By Shizuye Takashima

When Shizuye Takashima, "Shichan" as she used to be referred to as, used to be 11 years outdated, her whole global replaced endlessly. As a Japanese-Canadian in 1941, she used to be between millions of individuals pressured from their houses and despatched to stay in internment camps within the Canadian Rockies. even though none have been convicted of any crime, they have been thought of the enemy as the kingdom used to be at struggle with Japan. during this real tale of disappointment and pleasure, Shichan remembers her existence within the days top as much as her family's compelled circulation to the camp, her worry, anger, and frustration because the battle drags on, and the unbelievable joys within the camp: a Kabuki play, vacation celebrations, and the ever present fantastic thing about the stars.

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We dare not believe this is the one. Mother is so anxious. She has just received a letter from father that he is leaving his camp with others; the families will be back together. I feel so happy. He writes that he is being moved to a new camp, smaller than others, but it is supposed to be located in one of the most beautiful spots in British Columbia. It’s near a small village, 1800 feet above sea level. B. patients. I hear there are many Japanese who have this disease, and the high altitude and dry air are supposed to be good for them.

Strange to be fighting them. My father’s nephews are all in the army. We do not receive any letters from our uncles and aunts in Japan and we do not know if they are alive or not. Father does not speak of them much. ” “For land and other things,” father replies. ” “But I’m not Japanese, like you. I was born here. ” I look at Yuki. ” “Even if I change my name?

We turn our heads toward the snow-covered mountains. Way below from the bridge, we can see the gray water of the river, swollen and angry as it rushes away around the bend with a great, loud roar. The church bells ring in the distance, clear and distinct, telling us to hasten. The mountains, the snow-covered firs and pine trees listen. We turn and hurry towards the sound of the silvery bells. All seems like a dream, the snow, the bells, our silent steps on the white winter carpet. As we hurry, I think of our Lord, being born this day, in a strange land, on such a winter as this.

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