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Tuesday, November 10, 2020

The 'bittersweet' legacy of Canada's wartime Jewish and Italian internment camps

MONTREAL — In 1940, a Jewish student in the United Kingdom named Edgar Lion was sent to Canada against his will on a ship that carried both German and Austrian Jews and Nazi prisoners of war.
    
© Provided by The Canadian Press

And when he first arrived at an internment camp in Trois-Rivieres, Que., the Austrian-born Lion quickly realized the local citizens gathered near the camp entrance didn’t know the difference between the two groups.

“People were cursing us and throwing stones at us. We had to cross a gauntlet of citizens who knew some of us were prisoners of war, but (didn’t know) some of us were just ordinary prisoners," he said in a recent interview.

"We were in the wrong place. We weren’t supposed to be interned.”

Lion, now 100, is one of thousands of Italian, Austrian and German citizens who were rounded up by the British government and sent to Canada to be interned as “enemy aliens” in what remains a relatively unknown chapter in Canada’s Second World War history.

The men, who included Jewish refugees, civilians working in the U.K. and students, were scattered in camps across Ontario, Quebec and New Brunswick, where they were surrounded by armed guards and barbed wire.

Andrea Shaulis, the curator at the Montreal Holocaust Museum, said Canada was unprepared to receive the internees -- Italian, German and Austrian nationals living in Great Britain who were sent overseas because the British government feared could pose a security threat in the event of invasion.

Canadian authorities had thought they would be receiving prisoners categorized as “dangerous enemy aliens,” and had not realized they would be mixed with ordinary citizens or even refugees fleeing Nazi persecution, she said


The facilities where they were sent were primitive at first, including a garage in Sherbrooke, Que., with auto bays filled with water. One camp in Quebec received a load of blankets but no mattresses; another got the opposite.

In some cases Nazi prisoners of war were interned alongside the Jewish refugees at first, causing tension and even fights.

Eventually, however, conditions improved in many of the camps, and the prisoners settled into a routine.

Raffaello Gonnella, the son of an Italian-born man who was interned in a camp on Montreal's Ile Ste-Helene, says his father described life in the camp as boring but safe.

“The war was raging in Europe and Britain, so their families were more in danger than they were,” he said in a phone interview from Glasgow.

Unlike in Great Britain, there was no rationing in Canada, and "being Italian men, they ate rather well,” thanks to the chefs and other restaurant staff among their number who had been working in restaurants prior to being interned, Gonnella recalled.

Lion recalls that in the camps, the internees with university educations created schools and study groups for their younger counterparts.

“We started a camp school for the youngest people who were interned with us, and they didn't have a chance to go to high school, so we made up for it” Lion said.

That effort would later pay off: after their release, many of the internees would go on to study in universities across Canada and Europe, becoming prominent architects, professors, and even Nobel Prize winners.

To this day, the history of Canada’s Italian and German internment camps remains little-known among the general population, with few plaques to mark the sites where they once stood.

The building housing the internment camp on Montreal's Ile Ste-Helene now offers tours to visitors who are often surprised to hear an internment camp existed right next to a major Canadian city.

Paula Draper, a historian who has written books on Canada's Holocaust experience, said this lack of knowledge may be partly because the situation is generally seen as less egregious than the internment of Canadian-born Japanese citizens.

Because conditions were comparatively good, she said many former internees may have hesitated to tell their stories.

“However unpleasant the experience had been to be interned in Canada . . . how do you complain about this when, in fact, the internment saved your life?” she said in a phone interview.

Draper maintains the internment was an “injustice” that should never have happened. On the other hand, it also kept the men safe and, eventually, allowed some to immigrate to North America, where many found great success.

“I always looked at is as a bittersweet kind of Holocaust story,” she said.

Gonnella says the biggest hardship the men experienced in the camp was the uncertainty of not knowing what was happening back home. “They were more worried about their families than themselves,” he said.

But while his father told him stories of pranks and good food, as a young teen Gonnella would learn how deeply the experience had affected his father.

One day, while rooting through his father’s closet for something to wear to school, a young Gonnella came across a denim shirt with a large red, white and blue circle on the back that resembled a target. When he asked if he could wear it, his father “flew into a rage I never saw.”

Unknowingly, Gonnella had taken out his father's camp uniform, emblazoned with a target symbol to make internees visible to the armed guards in the event of an escape attempt.

