As of this moment, there are various rules and regulations being pushed through the US government regarding the formation of internment camps for refugees fleeing through the US-Mexican border from the drug wars of the USA's creation. There's nothing new under the sun here, nothing beyond the standard protocol of a country that has been at war for 214 of the 235 years of its existence and has only increased the size of its playground over time. What that last part translates to is the fire and the frying pan, friends I've made who thought US imperialism had to be better than Chinese communism, targets of hate crimes who cannot "go back where they came from" if they don't want to be killed by drones, each and every person who both knew and had no idea what it takes to live in this land depending on the color of skin and the mode of accent and history. Always the history. The average citizen may not know the name of every president, but the pecking order they have, are, and will continue to bequeath is inherent.

Military industrial complex. What this means is ads for the Navy before Pixar movies (as many little lights as there are stars as there are threats on the globe, and that, my friend, is everywhere), minuscule reservations for 562 indigenous nations in one of the largest spans of terrorism the world has ever seen, a continual us versus them in entertainment, school curriculum, the percentage of translations allotted in the literature market (not the subtitles! anything but the subtitles!) and the number of white people teaching yoga, karate, and whatever else the fads of cultural appropriation has spat up over the centuries. This book talks about Pearl Harbor, my times talk about 9/11, and anyone who wants to argue for why what came after was made acceptable by those events needs to read, read, and keep reading the promises being made in never ending payback. The moment you cannot keep looking at the genocides being wrought in the name of that particular much named event is the moment you need to ask yourself what the actual fuck is going on.

Culture clash. The US versus Japan. Those caught and balanced between two countries that each in their own way loathe the Other within their land and that is the last thing I will say about the latter of the two cause, trust me, my side's got enough with the slurs, the rape fetishes, the white scholars making bank off of Orientalization, the concentration camp histories gone over in this tome and the military bases in Okinawa. It is one of many power plays constantly calculating how far the white US citizen can go in their treatment of this country, that religion, those people, their face, taking what they please and shaming what they know because there're few things in this world that make money faster than fear. I told you. It's an industry. Look at the correlation between when non-European countries gained their independence and when European countries got poor; then dwell upon colonies, settler states, and Manifest Destiny.

Berkeley and Bay Area co.'re popularly known as the liberal bastion of the US, home of the multicultural friendlies and open minded folks and a UC that can't seem to take the rapists on its campus seriously despite multiple lawsuits and the governmental like. Between that and this and what is yet to come in the policies of the foreign and the domestic and the Idol of Enemy Number One, what is there to be done?

should NOT have read this in public (was fighting for my life in a boba shop trying not to cry)

rtc

3.75

While not as lyrical as The Buddha in the Attic, Otsuka’s first novel achieves much of the same cumulative power. The penultimate chapter, written in first-person plural, is, of course, most reminiscent of the former and perhaps in its writing Otsuka discovered the style she would later use for The Buddha in the Attic. But it is the last and shortest chapter that packs the hardest punch, pointing out even more so the absurdness, danger and sadness of this time (a time that could come again if we’re not careful). But that last chapter doesn't stand on its own: it does because of what’s come before, that cumulative power.

Foram trazidos para aqui para vossa protecção, diziam-lhes.
Foi tudo no interesse da segurança nacional.
Foi uma questão de necessidade militar. Uma oportunidade para provarem a vossa lealdade.

Quando o Imperador era Divino é uma narrativa curta que escapa às malhas de Hollywood e dos bestsellers que exploram a temática da II Guerra Mundial, e não se aproveita do sentimentalismo para fazer passar uma mensagem, e contar uma história que, ao discurso democrático, não convém lembrar ou destacar.
Estamos em finais de 1941 e a base naval de Pearl Harbor acaba de ser atacada. Prontamente os estados unidos reagem e, como parte das medidas de contra-ataque, Roosevelt assina a infame Ordem Executiva 9066*, um dos maiores atentados contra a liberdade individual e os direitos civis em território ocidental, ordenando o encarceramento de milhares de cidadãos nipo-americanos por ameaça de espionagem a favor do Japão.



