OWENS VALLEY, CALIFORNIA
The sign is purposely generic as to not make the casual passerby uncomfortable. “Manzanar Historic Site”. I guess they don’t want to ruin people’s vacations by openly advertising America’s dark history.
But when I turn off the highway and see the guard tower, I know what’s going on. I have stumbled upon a concentration camp.
The Manzanar War Relocation Center was an American concentration camp. 11,000 people were imprisoned here from 1942 to 1945, the majority of them native-born American citizens. They were forced from their homes, lost their property and businesses, and locked up for the simple reason that they were of Japanese heritage.
Often referred to as “Japanese camps” to make it easier for us to push the shame aside, these camps were indeed as American as apple pie and lynchings.
I park and walk around. Take some photos. Then get back in the car and drive through the site. The place is big, it was like a small town, with blocks and blocks of housing, shops, workplaces, vegetable fields, a school, orchards, and a clinic. Over the years, a community formed with the presence of arts, sports, weddings and funerals. 541 children were born here. About 140 people died.
Winters were freezing and summers scorching. Dust was finding its way everywhere. There was no escaping the wind. Or the camp.
Why is it that I am always drawn to these dark places on my trips? The Killing Fields of Cambodia, the most racist places in the American South, genocide memorials in Indonesia, war-torn cities in Iraq… Is it a simple search of an adrenaline kick? Is it to confront my own fears?
I know that had I lived in a different time – or in a different country – I would have been one of those people locked up, tortured, constantly on the run or murdered. As a member of more than one minority, and one who is outspoken and strong-willed, I am always aware that there are people out there just waiting for an excuse to ostracize me, assault me or take my life.
Being different is a constant companion in my life. There is a feeling of kinship visiting this camp.
The sky is azure blue and the sun is beating down on the valley. As I steer the Volvo back to the highway, my focus returns to the most important task of the day: Keeping an eye on the temperature gauge so that I don’t cook the engine. Life, in all its pain and beauty, goes on.
The mountains are distant. The road starts to climb.