“I still fill with tears when I think about it,” Gonnella said. “He absolutely went crazy, screaming, shouting, bawling in Italian.”

After spending time in camps in Trois-Rivieres, Que, Fredericton and Sherbrooke, Lion was released in 1941. He moved to Montreal to live with friends of his family and went on to complete his university education, raise a family and build a successful career in the building industry.

Now living in a long-term care home in Montreal, he describes himself as a "survivor" whose life was transformed by his time in the camps.

"It certainly changed my life, because, for one thing, I became a Canadian citizen," he said.

This report by The Canadian Press was first published Nov 9, 2020

Morgan Lowrie, The Canadian Press

Monday, March 15, 2021

WWII-era Japanese internee reburied by family

The family of a Japanese man interned during World War II have buried his remains 75 years after he went missing near a California internment camp. Giichi Matsumura was one of thousands of people of Japanese descent interned during the war. (March 15)

VIDEO WWII-era Japanese internee reburied by family (yahoo.com)

Lost to mountain, Japanese internee's bones return home

photo essay long read



















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US Japanese Internee Final Burial
Lilah Matsumura, 11, prays for for her great-grandfather, Giichi Matsumura, during a memorial service at Woodlawn Cemetery in Santa Monica, Calif., Monday, Dec. 21, 2020. Giichi Matsumura, who died in the Sierra Nevada on a fishing trip while he was at the Japanese internment camp at Manzanar, was reburied in the same plot with his wife 75 years later after his remains were unearthed from a mountainside grave. (AP Photo/Jae C. Hong)

BRIAN MELLEY
Sun, March 14, 2021, 9:15 AM·15 min read


SANTA MONICA, Calif. (AP) — When Giichi Matsumura arrived at his final resting place in late December, the people who knew him best when he disappeared from a Japanese internment camp in 1945 already were there.

His wife, Ito, who had mourned his passing for 60 years before her death in 2005, was buried in the same plot, as was his daughter, Kazue, who died in 2018. His father, Katsuzo, who died in 1963, was nearby. His brother and two of his three sons were a short walk away, all buried in the shady, grassy haven of Woodlawn Cemetery in Santa Monica.

They last saw Giichi alive in the waning days of World War II at the Manzanar internment camp, one of 10 where the U.S. government held more than 110,000 people of Japanese descent for more than three years, claiming without evidence they might betray America in the war.

In the summer of 1945, Matsumura hiked from camp into the nearby Sierra Nevada, the rugged spine of California, and never returned. His remains were committed to a lonely mountainside grave left to the elements.

His journey home, 75 years in the making, only happened after a hiker bound for the summit of Mount Williamson, a massive peak overshadowing Manzanar, veered off route near a lake and spotted a skull in the rocks. He and his partner uncovered a full a skeleton under granite blocks.

It was 2019, and the duty to bring him back fell to a granddaughter born decades after he died.

Lori Matsumura never expected to play that role. She knew of her grandfather’s unfortunate death, but it wasn’t something she often thought about.

Then an Inyo County sheriff's sergeant phoned and asked for a DNA sample to see if the unearthed bones belonged to her grandfather, the only Manzanar prisoner who died in the mountains.

“It was a complete surprise when I received a call from the sheriff,” Lori said. “There were stories my grandmother told me about her husband passing on the mountain. They were stories to me, and it wasn’t reality. But then when the sheriff called it, you know, brought it into reality.”

That conversation set her on the first step of a mission to reunite her ancestors, a journey that awakened her to a history she had largely seen through a child’s eyes, the edges softened by a generation more inclined to look forward than dwell in the past. Stories that once seemed rosy lost their bloom when faced with the harsh landscape where her relatives spent more than three years in captivity.

___

Until the U.S. entered WWII after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, Giichi Matsumura and his family lived what seemed like a quiet life in the leafy oasis of Santa Monica Canyon, a retreat for artists and stars of old Hollywood.

Born in the Fukui prefecture on the coast of the Sea of Japan, he immigrated to the U.S. in 1916, arriving in San Francisco on a steam ship with a single bag. His father already was there and they worked as gardeners and lived on property owned by the Marquez family, Mexican land grant owners of an area that became parts of Los Angeles and Santa Monica.

