On December 7, 1941, Pearl Harbor was bombed, and the United States was shaken to its foundations. The nation’s entry into World War II was swift, but so was something more sinister: a growing tide of fear and suspicion aimed at Japanese Americans. More than 120,000 people of Japanese descent, the majority of whom resided on the West Coast, were suddenly considered not neighbors or citizens, but dangers. During the panic, politicians and military brass started agitating for action.
Less than ten weeks after that, President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066. On paper, it was couched carefully—it granted the War Department authority to designate certain areas military zones and to exclude therefrom any persons who were deemed a threat. But in application, it targeted Japanese Americans virtually exclusively. What ensued was one of the most chilling instances of civil liberties being thrown under the bus for national security.
At the head of the military campaign was Lieutenant General John L. DeWitt of the Western Defense Command. He did not hesitate to divide the West Coast into zones, setting the stage for mass removal. The initiative began with a call for “voluntary evacuation,” though this concept was essentially impossible. Japanese Americans were subject to widespread racism, lacked economic support, and were provided with no meaningful guidance. When few were able to depart on their own, the government resorted to forced removal.
Things happened quickly from then on. Families were given as little as two days to pack, abandon homes, farms, businesses, and report to “assembly centers.” They were usually nothing more than livestock pavilions or horse tracks converted on short notice into holding pens. People were eventually moved again—this time to permanent “relocation centers” far inland.
The operation was massive. Of the government’s records, nearly 70,000 of the detainees in the camps were American citizens. There was no sign of disloyalty from them. But the military’s fear of invasion or sabotage eclipsed all that. The camps—such as Manzanar, Tule Lake, and Heart Mountain—were surrounded by barbed wire and patrolled by soldiers with guns. Men and women huddled together in flimsy wooden barracks with walls so thin they might have been paper. Dust found its way into every crevice. Winters were cold, summers hot. There was no privacy. Every day of life was strictly regulated.
Even in such circumstances, Japanese Americans were wonderfully resilient. Many labored to establish a community within the camps—opening schools, cultivating gardens, staging sports. And a few decided to serve the very nation that had incarcerated them. One unit, the 442nd Regimental Combat Team, was the most decorated combat unit of its size in American history. Their deeds spoke loudly, providing a stark contrast to the fear and suspicion in which they’d been held.
But not everyone went along quietly. Fred Korematsu, a young welder from Oakland, resisted. He didn’t want to be separated from his girlfriend, and he refused to leave his home. He even had minor surgery to change his appearance. Eventually, he was arrested and charged with violating the exclusion order. Rather than plead guilty, Korematsu chose to fight back.
With assistance from the ACLU’s Ernest Besig, Korematsu appealed to the Supreme Court. His attorneys claimed that the actions taken by the government were unconstitutional. But the U.S. government remained adamant that it was a question of military necessity. In December 1944, the Court voted 6–3 against Korematsu. In an opinion for the majority, Justice Hugo Black asserted the case was not about racial discrimination—it was about keeping the nation safe in time of war. But three judges vehemently disagreed. Justice Frank Murphy labeled it “legalized racism.” Justice Robert Jackson cautioned that the decision was a risky precedent.
Years later, the truth gradually emerged. In the post-war decades, newly released documents proved that the courts had concealed key evidence—evidence of the fact that no military necessity had existed for mass imprisonment. In 1983, Korematsu’s conviction was overturned. Judge Marilyn Patel, who overturned the verdict, confessed that a grave injustice had been committed.
Five years later, the U.S. government made an official apology. The Civil Liberties Act of 1988 granted economic reparations to camp survivors and recognized the injustices done. It was a belated move, but one which could not erase the serious scars left behind. The legacy of this history continues to resound today. The Korematsu case is a lesson learned in law schools and recalled in courtrooms. Chief Justice John Roberts in 2018 made explicit in a Supreme Court opinion that the Korematsu decision had been “gravely wrong the day it was decided” and “had no place in law under the Constitution.” Justice Sonia Sotomayor also invoked the case in her work, reaffirming how pertinent its lessons are.
What Japanese Americans experienced in World War II was not an afterthought in history. It’s a strong reminder of what can happen when fear trumps justice. When national security is invoked to stifle constitutional rights. When communities are penalized not for what they’ve done, but for who they are. And that’s why it’s important to continue sharing this story—not just to recall, but to remain watchful. Always.