Yamamoto’s parents were both sent from Vancouver to internment camps in the Kootenays—her mother to New Denver and her father to Lemon Creek. The families’ fishing boats, homes, and possessions were seized by the government.

BC’s laws weren’t changed until 1949, when the franchise was extended to all Japanese Canadians—one of the last groups to be excluded. The year before, Canadians of Asian origin acquired the right to vote federally and Japanese Canadian war vets could vote starting in 1931.

Yamamoto beat two political heavyweights — Don Bell and Jennifer Clarke — to earn the BC Liberal’s nomination for the North Vancouver-Lonsdale riding and then defeated defeat long-time District of North Vancouver politician Janice Harris who was running for the NDP.

The final tally was 9,710 votes for Yamamoto, 7,252 for Harris, 1,632 for Green Michelle Corcos, 791 for BC Conservative Ian McLeod 388 and 224 for Reform’s Ron Gamble.

The North Vancouver-Lonsdale MLA takes over the ministry of Intergovernmental Relations from West Vancouver-Sea to Sky MLA Joan McIntyre, who has served less than a year in that position. Yamamoto’s position will have her working closely with inter-provincial agencies, the federal government and governments in the U.S.
A feature in the Georgia Straight asks the question, why have so few Japanese Canadians gone into politics?, singling out that federal minister of international cooperation, Bev Oda; former Richmond city councillor Kiichi Kumagai; and former Ontario cabinet minister David Tsubouchi as being among the few elected officials of Japanese descent.
As the article points out, this is in spite of Statistics Canada’s finding that, as a group, Japanese Canadians have outpaced other groups in education. For example, 28 percent of Japanese Canadian adults have a university degree, compared to just 15 percent of the general adult population.

Yamamoto is a cofounder of the graphic design firm Tora Design, and the president of the North Vancouver Chamber of Commerce.

By press time, Chibi Taiko will have performed their fundraising concert along with Steveston Tera Taiko and Yuaikai Ryukyu Taiko. This special fundraiser enables Chibi Taiko, who I have watched and enjoyed for many years, to travel to Japan, specifically to the seaside town of Onomichi. Onomichi is where Linda Ohama (whose daughter Caitlin is in Chibi Taiko), has ties via her grandmother, the “Obaachan” of Obaachan’s Garden. Linda Ohama is a long-time member of the Japanese Canadian community and I hope her film and visual work is familiar to all of you. Chibi Taiko will be hosted by, and work, with Onomich Betcha Taiko members along with the townspeople. As it takes a lot of financial resources to send such a large group to Japan, I hope you were able to help support this event. If you haven’t, it is not too late to donate as they will not be leaving until mid-July.

At 3pm on Sunday July 28 at Nikkei Place, koto player Chikako Kanehisa from Japan will perform a special koto concert, supported in part by the GVJCCA. The koto is the national instrument of Japan. Normally made of kiri wood, the koto has 13 strings strung over 13 movable bridges along the length of the instrument. Koto players adjust the string pitches by moving these bridges before playing and use three finger picks (thumb, index finger, and middle finger) to pluck the strings. The koto dates back to the 5th century and the concert will feature a mix of traditional and contemporary pieces which will be pleasing for both first-time and experienced listeners.

The GVJCCA will once again be participating in the Powell Street Festival on August 1 and 2, 2009 at its temporary location this year at Woodland Park, located at 700 Woodland Drive, Vancouver, just off Commercial Drive. The GVJCCA through The Bulletin will again provide the program guide to everyone attending the festival. The Powell Street Festival is the largest event of its kind in Canada and has over the past three decades provided a wonderful blend of Japanese Canadian arts, culture, and heritage. We hope to see you all there again this year. Watch for the August issue of the Bulletin which will come out early this year to give you lots of time to plan your BC Day weekend.
As you will have read in the Bulletin/Geppo, the GVJCCA and the National Association of Japanese Canadians will be co-hosting the Honouring Our People: Stories of the Internment Conference on September 25-27, 2009 at Nikkei Place. We feel that this will be an important event for all Japanese Canadians as it will provide a venue for survivors of the internment to share their stories and learn methods of preserving them for future generations. If you are like myself, and not yet born during the internment, there are many stories which have not been told by many of our elders. Not all the stories are the same and not all the stories are of sadness and anxiety. We would like to hear both and what I have noticed over the years working in the community is that all stories will vary dependent upon where, with whom, and what age one was during this period in one’s life. Not all the stories have been told either, for whatever reason. We are hoping you can participate.

See you at Powell Street Festival 2009!