Giichi’s wife, Ito, arrived from Kyoto in 1924, according to U.S. Census records. The couple had four children born in the U.S.: sons Masaru, Tsutomo and Uwao, and a daughter, Kazue, the youngest. Kazue, Lori’s aunt, recalled a fun childhood in an interview by Rose Masters, a ranger with the Manzanar National Historic Site, a few months before her death in 2018.

Her mother would pull her in a wagon to play at the beach. She remembers seeing the actor Leo Carrillo, later known as sidekick Pancho to TV’s “The Cisco Kid,” doing lasso tricks.

Giichi Matsumura, who signed up for the World War I draft, registered again on Feb. 14, 1942. Five days later, President Franklin Roosevelt issued an executive order that would force people of Japanese descent on the West Coast into prison camps in waves.

Under an April 20, 1942 order, the Matsumura family had about a week to leave their life in the canyon behind.

Kazue, who wasn’t even aware there was a war, recalled her experience as a 7-year-old.

Her father had to give away his car and they were only allowed to bring a single suitcase to camp.

She had been excited about taking a bus trip, but the novelty after a long ride from LA through the desert along the dramatic eastern flank of the Sierra quickly faded when they arrived at Manzanar.

“I noticed it was all dirt,” she said. “Nothing there. Like a desert.”

Manzanar, which means apple orchard in Spanish, quickly became home to 10,000 people of Japanese descent — two-thirds of whom were U.S. citizens — living in hundreds of cramped, tar-paper covered barracks.

The family would have shared a barrack with four to six other families, each unit separated only by a thin wall that did not extend to the pitched roof. There was little privacy.

The shacks were so poorly built that frequent winds blew sand through the cracks in walls and floors. There was no insulation, making scorching summers intolerable and frigid winters unbearable.

Giichi Matsumura worked as a cook. In his spare time, he painted watercolors, capturing the guard tower, barracks and Mount Williamson, the second-highest peak in California.

His eldest son, Masaru, Lori’s father, had been about to graduate from high school when they were imprisoned. Instead, he had to wait until the next spring when he was in the internment camp’s first graduating class.

Lori remembers her father talking about the camp’s most infamous incident when guards shot into a crowd of people, killing two and injuring nine.

But she doesn’t know much about his time there. He didn’t like to discuss it.

What she knew came mostly from her grandmother and Aunt Kazue, who lived together across the street, stories about squashing scorpions on the way to the bathroom using geta — elevated wooden sandals.

___

Lori Matsumura always meant to visit Manzanar. But she’s not sure she would have made the more than three-hour drive north from Los Angeles.

Now she had to go.

A few weeks after the sheriff’s call, she and her boyfriend, Thomas Storesund, drove to the station in Lone Pine where she gave an oral swab for DNA. They then drove a few miles north where the National Park Service operates the camp as a sort of living museum.

The sentry house still stands at the entrance. A replica of one of the eight guard towers looms overhead and replica barracks, a latrine and a mess hall recreate what the camp looked like, minus hundreds of other structures crammed into a square mile of high desert surrounded by barbed wire.

The buildings display vestiges of life in camp and some of the many indignities experienced, such as the loyalty questionnaire adults had to complete.

“How could something like this happen in America?” Lori thought.

But she wasn’t struck by the gravity of her family’s loss until she visited where they had lived.

Standing near a sign for Block 18, Matsumura looked out at an inhospitable barren patch of scraggly rabbitbrush, fiddleneck weed and a row of barren locust trees. She was filled with sorrow.

“I was blown away by how desolate the place was,” she said. “Seeing it in person made it so sad for me. I don’t think I could have survived that.”

For the first time, Matsumura felt a connection to the place her family lived. She was walking in their footsteps. It was now real.

While the buildings were gone, one reminder stood out: Mount Williamson standing at 14,374 feet (4,381 meters) to the west. It was the site of her grandfather’s first grave.

___

Giichi Matsumura left camp July 29, 1945 heading toward that peak with a group of trout fishermen for a several-day outing. He planned to sketch and paint.

Prisoners had been free to leave camp six months earlier, but about 4,000 internees remained. Many, like the Matsumuras, had nowhere to go or feared racist reprisals in places they once called home.

Ito Matsumura didn’t want her husband to go on the trip. She forbade him from taking his art supplies because she feared he would stop to paint and get lost, Lori’s Aunt Kazue recalled.

