Text of the Letter:
October 21, 1943
Special Combat Unit
Co. C, 442nd Infantry
Camp Shelby, Mississippi
Dear Richard,
You had to be strong to do what you did. It was a supreme test. I was sorry and bewildered to find ourselves forced to make great decisions, surrounded by tension so severe. Yet, many Niseis took it, and I am proud. Deep down in a thousand hearts, there is admiration, though it hasn’t been uttered. Know that you have helped many inches forward in our struggle to be understood and appreciated by our fellow citizens. Many of us never wanted those responsibilities and still long to have other faces than ours that mark us as Orientals. We wish sometimes we could run away, change somehow, so that we can be inconspicuous in American life; that we might have the freedom and the right to proudly serve shoulder to shoulder with the millions in factories, in important places, unrestricted, and unsuspected!
But did you know, Richard, I see the Niseis being trampled and crushed, but remember Lois’ poem at devotional? “Truth crushed to earth will rise again!”—and so, in a way, I pray and do have faith that out of this chaos, many Niseis will rise again, stronger for the suffering, more noble, more equipped with sterling qualities that may lead to valuable contributions not only to beloved America, but to the world. I’ve seen in unexpected places, more courage; in unexpected people, more strength; in quiet places, great wisdom and understanding. Weighed down by fear and crushed by dullness, there has been new spirit, dormant within, that is shooting out of its case, unwilling to remain idle and frustrated, seeking once again for adventure and hardship, and freedom to labour. Even the Isseis, Richard, and I am humbled but deeply thankful that these tired parents, are daring once again to pioneer. It’s true!
Our thoughts often go to our boys in the army. Our soul within aches to think of the role you have all borne and will bear for our people, in addition to the great purpose for which we are striving as Americans and as citizens that love this old world of ours. Thousands of elderly parents have great volumes of love, concern, and messages, but through strange circumstances, they have never been articulate enough to their children born in America. This is why my heart cries in pain to realize the stoic role they are playing, so unaffected, so quietly. But, if I could speak for them, these silent prayers that throb so loudly in their bodies, could it be?
“Dear God, of this universe, hear our prayer: Through the miracle of this power may our inarticulate message pierce the soul and mind of our loved ones, our boys, our babies that we bore in the midst of sweat and toil in the California farms. We wanted to give them every opportunity; we wanted to protect them from the jeering, cruel children in our neighborhood, but we helplessly watched; and could only pray that even these experiences to our sensitive child would not stop him from growing in love and wisdom and goodness. We worked uncomplainingly, forgetting ourselves in deep devotion to our offspring, dreaming of the day when he will be a man, a fine citizen worthy of this great country to which we came. We didn’t understand very much about democracy, but we saw and knew about Abraham Lincoln; we saw greatness in George Washington’s portrait. We sensed great possibilities in America, and we tried to make it felt to our little boys. We didn’t go on vacations; we worked every day, so that every cent could be saved for their education. Yes, they must go to college, to universities. We were proud, we were grateful for the country that made it possible for a poor farmer to send his son to a higher school.
Somehow, we believe in thy guidance and thy strength. We know that the humblest of us in thy sight was great, if we kept faith. We thought our world would end, one dark Sunday before Christmas. Then, rumors of evacuation, then followed the night mare [sic] of packing, tears, moving. Then, the bewildered, crowded barracks; the long hours of idleness and boredom. Weighed down in fear, we prayed for courage, to keep our aging bodies still strong and young so that we could stand by our children in their darkest hour.
Then, my son pressed in by the angry, frustrated evacuees, stood serenely in their midst, volunteered to give his life for this great United States. Dear God, I did not know what to say. Neighbors ridiculed us. They couldn’t understand why my son would turn against the oppressed people, and declare his allegiance and loyalty with his life to America. Wasn’t our life work lost? We were driven from home, citizens and all, in a land supposedly a democracy!
But, still Dear Lord, I know that two wrongs will never make a right. I know it is your will to love, to serve to build. And so, I was proud of my son, and feel grateful for the many blessings that has made possible, his health, his devotion to his country, his convictions. I am aware of the dangers and the risk. Life is dear, and I love him. I mustn’t lose him, but if he could not fight to preserve the way of life that will premit [sic] every man to live in freedom, I will lose him in dirt and rot that the oppressed must dwell. So, Dear God, I pray, as all mothers all over the world, that if this bitter cup must not be passed, may we take it and in the act, bear an amor [sic] of spiritual nobility that will turn death into a resurrection for all people of all lands, that the truth will penetrate to our dull minds that even my hands must do creative work today in building, goodwill, justice, making possible freedom to come to all mankind.”
Amen.
Mary Tsukamoto