Ron Nishimura,
President GVJCCA

Like my late parents, I’m definitely of the latter type. Many a time I would try to tidy up the living room or my study, only to end up with a sigh, not knowing what to do with the considerable quantity of photos that have accumulated over the years. Forget for now those digital photos that can be stored in large quantities, in disks or whatever. I’m talking about the colour prints, slides and black-and-white photos of the passing analog era, even including some sepia-toned ones going back to my childhood days.

Stuck in albums old and relatively new, or just bundled and stuffed in boxes, they take up quite a bit of space on bookcase shelves, in the closet and even on top of the desk in my study. Just over the last three decades, there are photos from Singapore, where I moved from Tokyo in 1981 and lived for 16 years, including the marriage to my wife and the infancies of my son, born in ’91, and my daughter, born in ’93, and those from our early years in Vancouver, where we moved in ’97.

They cover right up to the present, the children by now rebellious teenagers who don’t spend as much time at home as they used to (another sigh…). They show myriad faces and scenes from overseas trips, school and church events, Christmas get-togethers at home or at friends’ places, all somehow linked together by the thread of my memory. As subjects go, there’s nothing special or extraordinary about them. I tend to value them in terms of that highly personal emotion called nostalgia that they trigger in me. Maybe that’s why I rarely take out an old album or photos tucked away in boxes to gaze at.

There must be quite a number of “low interest” photos that can be chucked out, but I don’t bother. If I were to separate the ones I don’t want, I would have to look through them all. The physical effort would be next to nothing but I hesitate, and seriously. Maybe I’m beginning to feel the weight of the memories many of the photographs bring back.
Parents usually carry with them some unforgettable “definitive images” of their children from their early childhood, photos serving as their record and substantiation. My daughter, about 8 years old, reading out loud from a book of fairytales to our family dog, who was like her, just a puppy . . . we can’t forget the time we brought the female puppy home from a breeder, because it was the day before the world-shaking event of September 11th, 2001. My son, about the same age, squatting down and playing with tiny Pokemon figures with his buddies in the schoolyard . . . a scene I snapped to go with an article “Canadian Kids Crazy about Pokemon” that I sent to a Japanese magazine.

Our family trip to Disneyland—fulfilling a promise to the kids—feels like only yesterday, though it goes back several years. “If we want to enjoy family fun at Disneyland, we should go while the kids still want to,” we said back then. So we went to see Mickey and Minnie, and sure enough the kids soon moved on. Even more recent photos (and finally digital) from last summer when we went to the Mexican seaside resort at Ixtapa, show them with faces seemingly more innocent than they are today.

As for my wife, the many facial expressions and situations from the time we got to know each other back in Singapore right up to now inevitably lead to one thought, among others: how much hardship she must have endured both as a wife and a mother. Perhaps male readers of my age bracket would understand. And, as much as I hate to confront it, there is my own gradual ageing process. It’s so terrible that it forces me to cling on to the illusion that the face I see in the mirror every day is not as bad as that. Photographs are cruel, they say, and surely not with respect to just 40- or 50-something actresses and models.

Also inevitably at this stage in my life, there are photos showing the smiling faces of those who have already passed on, such as parents, relatives, friends, colleagues and so on. I guess that’s what I meant earlier by “the weight of the memories.” There is, of course, sadness. At the same time, I feel strongly as an unabashed romantic (one of the dictionary definitions being “one who chases dreams”) that I want to keep the memories of the happy days with those who have moved on as intact as possible.

As I have been in Canada now for about 12 years, there are some among my acquaintances in the Nikkei/ijusha community too who have already departed. But I tend to stay away from memorial gatherings and such, even though I’m aware of the breach of social etiquette I may be committing. It is quite selfish of me, but I would rather not say a “formal goodbye” to those who live on forever in my memory. They were —and are—all wonderful praiseworthy people each in his/her own way. By not bidding them farewell, I’m sort of asking these people to live on, to “stay alive,” if that makes any sense.

I just remembered something I heard a long time ago. There are people of primitive tribes who shun cameras because they believe their souls would be “captured” if they are photographed.

In 2002 we began an informal study of the history of our Tasaka family in Japan and Canada. This simple project gradually took on a life of its own as many family members joined in to contribute. I will call upon my experiences in working on our family history to explain how this undertaking impacted us in so many positive ways and to encourage you to undertake a study of your own family.

Recording a family history is a great hobby, it is a very social activity and it is fun. It draws family members together; it gives you things to talk about, to ask about and to wonder about. It makes your family closer and stronger and the interest spans generations.

