Japanese Internment
In rusty bronze, a long, rectangular sculpture with small, etched vinaigrettes of Japanese internment camps catches a glimpse of autumn’s afternoon light in Downtown San Jose.
The sculpture was designed by Ruth Asawa, a female artist who witnessed the fall of Japanese families and lifestyles in the face of rising racism and sociopolitical unrest during World War II.
Like a scroll, the sculptures’ carvings are laid out in chronological order from left to right in the front and back, forcing the viewer to follow along with the stories of the victims.
The once traditional Japanese dining commons that provided a sense of community and care transformed into an overcrowded soup kitchen where sullen faces and empty stomachs fought over scarce food.
The barbed wire, which used to keep animals out of the farm, has now thickened into jail wires that laced the internment camps, echoing dehumanization and false criminality.
The fishing embargo ship was instead a train on the other side, carrying an endless amount of passengers into the camp.
They lug their homes in jammed suitcases that pile high on unknown grounds.
Winter storms take over autumn leaves.
White powder and heavy winds blanketed the cabin- like internment camps, almost as a metaphor for the harsh times ahead and the growing coldness of one’s heart.
A child on the verge of tears stands next to a rifle twice his size.
A graveyard of dead soldiers appear in the distance as a family receives a star, informing them that one of their family members had died during the war.
Though the soldiers and their families have died, their experiences as a hole will not.
As if a guardian of our law, the copper sculpture encompasses the hopelessness and anguish the Japanase Americans faced during World War II as it stands before a federal building, reminding us of our past and apprising us of our future.
The sculpture was designed by Ruth Asawa, a female artist who witnessed the fall of Japanese families and lifestyles in the face of rising racism and sociopolitical unrest during World War II.
Like a scroll, the sculptures’ carvings are laid out in chronological order from left to right in the front and back, forcing the viewer to follow along with the stories of the victims.
The once traditional Japanese dining commons that provided a sense of community and care transformed into an overcrowded soup kitchen where sullen faces and empty stomachs fought over scarce food.
The barbed wire, which used to keep animals out of the farm, has now thickened into jail wires that laced the internment camps, echoing dehumanization and false criminality.
The fishing embargo ship was instead a train on the other side, carrying an endless amount of passengers into the camp.
They lug their homes in jammed suitcases that pile high on unknown grounds.
Winter storms take over autumn leaves.
White powder and heavy winds blanketed the cabin- like internment camps, almost as a metaphor for the harsh times ahead and the growing coldness of one’s heart.
A child on the verge of tears stands next to a rifle twice his size.
A graveyard of dead soldiers appear in the distance as a family receives a star, informing them that one of their family members had died during the war.
Though the soldiers and their families have died, their experiences as a hole will not.
As if a guardian of our law, the copper sculpture encompasses the hopelessness and anguish the Japanase Americans faced during World War II as it stands before a federal building, reminding us of our past and apprising us of our future.
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