It takes at least a full day to ascend about 8,000 feet (2,438 meters) to reach the chain of lakes where they were destined. The trail eventually ends and hikers must navigate a forbidding jumble of granite in the thin air at the high altitude.

On Aug. 2, Matsumura stopped to paint as others fished.

When a storm blew in, the fishermen, who had been there before, knew where to shelter in a cave, said Don Hosokawa, whose father, Frank, was on the trip. The men couldn’t find Giichi after the storm and returned to camp, hoping he headed there.

Exactly what happened to Giichi Matsumura remains unknown. Aunt Kazue said she heard her father slipped on wet rocks and hit his head. Don Hosokawa said the body was later found next to a bloody rock.

His disappearance came four days before the U.S. dropped the atomic bomb on Hiroshima that would hasten the Japanese surrender.

Three search parties looked for him in the following weeks. They found only his sweater.

About a month after he was lost, a hiker from nearby Independence was trying to summit Mount Williamson with her husband and a friend, but rain ruined their plans. They stopped for lunch, and Mary DeDecker, a botanist, noticed a branch in the rocks below, which struck her as unusual because trees don’t grow at that altitude.

A closer look revealed a body.

A small burial party from camp made a last trip into the mountains, carrying a sheet from Ito Matsumura to wrap her husband in. They buried him under granite and affixed a simple piece of paper to a block to mark the grave. In Japanese characters, it gave his name, age and said, “Rest in Peace.”

The group returned with locks of his hair and nail clippings, a Buddhist tradition for a body that couldn’t be returned.

About 150 people attended a funeral ceremony back at the camp. A photo by Toyo Miyatake, famous for documenting Manzanar life, shows mourners in dark suits and dresses behind a wall of crepe paper flowers.

Aunt Kazue lamented that it was difficult never having seen her father's corpse or his gravesite.

“To this day it seems like he’s not passed away,” she said. “It seems like he’s gone some place because I don’t see his body.”

At the Manzanar cemetery, where a tall white obelisk is often decorated with chains of origami cranes left by visitors, a sign says 150 people died at camp. Most were cremated and their ashes buried after their families left camp. One man, Giichi Matsumura, the sign says, died exploring the Sierra and “is buried high in the mountains above you.”

That sign will have to be changed.

___

The gravesite was not widely known so it initially appeared to be a mystery when hikers unearthed it Oct. 7, 2019. Officers from Inyo County Sheriff’s Office flew by helicopter to retrieve the remains.

When word reached rangers and historians at Manzanar, they had a hunch who it was.

“It wasn’t a huge mystery,” Ranger Patricia Biggs told Lori Matsumura in February last year. “We would have been amazed if it wasn’t your grandfather.”

Sgt. Nate Derr had called Matsumura for a DNA sample because she was listed at the historic site as a contact person for her aunt. It took about three months for the Department of Justice to match her DNA with a tooth from the remains to positively identify her grandfather.

Derr notified her in January last year. Then she had to decide what to do with the bones.

Manzanar wouldn’t allow her grandfather to be buried in the small cemetery where only six bodies, interred when the camp was operating, remain. His bones also couldn’t be returned to the mountain.

The thought of scattering his ashes at one of those places held some appeal. Although it’s illegal to scatter ashes on public lands, Lori said she was told by one official that no one would stop her.

But it was unlikely her family would trek up the mountain for a burial service and returning him to a place he’d been captive seemed in poor taste.

After consulting her siblings and cousins, they decided he should be cremated and laid to rest with his wife. His name was already on the grave marker, his toenail clippings and hair buried with her.

Lori had to sign paperwork amending the death certificate from a burial to a cremation. And she wanted to view the remains.

On Presidents Day last year, she and other family members went to the small city of Bishop, about 45 minutes north of Manzanar, to Brune Mortuary, which is also the county coroner’s office.

Coroner Jason Molinar began to lead Lori and her niece, Lilah, from his office to a private viewing room when Lori halted in the doorway to reassure the 11-year-old, who was scared.

“They’re just his bones. That’s all it is,” Lori told the girl.

Laid on a sheet-covered gurney were the remains of the grandfather she’d never met.

The skeleton was roughly arranged in order. The skull was bleached white, most likely from sun exposure. The ribs, spine and joints were stained a shade of brown.