The original immigrants in our Tasaka family were Isaburo and Yorie who settled in Steveston in 1903. Between 1904 and 1929, Yorie had 19 children of which 17 survived birth and 15 reached adulthood.

When we began the project, there were only two or three of us actively involved. The others fit somewhere on the scale of pro to con. But in the end, everyone was supportive and many people made contributions in their own way.
One important branch of genealogy is heraldic study. If you are from Britain, you have a Coat of Arms. If you are from Scotland, you have a tartan. If you are from Japan, you may have a monsho or mon (crest) and/or a ka-mon (family crest) that was first developed in the Heian Period (792-1185).

The ka-mon was initially used by the Kuge class who served the Emperor. In full battle-dress it was the only way to identify friend from foe. The ka-mon was later only used by the Imperial family, lords and shoguns and was passed from father to eldest son. Younger sons created variations as their own and women also had crests that passed from mother to daughter. Similarities in ka-mon can indicate an historical family connection. Finding your family crest may provide you with a link going back centuries and is a worthwhile project on its own.

The end “product” of our research was a book. People in the family acquired copies and read them. In some cases, some members of the younger generations used the book as the basis to write an essay describing their ancestry for social studies classes. This was an unexpected “benefit” of the project.

Almost as a direct result of the interest generated, we now have a Tasaka Family website. On the site, people post news. In today’s electronic world, as soon as a baby is born its picture is flashed to people around the world. Some members announce upcoming events. Others post pictures from their holidays. There is no end to the number of ways the website is used.

Recording the family history has given all of us an important connection to the past. As they say, a person’s interest in history increases as they come closer to becoming a part of it. Such a record helps us understand where we stand in an historical context. We have a new appreciation of the sacrifices made by earlier generations who paved the way for the opportunities we all enjoy today.

It also provides us with an insight into the character of our ancestors. Isaburo and Yorie Tasaka, the original family immigrants to Canada, took a possibly hazardous and certainly uncomfortable sea voyage to come to a country where they did not speak the language, with no guarantee of a job or income, no place to live or outside support. They must have been daring adventurers; risk taking optimists; independent spirits; survivors. These are some of the characteristics they passed on to future generations.

These qualities were undoubtedly useful during the early settlement years. Life on Saltspring Island, where the family settled, was difficult for an immigrant family with so many mouths to feed. The food supply was supplemented by Mother Nature. The boys went to the beach to look for crabs and other edible sea life. Mr. Yuen, a neighbouring farmer, allowed Fumi to keep eggs laid by his hens in the field. Another neighbour’s apple tree bordered the property and any fruit falling on the Tasaka side of the fence was harvested. Isaburo traded fish for fruit. Wild plants such as stinging nettle were also gathered and eaten.

These same qualities must have helped during the Internment of Japanese Canadians in World War II when school principals and teachers had to become labourers and fishers had to learn carpentry or farming.

After the war, the Tasaka family remained stoic regarding the internment experience. On those occasions when they did discuss it, they always made positive references. This is, after all, an ethnic trait. But more than half a century later and with considerable prodding from the younger generations, some real feelings began to surface. Of course Internment was hard. Certainly people were upset about the injustices. But the sense of “shikataganai” remains strong. This is a combination of the Oriental belief in fate and the North American phrase “those are the breaks.” It is a resignation to one’s destiny. It is not only “There is nothing I can do” but also “There is nothing I should do.”

Finally, producing a family history will help develop many skills. I don’t know how anyone practiced genealogy before e-mail, the Internet and digital photographs. But these are skills you will acquire or hone as you get into the process. Your writing and organization will also improve.

In compiling a family history, it is important to adopt the philosophy that if the project isn’t moving forward, it’s moving backward. Much of the history of people of Japanese ancestry in Canada is stored in the memory of the elders. I can only imagine how much richer and more complete our story would have been had we started just five years sooner when Masuko, Koji, Arizo, Sachu, Judo, Taisho and Iko were still living.

As our family members look back on the project and the roles they played, we share a sense of accomplishment and pride. That is why we are so pleased that the Nikkei Museum is sponsoring classes for people who are interested in recording the histories of their families. I hope to see you there. In the meantime, if you have any questions or need help, please contact me at t.m.ohashi@alumni.ubc.ca

I will try to talk about life in World War II as a mobilized student. In August 1943, near the end of the war, second semester had begin, and us grade 9 students were called up to go work in a munitions factory as reservists. There were a 125 of us, and 30 of us would go work together as a group at one factory. My group was assigned to work at the factory on the Anji River. There we made things such as ladders, handrails, and ropes for the navy. We were all divided into various areas in the factory, such as welding, working on the compressing machine, and finishing. The factory head was Korean, and he was a master on the press, completing the work without a mistake. Our jobs as students were to press the metal into preformed shapes that he created. Compared to those at the other factories, we had it pretty easy. Once work was done, I went to school at night. There I received military and first aid training. At the factory I always thought about how bad the food tasted, it seemed like cat food or dog food. I can’t forget the taste even now. At that time, I think it was the same everywhere, but all we had were a few pieces of daikon mixed in with some grains. Next year, as it got worse, we got vegetables mixed with soybeans that had the fat removed. These tasteless meals continued until the end of the war.

