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Re-locating Japanese Canadian history : sugar beet farms as carceral sites in Alberta and Manitoba, February… Ketchell, Shelly D. 2005

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RE-LOCATING JAPANESE C A N A D I A N HISTORY: SUGAR BEET FARMS AS C A R C E R A L SITES IN A L B E R T A A N D MANITOBA F E B R U A R Y 1942-JANUARY, 1943 By Shelly D. Ketchell B.A., Okanagan University College, 2003 A THESIS SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF MASTER OF ARTS In THE F A C U L T Y OF G R A D U A T E STUDIES (SOCIOLOGY) THE UNIVERSITY OF BRITISH C O L U M B I A August 2005 © Shelly D. Ketchell, 2005 Abstract This thesis examines Alberta and Manitoba sugar beet farms as carceral sites for displaced Japanese Canadians during the Second World War. Previous literature has focused on the relocation of Japanese Canadians but has not addressed the many distinct sites that marked the boundaries of incarceration for Japanese Canadians. By exploring issues of citizenship and history, this thesis examines the many ways that regulation was imposed on Japanese Canadians by state and extra-state organizations and individuals. This subject was explored using critical discourse analysis of the Calgary Herald and the Winnipeg Free Press for a twelve month period beginning February 1, 1942, two months prior to the announcement of the Sugar Beet Programme and ending January 31, 1943, as original beet contracts covered only the 1942 crop year. My analysis follows two major themes: sugar beet farms as carceral sites and the use of citizenship narratives to both legitimize and erase Japanese Canadian labour. Utilizing Fbucault's notion of 'carceral', I show how disciplinary strategies were used to strip Japanese Canadians of their social, economic and political citizenship. While Japanese Canadians were never formally incarcerated, I argue that the term carceral needs to be reworked in order to include losses of liberty that are not formally sanctioned. I examine newspaper reports regarding official state policy, local community responses, protests and individual letters to the editors, and conclude that, indeed, Japanese Canadians underwent surveillance, supervision, constraint and coercion, all markers of incarceration. Citizenship discourses were a crucial tool of both state and non-state agencies. Further, 'whiteness' was central to these discourses. Citizenship discourses such as patriotism and duty were directed at 'white' citizens to encourage their acceptance of Japanese Canadian relocation. Further, these same discourses were used to recruit a volunteer 'white' labour force. However, despite the significant contributions of Japanese Canadians to this wartime industry, never were these types of discursive rewards or the subsequent material benefits offered to them. Further, the voices of Japanese Canadians were also silenced by the media. Thus, Japanese Canadians became invisible and silent workers who could claim no voice and thus, no membership in the nation. ii Table of Contents Abstract i i Table of Contents i i i List of Figures v List of Abbreviations vi Preface vii Acknowledgements ix Dedication x Chapter One: Introduction and Overview 1 Relevance of the Current Study 10 Limitations 14 Chapter Outlines 16 Notes for Chapter One 18 Chapter Two: Theoretical and Methodological Foundations 20 History 20 Citizenship 27 The Carceral 38 Methodology 44 Notes for Chapter Two 56 Chapter Three: Literature Review 58 Pre-Redress Literature 58 Redress Literature 62 Post Redress Literature 65 American Internment Literature 70 Conclusion 73 Notes for Chapter Three 74 Chapter Four: Imprisoned in Glass: Farms as Carceral Sites 75 Supervision and Surveillance 78 Constraint and Coercion 97 Notes to Chapter Four 115 Chapter Five: Labour and the Construction of Citizenship 120 The Roots of Racism 120 Constructing 'Canadian' Citizenship 123 Constructing a'Canadian' Labour Force 126 Citizenship, Patriotism and Duty 130 iii The Invisible and Silent Threat 144 Notes to Chapter Five 159 Chapter Six: Conclusion 163 Notes for Chapter Six 174 Primary Sources 175 Secondary Sources 176 List of Figures Figure 1.1- Southern Alberta Farming Area 7 Figure 1.2 - Southern Manitoba Farming Area 8 Figure 2.1 - Ooto, Miki and Hayakawa Families 40 Figure 4.1 - Home to Three Families 76 Figure 4.2 - Local Protests 84 Figure 4.3 - Marking Race 88 Figure 4.4 - Local Heroine 95 Figure 5.1 - Patriotic duty 140 Figure 5.2 - No grievance with the government... 153 V List of Abbreviations B.C.S.C. = British Columbia Security Commission I.O.D.E. = International Order of the Daughters of the Empire N.A.J.C. = National Association of Japanese Canadians vi Preface It is difficult terrain to navigate. I am compelled to distance myself from what I read. It is impossible to do. It is impossible to read the both the lies and the truths that were told about the Japanese Canadian people and not see my own grandmother, my aunts and uncles, my father. It is impossible for me to examine the texts for common themes and remove from them the pain and suffering of people who have had such an influence in my own life. And yet, I try. I know that I must tell the story without them. Their stories are not mine to tell. I can imagine them in the texts, but they are not there. To push them inside the texts, or to impose the texts onto them is not only unethical, it is too painful to bear. I take a step back. I inhale the texts and exhale as much of the anger as I can. The wrongs that I want to right cannot be touched. They are far away in the past, unreachable even by a caring heart and a loving eye. The words I write can never right the wrongs I see. That would mean erasing an ugly past and that is beyond my abilities. And to be honest, enough has already been erased and it has done no good at all. This is the other side of the coin. What I am writing compels me to connect to a past that I only know through veiled references, ugly lies and partial truths. I remember my father talking about working Sugar Beets. I remember no mentions of war. I remember classroom histories that told nothing of the horrors that were perpetrated in the name of that war, and years later I remember the apology issued by the Canadian government that for my family meant an end to the silence. And yet, the silence was not filled, but rather was infringed upon tentatively. My need to know was not satisfied. I want to remember the past