Nikkei Heritage
Issue Vol XII, Number 2, Spring 2000Casualties of Camp
by Clifford Uyeda
The Train Ride: Excerpted from Last Dance
by Brenda Wong Aoki
Hunting Blackbirds: The Yamasaki Shooting, Heart Mountain, 1944
by Shizue Seigel
Strength & Diversity 10th Anniversary Celebration
Symposium: Strength & Diversity: the Legacy
U.S. Rep. Patsy Takemoto Mink
Honorees: Ruth Asawa and Michi Onuma
Jan Yanehiro, Suz Takeda, Gen Taiko with Melody Takata
New Members, Donations, National Drawing Winners
New from NJAHS: Clifford Uyeda’s Memoirs!
SF State Students and NJAHS’ Oral History Project
by Michelle Lau
Over 120,000 Japanese Americans lost their freedom as a result of their incarceration behind barbed wire during World War II. For some, the impact reached far beyond the deprivation of homes, livelihood and property.
In “Shot Dead” Dr. Clifford Uyeda presents the cases of seven Nikkei inmates of concentration camps and FBI detention camps who were shot and killed by American sentries. Dr. Uyeda gleaned the information not only from published sources, but from government memoranda, reports and letters obtained through the Freedom of Information Act.
These dramatic and tragic cases are only the tip of the iceberg, however. A comprehensive record has yet to be made of the numerous internees were shot and injured, but survived. Many victims never spoke publicly of their experiences. “Shooting Blackbirds” is the story of an internee wounded while picking crops outside Heart Mountain.
Countless other casualties are even more difficult to document. The official cause of death – childbirth, suicide, disease, or old age – may appear innocuous enough. It is only through anecdotal information that it becomes clear that a number of deaths were hastened by the trauma of incarceration. For the survivors, the loss of a loved one during the camp years was often so painful that it was never discussed. Brenda Wong Aoki shares one such story in “The Train Ride.”
The cover photo depicts a homemade cross bearing the inscription “Tsutsui, Jon Poru (John Paul), Nov. 27, 1942.” In her book, Japanese American Women: Three Generations, 1890-1990, Mei Nakano quotes the mother, June Tsutsui at Amache camp in Granada, CO: “The photograph of my first-born son’s grave brings painfully vivid memories of his loss at birth in camp. I carried my baby full-term, but the camp’s inadequate medical care, including the doctor’s late arrival, intensified a complex birth. A better-staffed hospital environment might have prevented the hemorrhaging aggravated by a hasty, fatal delivery on a hard flat table while I endured indescribable pain.”
There are numerous documented cases of poor medical care in the camps. In his book, the Governing of Men, Dr. Alexander Leighton wrote about the Poston camp: “Many of the nurses were of very poor quality. The Japanese nurses were average, but there were not enough of them, and the white nurses, with one or two outstanding exceptions, were largely what the Army, Navy Red Cross and civilian hospitals would not accept in spite of their great need.
Some readers may wonder, “Why keep dwelling on the past? Let’s move forward.” Dr. Uyeda reminds us that “Discussing past atrocities is not ‘whining,’ as some critics allege. Historical memories are short. We all have an obligation to the coming generations to keep our fellow citizens informed of past abuses. Otherwise, we as a people will keep repeating the same mistakes.”
– Shizue Seigel, Managing Editor
Feature Article
The Train Ride: Excerpted from Last Dance
By Brenda Wong Aoki
The following story was given to me in 1998 by a Nisei couple in Northern California who wish to remain anonymous.
I am a U.S. citizen. Born right here on Grady Ave. My father was a veteran of World War I. My brothers were drafted and fought in World War II. I am a nurse. Still am. This year, we’ve helped so many friends die.... I’m 80 years old. My husband – he’s 87. So we think it’s time to tell this story. It’s about the train ride...
We were newly weds, with a week-old baby and a house full of brand new furniture: bird’s eye maple bedroom set, new refrigerator, new sofa. We had one week to sell everything. We got 50 bucks.
We took mostly the baby stuff and the clothes on our back. We went down to the train station. When we got there, there were soldiers everywhere. The windows of the train were shut tight and blacked out. They separated the men from the
women and there were soldiers between each car.
I was put in the car with all the mothers and babies, and this is what I want to tell you: I see my friend Michi. She and I had just had our babies together over at General. Only Michi’s baby was so sick, yo – the doctors said he would die if he left the hospital. So Michi got on that train without her baby.
But just as we were about to leave the station, some soldiers come and dump a baby on one of the empty seats. All the women were asking, “Who’s baby? Who’s baby?” Do you know, it was Michi’s baby!!! The soldiers had taken him out of the hospital against the doctor’s orders and just dumped him on a seat! Michi begged the soldiers to take him back (to the hospital), but they just slammed the door on her face.
So Michi sat next to me because like I told you, I am a nurse. I tried to stay calm, so Michi wouldn’t worry. But as soon as I saw that baby, I knew it was bad. Its cry was so weak.
Now, Dr. Takeshita – the doctor I worked for – was just two cars back. He told me, if anything should happen to the mothers or the babies – just go get him. I waited and waited until the train finally made a stop. As soon as we stopped, I got out of the car to get Dr. Takeshita. But a soldier shoved a bayonet at my stomach. I was too worried about Michi’s baby to be scared. I said “A baby is sick.” The soldier just looked at me. So I said “A baby may be dying! A baby!” The soldier’s eyes never changed. He pulled the bayonet away from my stomach then shoved it back. Hard. Then he said, “The next one goes right through you.”
I got back on the train. It was so hot in there, with the windows all shut. We didn’t know where we were going. It took three days and the only time they fed us was once. I think it was in Fresno. But we remember the food. It was spoiled milk and rotten, green baloney they just left on the platform in the sun – like we were animals or something.
With nothing to drink, my breast milk was drying up and I remember my baby crying and crying! But Michi’s baby was so quiet. Then I realized it was dead. But Michi didn’t seem to notice. I mean she knew, but she just rocked it and hummed one of those mama songs. You know. Those quiet songs that go on and on and put the children to sleep. Well, Michi just rocked and rocked and hummed her mama song.
When we finally arrived, we found we were in the middle of nowhere. The desert. We are city people. We’d never been in a place like this. Somehow in all the commotion, Michi slipped away.
They didn’t find her until hours later. Do you know, they had to get a jeep to go get her?! There she was. Walking through in the desert with her dead baby in her arms. Looking for a hospital.
My breast milk never came back and my baby would have died, too. Because all she had for those first few weeks in camp was sugar water. But Mac, the hakujin pharmacist back home, heard about my situation and sent me formula. The whole time. Never charged us nothing. My daughter’s had health problems her whole life because of those first days in camp, but she survived.
55 years have come and gone.... My husband’s family married into Michi’s side, so my husband visits Michi from time to time at family gatherings. But me, I can’t come. She won’t see me.
You see... my face reminds her of that train ride...
Brenda Wong Aoki is a nationally recognized storyteller of Chinese, Japanese, Spanish and Scots descent. Her performances synthesize Kyogen and Noh (Japanese traditional theater), modern dance and live jazz. She has received numerous grants, fellowships and awards and has appeared at the Smithsonian Institution, Kennedy Center and on Broadway. Ms. Aoki contributed “Uncle Gunjiro’s Girlfriend” to the Hapa issue of Nikkei Heritage (Fall 1998).