At nine in the morning of July 20th, air raid warnings were sounded in Osaka and Kobe.

The military at that time made lots of errors and delays in their warnings. Because the weather was good that day, I lay on top of an air raid shelter and slept. However, when I looked up at the sky, I saw enemy aircraft nearby with bombs failing out from underneath them. Soon after, the entire area around me started to give off smoke, and one comer of the factory caught on fire. I flew off the air raid shelter and looked around. There were no other students around me. When I asked afterwards, apparently, they had all ran away the moment they heard the warning in the direction of the river. I should have run away too, but hunger took precedence and I headed to the cafeteria where they were making for the first time in a long time, tempura and rice with barley. Even when my life was in danger, I couldn’t forget about eating. We were only 15, but we were starving during those times. As I approached the cafeteria, fire had begun to move closer to the oil in the kitchen, and smoke was rising from the vegetable tempura. Realizing that I had to get away from the fire, I went to the office and there the president and factory head were talking about something. When they saw me, they were surprised and we all decided to leave without carrying anything.

When we left on the back road, the heated wind from the fire poured over us and made it very difficult to walk. While we were sweating inside our helmets, we crossed the river bank, and jumped into the Uji River. The river temperature was warmer than usual due to the fire heating up the air. It was the first time I saw the river steaming like a hot spring.

We went further and further.

We were walking in an area where the water reached our necks and sometimes over our heads. I made it out away from the factory, but I lost the other two along the way without realizing, and never had the fortune to see them again. I think they made it without any problems. Finally, the fires began to subside a bit, and I got out of the river and walked to the road with the intent to head back home. Along the way, I passed a train station and inside I saw a countless number of dead bodies lying there. The bodies were covered with straw mats, and only their feet were sticking out.

Oddly enough, that didn’t make me fear death. Probably, I was paralyzed by the sight of the many dead bodies and couldn’t think at the time. On the streets, there were children crying out for their parents, and horses running wildly down the street. I finally made it home in the midst of the hot winds and smoke, but there was no trace of my house, rather all that was there was a burning field.

I went to look for my parents and I was fortunate enough to find them in the storehouse. I was ready to collapse at that point due to the stress and hunger from that day. For three days, the skies of Osaka both day and night were the same bright yellow with no break in between.

Both the school and factory were closed throughout August. We students didn’t know what to do and figured that we’d be evacuated to the countryside. I didn’t feel like doing anything either, and my head was a complete blank as well. I lived in the storehouse for three days with the same clothes. It was finally decided that we all go back to our family house in Wakayama which had been spared. Being back in my family home brought back lots of old memories. Every time I wanted to do something outside, I had to be on guard due to fears of attacks. When we heard the Emperor on the radio announcing the end of the war, my older brother and I hugged and tears flowed down our faces. Why did we cry? It was probably because none of us youth thought we would lose.

Ten days after the end of the war, there was news that the school would open again. I quickly registered again and found out that school would open again on September 2nd. When I saw my friends again on that day, I was at a loss of words when I saw their shabby dress and the exhaustion on their face. Was it because I was afraid to hear about the horrors of famine? I am sure that I had the same look on my face, but even now I still recall their eyes that were full of hunger.

Once school began, we talked about friends that hadn’t returned and wondered if they had died during the attacks. It was only few months after that I was able to find out their fates when me and my friends gathered together.

As that winter got closer, we chopped down our desks and used them for firewood. The teacher didn’t say anything to stop us. Once the New Year began and we approached spring, talk of the war faded into the background. I still have days now where I can remember them vividly though. The students themselves weren’t concerned with learning, rather they were trying to focus on living another day.

At that time, there were a lot of students who couldn’t bring any pens or paper to school. In third period, many students finished off their meagre bentos they brought for the day. I heard that the situation was better in the countryside. Everyday, after class ended, I ran to the cafeteria located in an underground mall to fill my stomach. I wonder now if those five years as a junior high/senior high student held any meaning. We faced the war as reserves, and then had to deal with the famine after the war. It was hard to be sure, but we were all equal in this regard.