Molinar pointed to a coil of fishing line, the remains of a rusty pocket knife and two buttons found with the bones. A pair of shoes and belt he had worn were next to his lower leg bones.

It was remarkable to find the body 99% intact, Molinar said, a testament to a good burial in a climate where the remains were probably encased in snow and ice much of the year and undisturbed by people or critters.

“The crazy part is the fact that it’s this well-preserved,” he said. “Usually after this many years, you just find fragments.”

Lori made a video call to her sister, Lisa Reilly, who lives in San Francisco and couldn’t make the trip.

“Do you want to see Grandpa’s bones?” she asked.

She then turned the camera to the skeleton and artifacts. She paused at the skull and pointed out the sutures, the fine cracks where the bones of the skull are joined that had begun to separate from exposure. The cracks had led the hikers to speculate on social media about foul play.

Lori and her niece stood with their hands clasped in prayer and heads bowed. They prayed he would rest in peace and be reunited with his family.

After the viewing, they went to Manzanar to donate the shoes, belt, fishing line and knife, to be put on display.

As Biggs looked at the weather-beaten shoes and withered belt, she was almost overcome with emotion.

“I just want to have a moment,” the ranger said. “Out of respect. Wow. It’s amazing to me the things that last forever and the things that don’t.”

In a guest book, Lori’s nephew, Lukas, 9, wrote: “We are bringing you home Great Grampa Giichi Matsumura. We love you.”

Two weeks later, Lori retrieved the ashes.

___

Lost once and found twice, it was now time to properly bury Giichi Matsumura.

On Dec. 21, Lori, her brothers, Wayne and Clyde, along with Clyde’s wife, Narumol, and two children brought his ashes to a burial service at Woodlawn, which is a block from where they grew up.

The Rev. Shumyo Kojima, a Buddhist priest, assembled a small altar with a framed photo of Giichi Matsumura in front of the box containing his remains.

“He moved from the high Sierra to here. All of you are eyewitnesses,” Kojima said. “This is a kind of house-warming party. So, everyone will be here to celebrate his new residence.”

Kojima lit incense and picked up a bell that he rang at different intervals as he chanted ancient sutras, bowing repeatedly.

Each family member stepped forward to sprinkle incense in a burner while Kojima chanted.

Kojima showed a document from the Zenshuji Buddhist Temple that recorded memorial services Ito held for her husband on important milestone anniversaries over the years. It showed how she kept thinking about him, the priest said.

Three cemetery workers then moved the altar to reveal a hole in the ground. One of them placed the box of ashes in the shallow grave.

As the interwoven threads of incense smoke drifted northeast — the direction of Manzanar — the family members each took a turn dropping a shovel full of dirt on the box.

The grave-diggers finished the job and placed a bouquet of white flowers on the grass. Kojima sprinkled water over the grave for purification.

Lori Matsumura wished the hikers hadn’t disturbed the grave. She imagined it was a beautiful setting in mountains her grandfather admired.

Yet she was satisfied he was back with those who loved him.

“His body is laid to rest with everyone, so it’s kind of just closed the chapter on my dad and his siblings and parents,” she said.

She only regretted they weren’t alive to see it.

Tuesday, February 18, 2020

History not forgotten: Colorado students, teacher rebuild WWII prison camp

Sarah Kuta, NBC News•February 16, 2020

Gary Ono has fleeting memories of his time in a Colorado prison camp — seeing snow, jumping into a ditch to avoid a dog, walking across a field with his uncle, watching someone wash photographic prints.

Ono, now 80, was just a toddler when his family was imprisoned at the Granada Relocation Center, one of 10 sites across the country that incarcerated more than 120,000 Japanese Americans during World War II.

As an adult, he's visited what remains of the camp, more commonly known as Amache, many times. During one visit, Ono and a grandson pitched a tent and spent the night at the site of barrack 6, block 10E, the cramped building that housed his and other families.

"If you went out there, like I have several times, it's just empty of everything, except maybe evidence of foundations and things like that," said Ono, who lives in Los Angeles. "You don't get a sense of the conditions people had to live under."

Today, however, structures are again starting to dot the landscape at Amache, which had been reduced to dirt, weeds and crumbling building foundations after the war. Amache is being pieced back together, bit by bit, by a high school teacher and his students who want to make sure this dark period of American history is not forgotten.

