Martha

By Toshi Steimetz

One packed suitcase, that was all that she was allowed to bring. My grandmother, Martha Kondo Miyasaki, is one of those people who saves absolutely everything. She keeps plastic utensils, ketchup packets, chopsticks, mints, and an extensive list of other things that most of us throw away without a second thought. Despite these habits, my grandmother was forced to pack her whole life into one bag. She did not know her destination or the amount of time she would be gone, but she threw her belongings together and prepared for the worst.

Should she pack for rain? Snow? Desert? Did she need food? Should she bring a family photo? How long would she be gone?

These were the same questions that 137,000 other Japanese Americans across the west coast were asking as they packed their lives into a single suitcase.

This is because in February of 1942, through Executive Order 9066, President Roosevelt “relocated” all west coast Japanese Americans to internment camps. At the time, my grandmother was eleven years old and her father had just purchased a shiny new bicycle. My grandmother loved the bike and spent hours in the street learning to ride it, but after Executive Order 9066, that bike was the first thing her mother sold. Given the circumstances, her family had no choice but to sell everything they owned. They sold the house, their grocery store, and all their possessions until they each were left with nothing but one packed bag. After the WWII bombing at Pearl Harbor, President Roosevelt suspected Japanese Americans to be spies for the Japanese Government. In one of the most unconstitutional acts in American history, he forcibly removed Japanese Americans from their homes and sent them to an undisclosed location for an unknown amount of time.

For my grandmother, it was two and a half years in the barren Idaho desert. She was moved to the Minidoka Internment Camp, a patch of land with rows of barracks surrounded by tall barbed-wire fences, and armed guards in watchtowers. Like everyone else, her family received an old horse stall as their living space.

It was about the size of a single bedroom with no windows, no door, no curtains, and still had the pungent scent of horse manure.

While other families relied on each other to cope, my grandmother and her younger brother Floyd were faced with an even greater hardship. Their mother, Toshiko Kondo, was five months pregnant and due to health concerns, she was kept in the hospital by doctor’s order. Their father, Sam Kondo, was a prominent figure in the Portland Japanese community and was unlawfully arrested a few weeks prior to the relocation order. With Toshiko in the hospital and Sam in military prison, my grandmother and uncle entered their new life at Minidoka completely alone.

Over the next four months, my grandmother cleaned the stall, made the beds, took Floyd to the mess hall, made him shower, and did her best to keep my troublemaking uncle in order. From the moment he entered camp, Floyd was clogging toilets, pranking the neighbors, knocking on doors, breaking dishes, and wreaking havoc everywhere he went. My Uncle Floyd never had a negative view of internment and instead saw camp as an opportunity for endless fun with no school, no parents, and tons of time to spend with friends.

Ultimately, my grandmother’s experience in camp embodies the resilience that the Japanese-American community demonstrated while under internment. It was never my goal to make you believe that everything about camp was horrific because it simply isn’t the whole truth.

The reality is that the Japanese Americans didn’t let their hardships define them.

When I ask my grandmother about her time in camp, her mood does not darken, instead, she perks up at the opportunity to tell me a good story. Even in the ugliest of situations, my family and the community I am a part of, created something beautiful. I am proud to say that Japanese internment is a part of my heritage and a significant piece of history that should never be forgotten.

Eventually, Toshiko Kondo was released from the hospital and entered Minidoka with her new son Gordon. A year after Toshiko’s return, she met with government officials and signed a legal document that pledged her loyalty to the United States of America. As soon as her pen lifted from the signature, her husband Sam was released from prison and reunited with his family. Together, the family opened a movie theatre in Minidoka. Sam was one of the few people who knew how to operate a film projector and the only person in camp with a bike. Once a week, he would bike to the front gates, receive a movie from the outside world, then bike back to the hall where they played the films. Toshiko, Floyd, and my grandmother sold the tickets for ten cents while Sam operated the projector. It was a simple weekly event, but the small return to normalcy was important to everyone.