I will end my story here on this note. The need to tell my kids about the tragedy that is war and the bitter experiences I faced in it is great. It is important that people know what life was like back then for those of us caught up in such a horrible experience.

Individually, the stories are fascinating glimpses of the immigrant experience, of lives lived, families raised. Collectively, the stories paint a rich and varied portrait of a neighbourhood and community that has seen it all through sometimes good, sometimes bad, but often hard, times.

Why, you might ask, am I bringing up a book that was published thirty years ago? I suppose it is because storytelling is in the air these days. This past weekend, Vancouver Moving Theatre (the same company that co-presented The Japantown Neighbourhood Multicultural Celebration an few months back) presented Eastside Stories, a three-day event featuring the voices and stories of Downtown Eastside residents. The festival is part of the company’s ongoing quest to break through the stigma of the area and put a human face on what is often perceived as a wasteland beyond redemption, to give voice to the individuals who call the place home. Opening Doors is listed in the discography of the programme guide and I was moved to search it out on my bookcase where it had been gathering dust.

Leafing through the pages brought back many memories for me. Our family lived in Strathcona for many years and I spent hours as a teen exploring the streets and back alleys of the neighbourhood. My father, Tod Greenaway, served as the photographer for the book, photographing the people in their homes and businesses. As his darkroom technician, recently graduated from high school, I processed the film and developed the prints used in the book.

I must confess that the book meant little to me at the time it was published. We lived there—the people in the book were our neighbours—and I suppose familiarity bred, certainly not contempt, but perhaps indifference. It is only through the filter of time and distance (and maturity I suppose) that I have come to see the book for what it is:  an invaluable historical reference in a world where the exigencies of the present too often trample on the past. This is no dry, academic history of a rapidly gentrifying neighbourhood; these are real voices, without pretense or sense of self-importance, sharing their memories and their experiences.

Perhaps sentimentality is an indulgence reserved for those not struggling to make ends meet, because there is a distinct lack of it on the part of those telling their stories. Instead, there is a disarming matter-of-factness about the stories, as if they are saying, “This is the way it was, the way I remember it, take it or leave it.” But if there is no patina of sentimentality, neither is there one of complaint—no hint of self-pity or feelings of injustice.

A retired Supreme Court Judge, Angelo Branca, talks about growing up on the east side and attending Strathcona School: We used to play out in the schoolyard. We played soccer there and we played baseball. And in the wintertime we played in the basement. There was always a lot of fighting. We had a large Chinese population there, Japanese, Jewish-and there was a big concentration of the Italian families. So there was always a lot of ethnic wars and the Wops were good fighters. I was one of the best. You know those who weren’t of an ethnic group would call the Chinese people Chinks and they’d call the Wops Dagos—and the Jewish people Sheenies and Bohunks and things like that and this is what they used to do, the Canadian-born, English, Scots and so on. They always felt superior. There was a very definite distinct type of racism in those days. As a single group they were the majority, but not if you took all the other ethnic groups. Kids can be terribly cruel and this was the cruelty that made itself felt.

But you build up a resistance to it, and that’s why we used to fight.  And I think because we fought, we earned respect for ourselves. We weren’t going to let anybody trample on us. You could knock us down maybe but we’d get up. And if the sons of bitches wanted to fight, then we’d fight, that’s all. If it was a single fight, then that’s what it was. If it was a gang fight then that’s what we’d have. This, as I say, over a course of years, I think, is what helped a great deal to get the respect.

Within the Vancouver Nikkei community, there is a recognition that our history, as it resides in the memories of our elders, is being lost with every passing day. To that end, a number of initiatives have sprung up recently. The Japanese Canadian National Museum has produced a series of DVDs titled Ohanashi: the Story of Our Elders. In the series, close to a dozen long-time community members including Alfie Kamitakahara, Midge Ayukawa and Irene Tsuyuki share the stories of their lives much like those who took part in Opening Doors.

In this month’s cover story I talk with Vancouver film maker Susanne Tabata who, besides having the world’s most ornate, rococo ghetto blaster in her living room, happens to be a hapa of my own generation. The director of Ohanashi, she has many fascinating insights into the community (only a few of which are included here). All I can say is that, based on our discussion, when the hapa inherit the earth, the earth will be in good hands.

This coming September, the National Association of Japanese Canadians and the Japanese Canadian Citizen’s Association are hosting a three-day gathering titled Honouring Our People: Stories of the Internment. The intent of the conference is, again, to give voice to those who experienced a transformational time in our collective history and to document their unique experiences and memories so that those of us who benefit from their perseverance and fortitude may gain a deeper understanding of where we came from.

