicemen who died in battle while their families were interned at the remote community.

I found refuge beneath a mesquite tree and wondered if I had seen it before. As I stood there, looking out on that sea of dreamily thoughtful faces around me, my tears flowed freely. Like the others, I could not help but remember bits and pieces of those long ago days. At that instant, my 14-year-old self came to terms with what had happened there half a century ago. A creaky old train swayed and strained its way through the hot July night 50 years ago, shades drawn, to deliver us to the depot in Parker under the watchful eyes of armed guards. Somewhere en route I received a paper bag filled with a sandwich, a cookie, and an orange, as my mother worried that maybe my five brothers were still hungry. In 1992 as we passed that depot, I saw it clearly for the first time. It was freshly paintedON OCTOBER 6, 1992, I ARRIVED at a special place in the desert called Poston, Arizona, a few miles southwest of Parker on the Colorado River Indian Reservation. I had come there for the dedication ceremony of a monument recalling that period in the early days of World War II when 17,867 persons of Japanese ancestry, citizens and aliens alike, were uprooted from their homes in California and sent to three centers in Poston. But I came for another reason, too. Fifty years ago, Poston was my home. I was Internee No. 211681, a frightened girl of 14, placed there with my family for what I believed would be an eternity. The monument, designed by architect Ray Takata, is impressive. It is a nine-foothigh Japanese lantern with a concrete sphere rising 29 feet skyward from the center. At eye level, six bronze plaques rest on a hexagonal base.

THE SCENE OF THE 'CRIME'

During the dedication ceremony, a Buddhist priest and a Christian clergyman provided an invocation, and several former internees made brief speeches. Daniel Eddy, Jr., a representative of the Colorado River Indian tribes, recalled for the gathering how miserably hot and desolate a place the camp was. He concluded: "May this monument stand as a reminder of an act that should never happen again." Then a Japanese taiko and flute ensemble played, followed by a rousing march rendered by the Parker High School band. As I listened to the young ones playing their hearts out in the hot desert sun, memories of long ago beckoned, and for a moment I recalled the thrill I felt playing my clarinet under the stars with the Poston Symphony Orchestra. It was an experience I still cherish.The bleachers and the space before the monument were packed with people. But and rather small. And in the shadows, I saw my family, burdened with luggage, being herded into stifling buses. The rest of the scene was hazy. But I remembered the guards went with us. When we arrived at the camp that summer in 1942, it was hot, windy, and dusty. I suffered in silence. In October, 1992, I arrived at Poston in an air-conditioned bus, unescorted, a woman in her 60s who has lived that child's wonderful future. It was hot, but mercifully the wind and dust were absent. Somehow I felt compelled to once again suffer in silence. It seemed a fitting tribute to the souls of my departed parents who stood in the wind, sun, and dust, waiting without complaint.

In that long ago July, I worried about how I would make friends. But in October, I worried only that I would not recognize them. After the ceremony, the bus drove us to Camp No. 2, my camp, where we called a tar-papered barracks home. Excitement overcame me as I searched for something familiar, some tie to the past besides the shadows.

In the seat ahead of me, George Nishioki and John Ogawa grew excited, too, when they realized that the road we were on was one they had helped build. When we stopped, they gestured and argued about the locations of other places they remembered: the pump house, the warehouse, the sheds.

I was envious. I saw nothing and listened only to voices from the past for something that was mine. In my mind's eye, I saw rows of barracks. Through waves of heat, I saw again the image of my mother as she listened to instructions while trying to cast shade on me. The armed sentries loomed in the shadows of my mind. I envisioned that a certain spot was where my home was, Block 222 6D. I could almost hear the rustling of the straw mattresses and feel the dust coming through the knotholes in the walls. I bent over and dug my hand deep into the sand to clutch some pebbles, something permanent, "things." I felt a chill as something moved in the grass, recalling the terror of scorpions and rattlesnakes of camp days.

As I looked around one last time at what was once Arizona's third-largest city, I saw some Indian children playing, and from the shadows emerged the happy faces of my fellow Girl Scouts, earning merit badges with the limited resources of the camp. I heard the joyous hymns in the church barracks and the shouts of schoolmates as we walked to and from our classes through an occasional shower or fierce dust storm. I could hear the laughter of my mother and her friends as they returned from English language classes. Most of them could understand and speak enough English to function, but they could not read or write the language of their adopted land. Suddenly the desert was no longer dismal and hostile. My memories made it come alive with green fields of cotton and alfalfa. And I remembered that time my class chose to pick cotton to help the farmers. I didn't pick much, but I felt I'd helped. And that, too, was a happy memory.

As the bus drew away from Poston, I was mentally satisfied and emotionally ready to say good-bye to my shadows in the desert.

With the pebbles still clutched in my hand, I said, "Farewell, Poston. Thank you for sustaining a memory for 50 years. I cry no more for you." And the shadows of yesterday blew away with the wind.

EPILOGUE

The children, my own and others with whom I've shared my camp experiences as they were growing up, ask why we allowed it to happen. Given the climate of the times and the cultural stoicism of our parents' generation, cooperation with the edict was only right. We accepted the situation without losing dignity.

Admittedly this imprisonment of citizens and resident aliens was probably the most despicable violation of human rights in a democracy.

But there was a positive side to it all, as well. I believe that the forced evacuation from California also ultimately encouraged us to find employment and educational opportunities in other areas of America. As a result, we were able to impact civil rights issues on a real and personal level through our presence all over the country.

Nevertheless, the relocation issue will stand as a reminder that we must be ever vigilant so that no other group will suffer so again.

We were born to unite with our fellowmen; To join in community with the human race.