Exclusion Zones: Internment and the West Coast Line

Episode Narrative

In the spring of 1917, the world stood on the precipice of monumental change. War had engulfed Europe, and the United States, once a reluctant participant on the world stage, was drawn into the fray. Mobilization began in earnest, transforming the nation's military from a mere 217,272 troops to over 1.5 million. This rapid expansion required the creation of vast mobilization camps across the country, places that would soon buzz with the sounds of young men preparing for a conflict that felt both distant and deeply personal.

Amid this fervor, however, an unseen adversary lurked in the shadows. The Spanish flu, a pandemic that would spread its icy grip across the globe, would lay waste to civilians and soldiers alike. Between September and November of 1918, as American forces rallied to fight in France, the flu claimed lives indiscriminately. Outbreaks surged through military camps, leading to staggering statistics: twenty to forty percent of personnel became gravely ill. When the dust settled, the death toll would reach an astounding 675,000 across the nation. Most of these victims were young adults, aged between twenty and forty — a demographic already battered by the chaos of war and the scourge of disease.

In the summer of 1918, one army camp reported that over two thousand of its ten thousand men were sickened by the influenza virus. Many faced severe complications like purulent bronchitis and pneumonia, each day drawing more casualties into the foreboding darkness of illness. While soldiers were rallying together to confront a visible enemy overseas, their own government found itself navigating a delicate balance between public morale and the grim reality of a nation struck by sickness. Wartime propaganda took center stage, urging citizens to carry on with their daily lives. To acknowledge the pandemic could risk bolstering the enemy's resolve.

Just as one tragedy unfolded, another was brewing in the shadows of history. The Treaty of Versailles would be signed in 1919, yet the United States Senate resolutely rejected joining the League of Nations. This moment signaled a shift towards isolationism, which would, in turn, shape policies that would later dictate who belonged in America and who did not.

Fast forward to 1924, when the Immigration Act established stringent national origin quotas. This act effectively barred immigration from Asia and imposed sweeping restrictions on arrivals from Southern and Eastern Europe. It was a chilling reflection of the xenophobia that had taken root during the war and the subsequent Red Scare that gripped the nation. These changes would not merely affect borders; they would alter the fabric of American society itself. The once-inclusive ideals that many believed characterized the United States were being rewritten, transforming into a landscape marked by exclusion.

The 1930s brought additional challenges. The newly formed U.S. Border Patrol expanded its operations along the Mexican border, a direct response to growing unease about unauthorized immigration amid the economic despair of the Great Depression. The border became a line not only of geography but of ideology, underscoring fears about national identity in a time of significant upheaval.

Then, came December 7, 1941 — a date that would echo through history. Japan's attack on Pearl Harbor propelled the United States into World War II and cast a pall of suspicion over Japanese Americans residing on the West Coast. In a horrifying flash, men, women, and children who had contributed to the American dream found themselves caught in a storm of distrust and panic.

Just a few months later, on February 19, 1942, President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066. This sweeping decision authorized military officials to designate areas "from which any or all persons may be excluded." In simple terms, it laid the groundwork for mass incarceration. The entire West Coast — stretching from Washington to California, and including parts of Arizona — was deemed a military exclusion zone. The maneuver would uproot over 110,000 Japanese Americans, two-thirds of whom were U.S. citizens, forcing them from their homes and communities into remote, desolate camps like those at Manzanar and Tule Lake.

As the War Relocation Authority was established to manage these camps, the grim reality of life behind barbed wire began to unfold. Families were confined to barracks, a fate that starkly contradicted the American ideal of freedom and due process. By 1942, although Italian and German Americans faced curfews and travel restrictions, they generally escaped the same fate as their Japanese counterparts. Yet, more than 10,000 Italian Americans and thousands of German Americans were also uprooted, detained in camps under the watchful eyes of military guards.

The irony was profound: while Japanese Americans faced the unthinkable, members of the all-Japanese American 442nd Regimental Combat Team enlisted to fight, becoming the most decorated unit for its size in U.S. military history. Their bravery on the battlefield became a poignant counterpoint to the suffering imposed upon their families back home, whose dignity and liberties were all but stripped away.

In 1944, as the war drew closer to its end, the U.S. Supreme Court upheld the constitutionality of the incarceration in the case of Korematsu v. United States. This verdict would later be denounced as a grave injustice, frequently cited in formal apologies issued by the U.S. government. Although the exclusion order was finally rescinded the same year, for the returning Japanese Americans, the situation was far from resolved. Many faced hostility, vandalism, and the harsh reality of lost property. What was meant to be a homecoming became a painful reminder of what they had endured.

The last of the incarceration camps closed in 1945, but the scars of this dark chapter would linger on. Even as America emerged from World War II as a global superpower, the experiences of exclusion and internment shaped the nation’s borders and national security policies, continually challenging the delicate balance between civil liberties and military necessity.

Innocently, despite such hardship, those incarcerated found ways to endure. In their camps, they created art, established gardens, and published newspapers — each endeavor a testament to their resilience and commitment to cultural preservation under duress. Through these expressions, they mirrored both the hardships they faced and the dignity they sought to uphold.

Lingering shadows, however, loomed over this grim history. Families received only days to sell their belongings, often leading to fire sales where neighbors purchased treasured possessions for mere pennies. This stark reality exemplified the deep emotional and economic toll that accompanied their forced removal.

For decades, Japanese American families lived with the consequences of this tragedy, aching to reconcile their past with a present shaped by loss and trauma. The Civil Liberties Act of 1988 marked a pivotal moment in this reckoning, formally apologizing for the injustices endured and providing reparations. Yet, while these gestures represented important steps towards acknowledgment, they could not erase the living scars of exclusion.

The lessons from this period remind us how easily borders can become barriers, how fear can distort the very ideals we claim to hold dear. The echoes of history call upon us to remain vigilant. As we navigate the complexities of identity, belonging, and security in today’s world, we must ask ourselves: how do we ensure that the rights of all individuals are upheld, even in times of uncertainty and fear? The answers lie in our willingness to remember, to reflect, and to fight against the tide of exclusion that has marked our past. Each story of resilience, each act of defiance against oppression, becomes not just a chapter in history but a beacon for a more just future.