My father, a student of history, always bemoaned my lack of interest in history. Somehow, the musty books that he found so fascinating failed to grab my attention. Going back over Opening Doors, thirty years after I helped create it (in my small way), I have come to understand that for myself, oral history has an immediacy and intimacy that third-person histories and biographies often fail to capture. So even though I failed at the time to appreciate the rich history that surrounded me as I was growing up in the Strathcona neighbourhood, I am still able to access the stories that were captured by those who had more foresight than I did.

Last spring, when it became apparent that my father was on his last legs, my sister and I made a point of recording both him and our mother as they talked about their lives growing up in Manitoba and Saskatchewan, respectively. I have a feeling that those tapes will just gain greater value as the years go on and they become part of our family’s oral history.

This month’s issue features a number of pieces connected with the theme of storytelling and genealogy.  After all, to paraphrase Paul Simon, who are we to blow against the wind?

Mr. Oyama, whose own father emigrated to Canada in 1917, turned out to be a fountain of wisdom. Not only had he been actively promoting Okinawa-Canada relations for many years, he was in close touch with the Okinawa Kenjin Kai groups in Vancouver, Calgary, Lethbridge and Toronto.

That Monday morning dawned windy but clear in Naha. Oyama Seishin and I drove through the neighbourhoods that fan out from downtown Naha in a continuous wave of dense suburbs. We passed the large US bases that occupy huge tracts of land and from which supersonic jets scream into the sky on a regular basis.

Unlike Japan proper, which regained its sovereignty on April 28, 1952, Okinawa became a US military colony (protectorate) after the war and remained so for 25 years. The Japanese government only gained control over Okinawa in 1972. Even then Okinawa did not really regain its freedom. The military bases on this small island continued to dominate the landscape and the economy despite continuing protests by many islanders.

After a 45-minute drive, we arrived at a concrete two story building in Uruma city, the home of Roy Oshiro. The first floor includes a carport and a separate suite and the upstairs is a modest flat. The varnished wood framing in the living room suggests a hint of Canada.

Roy’s wife, a native Ryukyuan, met us at the genkan and went to fetch Roy: “Chotto yoko ni natta” (“he laid down for a bit”). Roy quickly appeared.  A tall gentleman, with silver hair, a sharp nose, and a sparkle in his eye, he reminded me of my own father in his later years. “So, you’re from Canada, eh—welcome” he said in fluent English, switching quickly and effortlessly to and from Japanese.

Roy, it turns out was born in Brandon, Manitoba in 1921. In his eighty-eighth year, Roy’s mind remains sharp and he kindly shared his family history with us.

Worried that he would soon be conscripted into the Japanese imperial army, Roy’s father, Kamasuke, left Okinawa in 1907 with a group of contract labourers heading for Hawai’i. His dad’s passport, which Roy still has and allowed us to photograph, bears his Okinawan name, Ogusuku Kamasuke. The family name, Ogusuku is the Okinawan reading of the characters for “big castle.” Only after arriving in Canada and having faced discrimination within the Japanese Canadian community, did his father adopt the Japanese reading, changing his name from Ogusuku to Oshiro.

After a year in Hawai’i, he left for Canada, going to work on the CPR in Kenora, Ontario. He held a myriad of jobs—farming in Nanaimo, working in the hotels in Lake Louise. In 1918 he returned to Okinawa to get married. The mayor of Gushikawa village was a cousin and he acted as a go between. In 1919, Kamasuke returned to Canada with his new bride, Masako.

They eventually settled in Vancouver and founded a thriving business, B.C. Wood and Coal. They raised their family, which by the 1920s included Roy and two younger brothers, George and Aki.
The depression, however, created hardships and the family made the difficult decision for Masako and the three children to return to Okinawa. Roy remembered the couple of years going to school in Okinawa, running around in bare feet and in shorts.

The family returned to Canada in 1932 and Roy attended Templeton and  Britannia high schools.

The virulent racism that attended the war with Japan brought years of trials and tribulation for the family. Roy recalls that his Dad had mixed feelings and said to the family, “Dou shiyou?” (what should we do). That decision was soon made for them as the King government forced the uprooting of all Japanese Canadians.
Kamasuke and his family left BC for the sugar beet farms of Alberta, eventually settling in Coaldale.  During the uprooting and dislocation, B.C. Wood and Coal was sold out from under them and the family struggled to make ends meet, as did many others.