Students at Granada High School have spent hours interviewing former internees, gathering and cataloging artifacts, maintaining the grounds, giving presentations and curating a small museum, which this month is moving into a much larger building across the street.

Thanks in large part to their work, Amache is now being considered as a new national park, with federal staffers conducting a special resource study to evaluate the site. Congress will review the findings of that study, which could take up to three years, and make the final decision.

Amache opened in the fall of 1942 a mile outside Granada, Colorado, amid intense racism and anti-Japanese sentiment following the attack on Pearl Harbor.

Tens of thousands of Japanese Americans and people of Japanese ancestry were given just a few weeks — sometimes less — to pack their belongings into two suitcases, leaving behind their homes, pets, cars, businesses and family heirlooms. In addition to Amache, they reported to internment camps in California, Arizona, Idaho, Wyoming, Utah and Arkansas.

At its peak, Amache held more than 7,300 internees, who were confined within a single square mile by barbed wire and armed guards. Despite the abysmal conditions and cruel treatment, more than 950 Japanese Americans held at Amache joined the U.S. military and fought in World War II, including 31 men who died in the war.

At the end of the war, the federal War Assets Administration sold Amache's buildings until all that remained were foundations and a dusty street grid. These structures got a second life on farms and in towns across southeastern Colorado and nearby parts of Kansas and Oklahoma.

Without buildings or signs explaining the history of the site, Amache soon became a distant memory. To this day, many Coloradans have never heard of the internment camp.

"Not only did we wrongfully imprison people who were American citizens, but we also wiped it clean from history," said Tarin Kemp, a recent graduate of Granada High School who helps with Amache preservation efforts. "Even now, very few people learn about it in history classes. Most of the people I've talked to in Colorado don't know there was a Japanese internment camp here. It really was erased from history almost completely."

But high school teacher John Hopper wanted to change all that. Hopper, who grew up in nearby Las Animas, Colorado, came to Granada to teach social studies in 1989. He'd heard about Amache growing up and then again during college at Colorado State University, but did not know much.

After his first day of teaching, Hopper drove around looking for the site of the forced incarceration camp. He found a board nailed to a tree marking the long-forgotten site and drove home.

Several years later, however, the camp was still in the back of his mind. At the time, there were a handful of ambitious students in his U.S. history class and he wanted to give them a meaningful, challenging project to work on. Researching and, later, preserving, Amache seemed like the perfect fit.

"Once it was bulldozed over, it was out of sight, out of mind for a lot of people," Hopper said. "When we started studying it, these students didn't know anything about it and they lived half a mile away."

In the early days, Hopper tasked the students with finding and interviewing former internees to gain first-hand information and stories about Amache, since few records of the camp existed.

The project slowly took on a life of its own, snowballing into an all-out preservation initiative.

More and more people began to take notice of their work, including former internees and their descendants, who shared their memories and donated hundreds of historic artifacts to help create the Amache Museum. Archaeologists at the University of Denver began bringing students to Amache to conduct field research. Several groups and organizations were founded to help keep the memory of Amache alive and bring the camp back to life.

Today, students help with maintaining the site and the small museum, lead site tours and give detailed presentations about Amache all over the world, including in Japan.

But words can only convey so much. Efforts are now underway to reconstruct the original buildings at Amache, which became a National Historic Landmark in 2006, so that visitors can see and feel what life was like for internees.

In 2018, a building that had been a camp recreation center and later served as the Granada city utility building was returned to its original site. A team of historic preservation specialists is currently restoring the building.

Working together, Amache preservation groups also reassembled and returned the camp's water tower, found in pieces on a nearby ranch. Amache is also now home to historic recreations of a guard tower and a barracks.

In an ideal world, Hopper said he wants to someday rebuild an entire block of the camp, complete with a mess hall and latrines.

"It actually lets people step in and experience what it was like for themselves," said Hopper, who now also serves as Granada Public Schools dean of students. "When they step inside the barracks and think about the fact that there was no insulation — it gets up to 114 degrees here in the summer. It might cool down to about 85 at night, but inside those barracks it was still close to 90. Try to sleep in that."

With roughly 500 residents in Granada, the preservation efforts have become deeply ingrained in the town's identity, thanks in large part to Hopper, who has inspired hundreds of students and spent countless hours working to preserve Amache. In 2014, the Consul General of Japan gave him a special commendation for his work.