A família Mochida
Fonte: BETTMANN ARCHIVE/GETTY IMAGES

Na pequena narrativa que é Quando o Imperador era Divino, o anúncio chega pela calada da noite, e terá consequências impensadas para uma família de mãe, pai, filho e filha - personagens anónimas pois que representam quaisquer dos cerca de 120 000 prisioneiros dos campos de internamento que funcionaram entre 1942 e 1945.

O CARTAZ APARECERA DE NOITE. Nos locais para afixar anúncios, nas árvores e nas paragens de autocarro. Fora afixado na montra do Woolworth. Estava à entrada da Associação Cristã da Mocidade. Haviam-no agrafado à porta do tribunal municipal e pregado, ao nível dos olhos, em todos os postes dos telefones ao longo da University Avenue.
(...)
Leu o cartaz de alto a baixo e depois, ainda a pestanejar, tirou uma caneta e leu-o outra vez. As letras eram pequenas e escuras. Algumas eram minúsculas. Escreveu algumas palavras nas costas de um recibo do banco, deu meia-volta, foi para casa e começou a empacotar as coisas.

Entre as inúmeras famílias forçadas ao confinamento dos campos...

Horas mais tarde(...)acordariam e iriam para a Estação de Controlo Civil na Primeira Igreja Paroquial no Channing Way, onde lhes prenderiam números de identificação às golas; depois, pegariam nas malas, subiriam para um autocarro e iriam para onde tinham de ir.

...milhares de membros da comunidade foram presos pelo FBI, logo após Pearl Harbor, entre eles o pai desta família. Esse mote, nascido de um ato completamente injustificável, será a espinha dorsal de um romance contido e tenso, sem cair no excesso nem no melodrama. Quando o Imperador era Divino consegue ser suficientemente conciso para nos deixar antever (sem precisar de contar) o que foi a incerteza, o medo, o desespero sofrido por estas famílias empurradas para o desconhecido e o vazio...

O último estore foi corrido e a escuridão invadiu a carruagem(...).Não via ninguém e ninguém fora do comboio a conseguia ver. Havia as pessoas no comboio e as pessoas fora do comboio, e entre ambas estavam os estores. Um homem que passasse ao longo da linha apenas veria um comboio com janelas negras passando a meio do dia. Pensaria: «Lá vai o comboio», e não voltaria a pensar nele. Pensaria noutras coisas. O que seria o jantar, talvez, ou quem ganharia a guerra. Ela sabia que era melhor assim. Quando haviam passado por uma cidade com os estores para cima, alguém atirara uma pedra por uma janela.

... milhares de pessoas que chegaram a nenhures e imediatamente souberam que aquele deserto passaria a ser a sua casa durante semanas, meses, anos...

Mil novecentos e quarenta e dois. Utah. Fim do Verão. Uma cidade de barracões de papel alcatroado atrás de uma vedação de arame farpado numa planície de poeira alcalina no meio do deserto. O vento era quente e seco, raramente chovia.

E são os anos que se passam nestes campos um dos focos mais bem conseguidos em toda a narrativa, com descrições áridas, austeras e duras trazidas até ao leitor pela voz de duas crianças que tentam compreender o lugar que ocupam numa sociedade que lhes levou o pai, o lar e a vida que conheciam a troco de horas e horas ocas e despojadas de significado:

(...)o que mais faziam era esperar. Pelo correio. Por notícias. Pelas campainhas. Pelo pequeno-almoço, pelo almoço e pelo jantar. Pelo fim de um dia e pelo começo do dia seguinte.
- Quando a guerra acabar - disse a mãe ao rapaz, - podemos guardar as nossas coisas e ir para casa.
Ele perguntou-lhe quando seria. Talvez daí a um mês? Dois meses? Um ano, no máximo? Ela abanou a cabeça e olhou pela janela. Três meninas de vestidos brancos sujos brincavam às senhoras na poeira.
- Oh, que maçada - gritavam. - Olá, quer tomar um chá?
Longe, nos céus, voavam corvos.
- Não se sabe - admitiu a mãe.

