February 19, 1942—Disregarding even some of his
closest advisers, Franklin D. Roosevelt
committed one of the worst violations of civil liberties in American history by
signing Executive Order 9066, which authorized the U.S. military to forcibly
remove Japanese-Americans from their homes on the West Coast as a matter of
wartime necessity.
At one stroke, more than 120,000 people—none of whom were ever found to have committed treason or similar acts against the United States—were interned in 10 concentration camps, losing their jobs, then prevented by barbed wire, sentry towers and gun-toting guards from leaving—all without trial or even charges levied against them that they could contest. When the executive order was lifted and the camps closed three years later, this massive population—both “Issei” (resident immigrants)—and “Nisei” (native-born Americans with Japanese parents) —emerged to find, in many cases, that they couldn’t reclaim their property.
In times of war, Presidents have, more often than
not, curtailed the rights of some Americans. (Historian Garry Wills has noted
that James Madison, during the War of 1812, was the one conspicuous exception.)
But it is hard to think of a more egregious infringement of wartime civil
liberties than Roosevelt’s—not only in terms of the number of people affected,
but also because of the blatant zenophobia involved.
That zenophobia was not solely—or even mostly—a
product of the shock and anger over the surprise attack on Pearl Harbor three
months earlier. It was an unfortunate byproduct of the circumstances in which
Japanese first came to the United States in the late 19th century.
Among other things, Japanese immigration was blamed
for undercutting demand for American workers and even for threatening American
womanhood. So much agitation grew for legislation to exclude the race that in
1908, the Japanese and American governments came up with a "Gentlemen's
Agreement," by which Japan restricted emigration to the U.S., while the
U.S. admitted wives, children, and other relatives of immigrants already
resident.
The racism lingered and, in one sense, blinded the
American military to the nature of the dangers presented at Pearl Harbor. The
commanders there believed that sabotage or espionage by Japanese agents posed a
greater threat than external air attack. (In fact, some carriers were bunched
together to prevent the chance of sabotage, leaving them more vulnerable to Admiral Yamamoto's daring dawn attack from the air.)
Remarkably, Secretary of the Navy Frank Knox still claimed,
in the hours after Pearl Harbor, that the attack resulted through the work of
Japanese-American fifth columnists.
Naked prejudice became the order of
the day, starting with influential columnist Walter Lippmann, who provided the
kind of hysterical wartime justification for curtailing liberty that thoughtful
people often regret later: “Nobody’s constitutional rights include the right to
reside and do business on a battlefield.”
But the reigning sentiment was given its bluntest
form by Lt. Gen. John DeWitt, head of
the Western Defense Command. “The Japanese race is an enemy race,” he wrote.
“And while many second- and third-generation Japanese born on United States
soil, possessed of United States citizenship, have become ‘Americanized,’ the
racial strains are undiluted.”
Yet the movement toward incarceration was hardly
universal. It might be expected that James Rowe, an aide in the Justice
Department, and his boss, Attorney-General Francis Biddle, might object to the
measure.
More surprising was the opposition of FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, hardly a champion of civil liberties. Not only did he immediately refute Knox’s claim of a fifth column, but he opposed mass internment. "The necessity for mass evacuation is based primarily upon public and political pressure rather than on factual data," he wrote Biddle in early February.
More surprising was the opposition of FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, hardly a champion of civil liberties. Not only did he immediately refute Knox’s claim of a fifth column, but he opposed mass internment. "The necessity for mass evacuation is based primarily upon public and political pressure rather than on factual data," he wrote Biddle in early February.
The decision, then, came down to one man: Roosevelt.
For a long time, his defenders claimed that he acceded to unstoppable public opinion.
But Greg Robinson’s By Order of the President (2001) put this matter in a different
light by examining the President’s long-held belief that the Japanese-Americans
were biologically "incapable of being true Americans," making him
more prone to accepting the worst assumptions about their possible conduct.
It would be three and a half decades before Congress
established a commission whose final report, concluding that the internment
resulted from “race prejudice, war hysteria, and a failure of political
leadership,” recommended reparations of $20,000 to each surviving internee, and
several years more before both Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush issued formal
apologies for the policy.
Incredibly, the internment of Japanese-Americans is
not being viewed universally these days as an object lesson in the dangers of
wartime hysteria, but as a possible precedent for tough if “necessary” steps
that might be taken today. As far back as December 2015, Donald Trump gave an interview to Time reporter Michael
Scherer that should have alarmed voters. He might not “make America great again”
(who said it ever stopped being great?), but he sure is making history
unexpectedly relevant.
Asked at that time if he would have supported the
internment in WWII, Trump responded: “I would have had to be there at the time
to tell you, to give you a proper answer. I certainly hate the concept of it.
But I would have had to be there at the time to give you a proper answer.”
The then-candidate followed with one of his
redundant, ridiculous non-sequitur rants that still reveal much—admittedly
nauseating—about his mind: “It’s a tough thing. It’s tough. But you know war is
tough. And winning is tough. We don’t win anymore. We don’t win wars anymore.
We don’t win wars anymore. We’re not a strong country anymore. We’re just so
off.”
As it happens, there are more similarities between
the Japanese-Americans of 1942 and immigrants from Muslim countries than might
meet initially the eye. Those similarities do not redound to Trump’s favor.
First, in both instances, the bans were targeted at
very specific groups, though the language in the executive orders (or the
statements of the Presidents) might indicate otherwise. FDR’s order never
specifically used the word “Japanese,” but he allowed army personnel in “military
areas” to remove “any or all persons” from this area of the West
Coast. Similarly, government lawyers claimed in court that Trump’s Muslim ban
was not directed at the religion, but public statements by Rudy Guiliani,
describing his part in framing the legislation, indicated otherwise
Second, the scope of the restrictions was, in one
sense, oddly limited. The most logical source for relocated Japanese-Americans
should have been on Hawaii, as this was where the original attack occurred. But
Japanese-Americans on the island were deemed too important to be deal with in
this way. Moreover,
Americans of German and Italian ancestry did not fall under the purview of this
order, even though those countries were also at war with the U.S. Trump’s executive order was similarly blinkered. The 9/11 plotters,
for instance, came from Saudi Arabia and Egypt, but neither of those countries
are covered by the plan. By an amazing coincidence, neither is any Muslim
country where The Trump Organization does business.
Third, the restrictions tarred entire groups
indiscriminately. More than a hundred thousand Japanese who had never done
anything wrong were regarded with suspicion. Government lawyers were similarly
hard-pressed to cite how Muslims from the seven countries constituted a unique
threat.
“Take a look at what FDR did many years ago and he’s
one of the most highly respected presidents,” Trump has said. But FDR is
esteemed for other aspects of his Presidency, not this exclusionary policy. Presidents such as Thomas Jefferson, Andrew Jackson and Woodrow Wilson
have seen their stock fall in recent years for failing to protect the rights of
minorities. What makes Trump think that the same thing might not happen to FDR—not
to mention himself?
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