Roy, then in his twenties, was able to take teacher’s training in Alberta in 1943 because of labour shortages during the war. He began teaching in a Hutterite community in Alberta. Roy went on to teach in other public schools and among the students he taught was the renowned writer, Joy Kogawa.

Roy had been greatly impressed by Christians who had helped people during the hard years. He in turn decided to become a minister. He was ordained and in 1955 went to Okinawa as a missionary. He never left.

Roy was a missionary unlike many—his familial roots and his own experience growing up in Okinawa for a few years made living and working in Okinawa a constant homecoming.

Roy told us, “I’m an Okinawan but I’m a Canadian too.” He returned to Canada on a number of occasions including in 2000 for the 100th anniversary commemoration of the arrival of the first Okinawan, Makishi Anson, to Canada.

An Okinawan Canadian elder, Roy is a living symbol of those whose life trajectories spanned the East China sea across the Pacific to Canada.

John Price is associate professor of history at the University of Victoria. He is currently working on a transpacific anthology of Asian Canadian lives and is looking for further information on Ryukuans in Canada. Contact joprice@uvic.ca.

A long-time film maker specializing in documentaries, Tabata stresses the Ohanashi DVDs are not documentary films. Instead, they are nearly full-length interviews, between 30 and 50 minutes each. While there are some photographs and other graphics interspersed throughout, the bulk of each disc consists of the subject recounting their experiences in Canada and, sometimes, Japan. Subjects were given a chance to remove sections they felt were too personal or sensitive, but overall there was minimal editing for content.

It was, Tabata says, a challenging project, given a tight timeline and budget, not to mention the well-documented reticence of many Nikkei seniors to talk openly of the past. Still, she is satisfied with the end result and feels projects like this are not only important, but pressing: “We are at crossroads in our country where our elders—regardless of their ethnicity—are leaving us. With them goes the entire tapestry of Canadian history. That is why ‘oral history’ is so important.”

In Her Own Words

Susanne Tabata

Like me, you’re the product of a mixed-marriage, growing up in the early sixties when it was relatively rare. How did the two families handle the news that they were getting married?
My parents married in 1959, a time when inter-racial marriages were unusual and generally unacceptable. As my father has disclosed, his mother would have preferred he marry a Nisei. His father did not care one way or another. On the other hand, my mother was raised by a social democrat who was also a single mother. She approved of my father because he was a hard worker and they shared the same political views. I do think that the cultural differences between my parents created tension in the house at times. But it also created a platform for creative and critical thinking.

How did your parents meet?
My parents met in Nanaimo at a nurses dance. My father was working at the Biological Station in Nanaimo after he got his masters in Oceanography and my mother was working as a nurse at the ‘Indian Hospital’.

You spent some time in Japan as a young child.
My first life memories stem back to life in Tokyo, where we lived for two and a half years. My family lived in a duplex close to the University of Tokyo, where my father was studying. I was raised in the strictest Japanese fashion by both of my parents. I remember studying dance and learning calligraphy at the age of four. There were a lot of little earthquakes there. There were street venders who sold soba and imo (sweet potato snacks). I recall being adored by adults because I was able to speak Japanese and look ‘cute’. Things were a little different in school. I was physically larger than my classmates. I certainly did not look Japanese and I felt quite different.

In 1965 we moved back to Canada. My father had finished his PhD in Oceanography from the University of Tokyo and returned to the Biological Station in Nanaimo to continue his research. I remember I had to repeat Kindergarten even though I had a formal education in Japan. I was an outcast in Nanaimo more than in Tokyo.

I was going to ask you about that, how being bi-racial affected you, or affects you.  How does your identity relate to your work? Some people have talked about bi-racial identity providing a window into both worlds . . .
Being biracial means that you come into this world somewhat cautious of stereotyping or prejudging people. Hopefully it gives you the edge to understand humanity. I have never been asked that question before but I do believe it helps me to be able to ‘put myself in the shoes’ of the person I am interviewing. Isn’t that just common sense?
A lot of your work has been based in and around the North American music scene, along with surfing and female skateboarding culture—worlds that skirt the edge of mainstream culture. I’m guessing that this is a world you feel comfortable in. Would it be presumptuous and simplistic to connect that to your childhood?

That’s a great question. Since I can remember I have never really ‘fit in’ so perhaps it is my lack of pedigree which makes me fascinated with ‘worlds that skirt the edge of mainstream culture’. I value originality as long as it comes with integrity.

