Midnight Memories
- Seattle Prep Ignite
- May 9, 2018
- 3 min read
I can still recall it as if it were yesterday. As if I never truly experienced it, and perhaps it was all a dream. But I know better. My name is Mariko Kawamura, and I lived in a Japanese internment camp.
I remember every detail of December 7, 1941. I was a sophomore attending Garfield High School at the time. My friends and I were skiing up on Snoqualmie Pass when the news came in. I was in the lodge when one of my friends came tearing down the hill. Between breaths, my friend came up to me and said that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. From then on, my life was never the same.
Those who I called friends suddenly abandoned me. My own neighborhood started putting up signs that the Japanese didn’t belong here and that we should return to Japan. I never really considered myself as Japanese, I considered myself an American first and foremost. I’ve never felt so alienated from society. When Executive Order 9066 came out in February of the following year, my family and I had already been subject to intense discrimination. My older brother and sister did their best to shield me from the hateful words, but it wasn’t enough. Everything became a downhill spiral. My father ran a successful business on King Street, yet he was forced to sell it. In fact, we were given two weeks to sell everything that we owned.
My family was allowed one suitcase per person. My mother reasoned that anything left behind must be sold. We were forced to sell everything for a fraction of its original cost. If we were to leave things as they were, they’d be looted within days. What truly broke my heart was saying goodbye to my cat. I’d grown up with her ever since I could remember. We asked a family friend to look after the house in our absence. While giving them my cat, tears were pouring down my face. Not only for my loss of my pet, but for the loss of my whole world.
The camp my family was assigned to was called Camp Minidoka. The camp resembled a small town of sorts; however, it was surrounded by tall barbed-wire fences and watch towers. There was no privacy anywhere to be found. Day by day, I felt my Japanese culture slip away. Looking back, I am ashamed that I began to ignore the words of my parents. From the wretched living conditions to working day and night to contribute to the community, I was exhausted. I remember crying myself to sleep every night, hoping that the war would finally be over.
The years passed slowly, and finally by the end of October 1945 we were released. Despite being a very tightly-knit family, my parents didn’t want to return to Seattle. There are no words large enough to express how ashamed we were. Yet there was nothing more for us in that city; after all, we already sold all our belongings. My brother went to serve in the military once the war was over. He thought that he could prove his loyalty through service.
I never got to say goodbye to my friends. I never saw my childhood house again. And after my grandchildren were born, I never wanted any other culture to endure the same fate. I try to be strong, but it's impossible to escape the midnight memories that follow me whenever I close my eyes.
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