Profundamente marcada pela dureza das condições a que se vê sujeita, a mãe destas crianças é a personagem que melhor se revela no texto. Uma mulher corajosa que jamais baixa os braços perante as dificuldades e se mantém o pilar dos dois filhos no meio da dureza de uma guerra vivida em solo familiar; uma mulher que renega a sua herança, a sua história e a sua identidade para proteger aqueles que ama:

Naquela noite ela tinha acendido uma fogueira no pátio e queimado todas as cartas de Kagoshima. Queimou as fotografias da família e os três quimonos de seda que trouxera dezanove anos antes do Japão. Queimou os discos de ópera japonesa. Rasgou a bandeira do sol-nascente. Partiu o serviço de chá, os pratos de Imari e o retrato emoldurado do tio do rapaz, que tinha sido general no exército do imperador. Esmagou o ábaco e atirou-o para as chamas.
- A partir de agora contamos pelos dedos. - anunciou.
No dia seguinte, pela primeira vez, mandou o rapaz e a irmã para a escola com sanduíches de manteiga de amendoim e geleia.
- Acabaram-se os bolinhos de arroz-avisou. - E se alguém perguntar, digam que são chineses.

Em vez de dar voz ao tratamento bárbaro a que são sujeitos, em vez de replicar à exaustão o sofrimento destes milhares de pessoas postas perante uma situação de profunda injustiça, Otsuka centra a sua narrativa na contenção, no autocontrolo, e no pathos que emana da tensão em que as personagens vivem a incerteza do dia a dia, a consciência da sua diferença, o estigma de ser estrangeiro na própria pátria, o preconceito, o ódio, o racismo: o desamor.

Olhávamos para nós próprios ao espelho e não gostávamos do que víamos: cabelo preto, pele amarela, olhos em bico. A face cruel do inimigo.

Para os milhares de cidadãos encarcerados nos chamados campos de internamento norte americanos, a libertação chegou (em ondas) em 1945 - embora só em 1976 a Ordem Executiva 9066 tenha sido revogada -, mas os danos estavam feitos.

Nada mudou, pensámos nós. A guerra fora uma interrupção, nada mais. Íamos retomar as nossas vidas onde as havíamos interrompido e seguir em frente.(...)
Vestir-nos-íamos como eles. Íamos mudar os nossos nomes para soarem mais como os deles. E se a mãe nos chamasse na rua pelo nosso verdadeiro nome, viraríamos as costas e fingiríamos que não a conhecíamos. Nunca mais seríamos confundidos com o inimigo!

É para descobrir livros destes que ando empenhada em fazer engrossar a fileira de autoras aqui pelas estantes. Otsuka não desapontou e juntou-se ao desafio # LER+MULHER em lugar de destaque.


*A Ordem Executiva 9066, que permitiu encarcerar cidadãos nacionais norte-americanos sob suspeita de espionagem e filiação ao Imperador, tem consequências também fora de território norte-americano, com Canadá, Havai, Brasil, Chile, México e Argentina a seguir o mesmo caminho e a remover residentes e cidadãos dos seus territórios.

Un roman prenant et édifiant !

Otsuka's thing is to write stories where the characters aren't so much themselves but representative of bigger groups of people. This is most true in her book, The Buddha in the Attic, and least true in her new book The Swimmers. She's a good enough writer that she can pull it off but I think I just personally don't like like that gimmick. This family is nameless but the characters are developed as individuals so the fact that I'm irked and find them a bit amorphous seems to be my failing, not the writing's, nonetheless I just couldn't connect with the characters.

My favorite part of the book is that Otsuka explores some of the aftermath when the family returns to regular life after the camps.