But to Hopper, it's simply about doing what is right.

"We have to record it so that we don't do it again," Hopper said. "It was wrong. You don't take American citizens' life, liberty and pursuit of happiness away just because they have Japanese ancestry."



Gary Ono during his time at the Granada Relocation Center.
At its peak, Amache held more than 7,300 internees, who were confined within a single square mile by barbed wire and armed guards
Students of Granada High School teacher John Hopper hold pieces of art in the old Amache museum, which is moving into a much larger building across the street.
Historic recreations of a guard tower and barracks at Amache.

Never Forget—The Lasting Shame of World War II Internment
Patrick Murfin, Heretic, Rebel, a Thing to Flout - 3 hours ago
Japanese-American families being hauled to internment camps in a U.S. Army truck.. News last week that the *Trump administration* will dispatch *heavily armed *“*Tactical Units*” a/k/a *paramilitary troops *of the *Immigration and Customs Enforcement* agency (*ICE*) to *Sanctuary Cities *who have proclaimed that they will *not cooperate*with raids on *immigrant communities. *It is a dramatic escalation of Trump’s war on his *domestic enemies*, including *Democratic strongholds* in America’s *major cities *emboldened by his sense of *invulnerability *since his *acquittal* on *impeac...


Thursday, July 02, 2026

Japanese internment camp survivors demand closure of Dilley, TX family detention center


DILLEY, Texas (RNS and Texas Tribune) — Completing a pilgrimage from the Texas site of a World War II internment camp, interfaith activists said history is repeating itself at the nation's only family detention facility.
Keiko Kubo, from left, Joe Okimoto, and the Rev. Dr. Kenji Akahoshi join other Japanese American survivors, detention survivors, and faith leaders calling for the end of family and child detention on June 27, 2026, in Dilley, Texas. (Brenda Bazán/Texas Tribune)

DILLEY, Texas (RNS and Texas Tribune) — Roughly two dozen immigration advocates, faith leaders, Japanese internment camp survivors and their descendants completed a four-day, 45-mile pilgrimage Saturday to an immigrant detention facility outside of Dilley.

The activists demanded the closure of the only federal family detention center, described by a Japanese internment survivor as inhumane and a tragic “repetition of American history.”

Free Families, a national coalition of organizations advocating for immigrant families, organized the pilgrimage with Texas Unitarian Universalist Justice Ministries, Grassroots Leadership and Tsuru for Solidarity, a group of Japanese American concentration camp survivors and descendants who work to end detention. The goal of the pilgrimage was “to shut down Dilley, end family detention in its entirety, and stop family separation caused by ICE targeting and detention.”

Action was a central theme of the pilgrimage. “Join us everywhere,” said Mike Ishii, executive director and co-founder of Tsuru for Solidarity. “March in solidarity, walk in spiritual faith and strength, just as we are doing today.” 

“Together, as a country, we will transform the violence, and we will open the future to a new path,” he said. 

The pilgrimage began Wednesday morning at the Crystal City Concentration Camp, where Japanese American families were imprisoned in Texas during World War II. 

Mike Ishii and Joe Okimoto, along with other Japanese Americans, leave origami cranes on the fence at the Dilley Family Detention Center on June 27, 2026, in Dilley, Texas. (Brenda Bazán/Texas Tribune)

Walking up to 12 miles each morning, the group arrived at Dilley’s South Texas Family Residential Center around 10 a.m. Saturday. 

Interfaith leaders and activists prayed, delivered a meditative chant and tied chains of multicolored origami cranes to the facility’s 10-foot chain-link fence topped with razor wire.

The paper cranes were folded by Japanese American concentration camp survivors and their descendants.

“We bring (these cranes) on their behalf and in solidarity with the children and the families being subjected to violence inside of Dilley and in every detention site across the country,” Ishii said. “The message from us is this must stop.”

“We will transform the violence,” Ishii said, as 16-wheelers barreled down the nearby highway. “We will open the future to a new path.”



Community members hold signs protesting the detention of children and families in Dilley, Texas, on June 27, 2026. (Brenda Bazán/Texas Tribune)

The Dilley facility is the nation’s only immigrant detention center that imprisons parents with their children. About 70 miles southwest of San Antonio, the facility has held children ranging from infants to teenagers. 