You’ve produced a number of documentary films, yet this is the first time you’ve documented the Nikkei community. Do you feel you have insights into the workings of the Japanese Canadian psyche and if so, did it inform how you approached the project?
First of all this is not a documentary film. It’s a series of interviews which have been condensed around key events in history and in people’s individual lives. It would be too general of me to say there is a specific psyche but I can tell you from my own family experience that my parents’ generation did not talk candidly about their experiences. I learned of the events of WWII when I was in Grade 12 because my high school teacher told me. So I approached the project on a more personal level. Who are you? Where are you from? Describe what happened to you? It was up to the individual to take it from there.

Were there any special challenges interviewing Japanese Canadians?
I believe that everyone has a story to tell. And each person is no less important than the other. So I somewhat dismiss the idea that you must be a ‘professional’ to have credence in this community. Ohanashi was challenging because there was so little time to do the project. We tried to get participants whose life experiences were all varied so that viewers could get glimpses of the same historic events from different perspectives.

The issei are almost gone and many of the nisei are now in their later years (although that doesn’t seem to be slowing them down). It seems to me that projects like Ohanashi recognize the importance of documenting the experiences of the elders before it’s too late. What would you suggest for people that are interested in documenting the memories of their parents and grandparents?

Just do it. Be bold. Be respectful. Don’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Especially if there is a family member who is elderly.

You interviewed your own father for this series. What was that like? Did you get insights into his life that you were unaware of? Was it easier or harder interviewing a relative?
Someone asked me if I chose to interview my father. Actually he was on a list given to me by the museum and when one of our potential interviewees cancelled, I was desperate to find another male. He agreed on two day’s notice. Interviewing my father was not difficult for me. I think it was difficult for him. He has spent a lifetime moving away from painful memories so for anyone to ask him to recount those memories would naturally give him cause to reflect. I did get an insight into his life.

Did you have a particular agenda going into this project?
I was never given a design criteria for this series of interviews. But with the knowledge that they would be put into archives and used for research purposes I tried to keep the interviews as complete as possible. These are biographical testimonials. For Ohanashi to become a TV program, it would have to be re-edited using a few of the subjects AND I would approach it much differently.

As a documentary filmmaker, has the project changed the way you see the world or approach your craft?
In terms of the way I see the world, the Ohanashi project has absolutely ignited my interest in recording oral histories and working with elders. Isn’t it fascinating to hear so many different sides to a series of historical events? It has made me appreciate the perseverance my parents and grandparents AND it has made me understand ‘where a part of me comes from’. I want to do more work in this area.

I conduct a fair number of interviews for my job, and I always find it difficult. Is there a mindset that you get yourself into to prepare for an interview? Is there a lot of research involved or is it more intuitive?
A curious person will always ask good questions. In terms of conducting an interview, each one is different. Try to imagine yourself in your subject’s shoes, ‘literally’, and start from there. A good interview is intuitive.

In order to condense a lifetime of experience into an interview, you have to be able to make deliberate decisions about a person’s character and assess their willingness to share their stories. This is intuitive. A good interviewer has to find an internal balance between confidence and humility. And walk it to the end.

Did any particular interview provide a special challenge?
The most challenging interview was with Tom and Shig Kuwabara, the two brothers who spent the entire war in a real ‘internment camp’ at Petawawa after protesting what was happening to Japanese Canadian citizens during their detainment at Hastings Park. They had less than 24hrs notice. Tom lives in Edmonton and was visiting Shig. I had been introduced to them in the museum through Liz (Nunoda) and the next morning Richard Kobayashi—who was my shooting partner—and I were on for an interview. When we showed up to do the interview, Shig withdrew citing heart problems. Knowing this would be the only time we could get the two of them together I persisted. We set up the camera and microphone in the lobby of the apartment building. If we were to get the two of them together, it had to be now or never. Through all the noise and commotion of elevators dinging and doorbuzzers going off, we did the interview. Like true professionals, they would stop talking when there were noise distractions and pick up the sentences as soon as the noises stopped. Shig became very ill towards the end and we wrapped things up. His wife had every right to be displeased with me. I arrived a few weeks later with the ‘rough cut’ and a sincere apology. I think the family was pleased with the final result.

I would like to thank all the participants who responded to our requests for interviews.  The project belongs to them.  I just assisted it.

Ohanashi – The Story of Our Elders
A new 10 part series of Nikkei life stories. On DVD 30 to 47 minutes each. Interviewed by film maker Susanne Tabata.

The Museum gratefully acknowledges the financial support of 2010 Legacies ArtsNow, British Columbia Direct Access, Burnaby Arts Council, Hamber Foundation, National Association of Japanese Canadians, and other donors for this project.