This is a slim volume that nearly reached perfection, in my estimation. How can a book be perfect? Well, in this case, it was the marriage of art and reality. The prose is stark and straightforward, yet it reads like poetry. The story itself is heart-wrenching but handled with dignity and honesty.

This book follows one Japanese-American family from California who are separated (the father is taken earlier) and interned in a camp in Utah during WWII.

It is told from multiple perspectives, but what I found most profound about this story was the fact that never, not once, is the family or its members given names, adding another layer to the indignity they already experience as Americans imprisoned by other Americans. They are nameless, but not faceless - though this is a work of fiction, it is impossible to forget, upon finishing this book, that this HAPPENED, and it happened in America, and it didn't happen all that long ago. For shame.

I had never read a book about Japanese relocation camps, at least not works of fiction, and now I know why. It is not because I would not feel a connection, which what most people have told me, or because this author is not as popular as others on this particular sub-genre, but because I did not want to experience the "move" from the perspective of children, who were not spared this fate, even if their families were not "traitors." The U.S. likes to forget this moment in history, we focus on the Holocaust of Nazi Germany and the POW camps, we do not like to think we had those here as well, it hurts our pride too much.

نوشتن از مصیبت با زبان شاعرانه ....

قسمتی از کتاب
مادرمان به این نکته اشاره کرد که ما برای بازی چوب پا، برای داستان و سایه بازی پشت ملافه ها خیلی بزرگ شده ایم.
جواب می دادیم: بله حتی برای خندیدن هم زیادی بزرگیم.
صفحه 112

A little book that packs a big impact. We don't learn the names of the Japanese family who are forced to leave their Berkeley, CA home to live in stark barracks behind guarded fences. But their story is told in such a way that we feel we know them. This family is lucky to be able to return to their home, but their lives are ne'er the same.

What a shameful episode in our nation's history. I didn't even know it happened until I was an adult in my Forties. I was pretty small during the war years and going to school in the Midwest, textbooks didn't include this part of our history. I was first exposed to what happened in a class where we were required to read Farewell to Manzanar: A True Story of Japanese American Experience During and After the World War II Internment. I highly recommend this book for a more detailed description of the life some Americans were forced into just because they were of Japanese descent. I was so taken with the story that my husband and I made a trip to see the Manzanar camp in eastern California. There is a great museum and the entire space has been preserved so we can see a little of what it was like.

I am conflicted as to what rating to give this book. I was going to give it three stars but after reading the last chapter, I lowered it to 2. I was initially intrigued by the way it was written in that none of the four main characters had names….they were referenced simply by mother, father, brother, sister, and various pronouns. But then you realize it is written that way because the story could be ANY of the people of Japanese descent (whether American citizens or not) during the encampments that were established in America during WWII. Unfortunately, I think by keeping it generic, the story doesn’t grip the audience as much as it could have and that would be why I would have only given it a 3. But I didn’t – I gave it a 2. I absolutely hated the last chapter in which the author finally speaks from the “father’s” perspective and goes on a rant. Trust, I know this these encampments were definitely wrongful treatment and an embarrassing time in history for America, however, ending the story by essentially yelling at the reader for this wrong doing is not how this book should have ended. She could have gotten her point across another way.
If you are looking to read a novel based on the encampments, Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet is a MUCH better book.

This was short and point-blank. It was very interesting at the start but over time I just got a bit bored with the writing style. I really should've finished it in one sitting instead of dragging it out a couple of days. I recommend this to anyone who wants to know more about Japanese and American history (and the crossing of the two), this is very easy to read and very clean, and good for anyone who wants to start reading more Japanese authors or about the struggles of POC during America's hardships with other countries.

I haven't heard of this one before, I was looking at Buddha in the Attic and saw this one and so I decided to get them both. I have heard some about Buddha in the Attic and I have been meaning to read that for a couple of years now (I didn't realize how short it was), I will be reading that next.