The South Texas Family Residential Center opened in 2014, becoming the Department of Homeland Security’s largest immigrant family detention center. It can hold 2,400 people and was designed to accommodate women and children

The facility has been the site of intense protests, with critics saying it is inhumane to detain young children and mothers as criminals when they pose no security risk. 

Criticism led to the closure of Dilley’s facility during the Biden administration. In March 2025, the Trump administration reopened the facility with CoreCivic, a private prison corporation. Under the Trump administration, the daily number of children detained by Immigration and Customs Enforcement increased over sixfold, with Dilley’s facility as the primary detention center for children.

This year, Dilley has made national headlines. After photos of immigration agents detaining 5-year-old Liam Conejo Ramos in Minnesota went viral, protesters clashed with authorities outside the facility, where he was transferred. During a January protest at the center’s gates, authorities used tear gas and pepper ball grenades on hundreds of faith leaders, advocates and residents. Two people were arrested.

A few days later, the Dilley facility reported two cases of measles. Those incarcerated at the facility have reported moldy, worm-riddled food and neglectful medical care. Ms. Rachel, a popular children’s entertainer, recently called Dilley’s detainment of children “child abuse.”

Japanese American survivors, detention survivors, and faith leaders call for the end of family and child detention on June 27, 2026, in Dilley, Texas. (Brenda Bazán/Texas Tribune)



For survivors of Japanese internment, Dilley’s family detention facility hearkens to the U.S. concentration camps that shuttered 80 years ago. 

In 1942, following the attack on Pearl Harbor, nearly all persons of Japanese ancestry in the mainland U.S. were forced into internment camps for the remainder of World War II. More than 120,000 people were incarcerated, over two-thirds of whom were U.S. citizens. Still alive today are several survivors who were incarcerated as children. 

Standing outside the Dilley detention center’s fence, the Rev. Kenji Akaposhi, a retired Buddhist minister and survivor of Japanese internment, told pilgrims, “I was 2 weeks old when my family was incarcerated. Because of that trauma that I suffered — that has been with me my entire life — I am here to help those, especially the children, whose lives are being affected as we speak.” 

Satsuki Ina, 82, was born inside Crystal City camp, where her family was held for more than four years. Saturday marked Ina’s second pilgrimage to Dilley’s detention facility, and she was accompanied by other survivors, including Chizu Omori, 96, who was also returning to Dilley for the second time.

“It’s heartbreaking to know we are back here again,” Ina said. 

The Rev. Dr. Kenji Akahoshi walks along with other Japanese American survivors, detention survivors, and faith leaders calling for the end of family and child detention on June 27, 2026, in Dilley, Texas. (Brenda Bazán/Texas Tribune)

“We might be old, we might be here with our canes and our hearing aids and our walkers and our dentures, but we’re mad,” she said. 

Ina was accompanied by her 22-year-old granddaughter, Skyla Tomine, who is the national organizing fellow for Tsuru for Solidarity and a descendant of relatives from three different internment camps. 

“I am heartbroken again that she has to even be here,” Ina said. “What is happening today is a repetition of American history, over and over and over again.”

Pastor Dianne Garcia, who leads a Mennonite community, opened the ceremony with a faith-based reflection.

“We know that God cries out for justice with us, as we have cried out for justice,” she said. 

Twelve-year-old Clara, right, leads community members in singing a song written with children who have experienced detention, on June 27, 2026, in Dilley, Texas. (Brenda Bazán/Texas Tribune)

Garcia’s 12-year-old daughter, Clara, led the group in a song that was produced in collaboration with children inside Dilley’s detention facility.

“I sing from here, and you sing from there. Together we’ll sing down the walls everywhere. Love in our hearts like the waves of the sea. Together we’ll sing until everyone’s free,” she sang.

The ceremony closed with Ishii leading a chant frequently recited in Japanese internment camps. “Kodomo no tame ni. There are children, set them free,” the group shouted.

Origami cranes hang from the fence on the perimeter of the Dilley Detention Center after Japanese Americans held a ceremony completing their pilgrimage from Crystal City, on June 27, 2026, in Dilley, Texas. (Brenda Bazán/Texas Tribune)

This story is published through a collaboration between The Texas Tribune and Religion News Service.