I knew that friendly Mr. S on our hospice unit had been a decorated World War II hero, having fought for the United States on the Italian front lines in 1944. I knew that a grenade had exploded right next to him four weeks into combat, sending him to the hospital for months with terrible shrapnel injuries. I also knew that he wished he had been able to fight longer, to serve more time on the front lines against Mussolini.
What I didn’t know when I met Mr. S as one of my patients at the VA was that he was imprisoned by the same country he proudly fought for. His whole family was transported by train from their home in San Jose in 1942 to an internment camp in Wyoming for the same reason he signed up to fight: a patriotic heart and deep love of country.
Mr. S was a member of the 442nd Infantry Regiment, a unit made up largely of Japanese-Americans who were recruited straight out of the internment camps they were held in. The 442nd remains one of the most decorated units in WWII history, with over 9,000 Purple Hearts and 21 Medals of Honor; this decade, surviving members (including Mr. S) were given the Congressional Gold Medal and made Chevaliers (Knights) of the French Légion d’Honneur.
At the time, I met Mr. S, I was naïve to the experience of the legendary 442nd. Why had a generation of young Japanese-Americans left their families behind barbed wire in the cold, empty expanses of interior America to sail the Atlantic and defend the country that put them in camps? As a Jew, I tried to imagine myself in the Nazi army, fighting against the Americans at Normandy. It made no sense.
“We loved America,” explained Mr. S. “Historically, in Japanese culture, you would respect the orders of your country’s leaders. My family understood that tough decisions need to be made by leaders, and as patriotic citizens, we trusted that we were acting in the best interest of our country by following those orders.”
I was flabbergasted. Mr. S’s family trusted this country’s goodness so much that they did not protest the internment order. They lived for a time in the stables at the Santa Anita racetrack in Arcadia, CA before being shipped to Heart Mountain, Wyoming, given only heavy coats and a few piles of coal to make it through the freezing winters. He relayed to me his excitement in helping organize some athletic leagues at Heart Mountain, and especially the fact that the camp’s baseball squad regularly beat local opponents. Heart Mountain is the camp notable for the highest number of its prisoners who resisted joining the military: 90 men. But over 800 ultimately signed up. Even today, you can hear in Mr. S’s voice his disdain for those who resisted.
This is the power of patriotism. A deep love of country and a willingness to sacrifice all for a cause that is wrapped in the American flag: Mix these with a crisis and people will think things that seem unthinkable and do things that seem heinous. In Mr. S’s case, this was true not only of his family, but of the non-Japanese-American families around them.
I’ve thought a lot about Mr. S this week. Of course, this is the 64th anniversary of the bombing of Pearl Harbor — and today the day of President Roosevelt’s “Day of Infamy” speech. The attack led to widespread hysteria and public acts of racism against Japanese-Americans; the idea of internment was so popular that it whisked its loudest public supporter, then-California Attorney General Earl Warren, straight into the Governorship of California where he stayed for an unprecedented three consecutive terms (before becoming Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court). Over 100,000 Japanese-Americans were ultimately “excluded” in the name of patriotism, the majority of whom were U.S. citizens.
We are repeating the past today, again in the name of patriotism. Our reaction to being attacked is to look with suspicion at those who look like our enemies, who share a style of facial hair or skin tone. Front-runners for the presidential nomination are publicly suggesting modern exclusion of Muslims to standing ovation. Chief Justice Warren, who ultimately regretted internment and became a champion of school desegregation, must be turning in his grave.
Mr. S was not interned because his patriotism was misguided. He had no regrets, and I’m with him: He did exactly the right thing given the events around him and his deeply American heart. It was the patriotism of the America around him that was misguided.
Conversations today about proving the patriotism of Muslim-Americans need to be redirected. I don’t think it’s important how many Muslims are our nation’s doctors, engineers, and elected officials. They could all be homeless and unemployed: They would still be patriotic Americans. What we need to prove right now is the nature of the patriotism of our country, and we need to prove that through our actions. We will not repeat the mistakes of the past. Never again. We will reject hateful rhetoric and will remember that being an American patriot means promoting tolerance even in the face of crisis.
Nuriel Moghavem is a medical student. He can be reached on Twitter @nuriel_moghavem.
Image credit: Shutterstock.com