that my family lived. I want the nation to remember with me. I want to connect their past to my present and to my children's future. I want to tell a story that has not yet been told. It is a story of patriotism, of love and commitment to one's country. It is a story of citizens without citizenship, who through hard work, perseverance and pain helped to make this land their own. vii The story that I tell is not my family's story, although perhaps it could be. They were there. Perhaps they even read the same newspapers that I am using to piece together this story. Yet, the story is not their story. It is mine. It is my journey to understand not their place in this country, but my own. I distance myself from the texts, because the anger that Ifeel is not their anger, just as the story is not their story. The anger that Ifeel is my own. It arises out of the deep sense of grief that I feel when I read these texts. I grieve what was stolen from my family and I grieve my own loss of faith in my country. I cannot tell their story, but I can tell a story. I reach inside the texts and pull out pieces. I lay them carefully before me and I watch as a story unfolds. I hope that I am putting together the pieces in a way that they would recognize. Yet, I can offer no guarantees. All I can really know for certain is that the silence, if not broken, has certainly been dislodged. In an empty past, the spaces where there once was nothing have been marked as inhabited. I can finally feel a connection to that past. This is my story. viii A cknowledgements My first thanks must go to my supervisor, Dr. Renisa Mawani and thesis committee member, Dr. Becki Ross, for their inspiration, dedication and commitment to this project. I feel truly honored to have had them accompany me on this political and personal journey. Their patience, understanding and guidance have truly made this project richer and more meaningful than I could have imagined. I would like to especially thank Renisa for her unwavering belief in my abilities and Becki for inspiring in me a love for historical research. Words cannot express the gratitude I have for my family whose endless support and encouragement have sustained me over the last two years. My family is the inspiration of this project. My thanks go out to my parents, Tom and Barbara Ikebuchi, who have continually supported my work with their love. I would also like to offer my sincerest gratitude to my sister, Crystal Mandryk, for her willingness to read even the roughest drafts and find the good there. This project would not have been the same without her many insights, her wisdom, and her unwavering love and support. A special thank you also goes to my children, Eric and Takara Ketchell, who have been loving, patient and understanding even when my work separated me from them for months at a time. I am also indebted to my good friends: Dr. Stephen Braham, Leamore Cohen and Bil ly Flynn. Steve, because he could always be counted on to offer me friendship, laughter and very often, good food. Leamore, because she has been there with me every step of the way, convincing me that friendship never fails you, even when you sometimes fail your friends. Billy, because he taught me that the really important lessons of graduate school are often learned outside of the classroom. This project was also motivated by those lessons learned inside of the classroom. I am grateful for the inspired teachings of wonderful professors both at Okanagan University College ix (O.U.C.) and at the University of British Columbia (U.B.C.). Thanks especially to O.U.C. professors, Dr. Patricia Tomic, Dr. Ricardo Trumper and Dr. Margaret Price for teaching me what it is to love Sociology. Their passionate and political commitment to the field is what inspired me to follow in their footsteps. Thank you also to Dr. Tom Kemple, Dr. Gillian Creese and Dr. Dawn Currie for providing me with so many of the necessary building blocks that I needed to begin this project. Lastly, this project would not have been possible without the financial support offered by University of British Columbia Department of Anthropology and Sociology, which took the form of Teaching Assistantships, Research Assistantships and a Fellowship. Additionally, I am grateful for receiving a Canadian Graduate Scholarship from the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada. Dedication This project is dedicated to the memory of my grandmother, Itoye Ikebuchi who taught me that love does not need words and to my children, Eric and Takara, whose future is rooted in that love. Chapter One: Introduction and Overview To err is to take a voyage, to wander. In French, erre signifies the track of an animal, left for us to discover in the sand, in a trace on the snow, on the earth. To err is to travel along these traces, barely perceptible to some, of memory - reminders that lead in all directions, left by a multitude of species, wandering across the land (Manning, 2003, xxviii). The events we remember and how we remember them cannot be understood as separate from our personal or our national identity. If our personal histories are, and must always be, separate from our national history then we risk losing not only our personal histories, but also our membership in the nation. Being able to understand our personal memories as located in or related to larger group membership, whether cultural or national, transforms our memories from personal remembrances to cultural artifacts, from stories to legacies. Membership in a nation is tied to collective memories and to our ability to embed or locate our own memories in those collective ones. There is power in being able to understand one's family history as having grown out of the rich soil of Canadian history. If the stories told in Canadian History1 classes bear no resemblance to one's own stories, membership in the nation becomes suspect. As Manning (2003) contends, "we become aware that we have been taught that to understand who we are, we must be capable of appropriating a past of our own" (62). My own personal memories are, at least in part, what drive my work here. My work is informed by my need to understand and explain the deep fissures and disconnections between my own memories and what passes as Canadian History. I want to understand how my inability to relate my memories to a larger national context has shaped my own citizenship. Although much of my own childhood took place in the Interior of British Columbia, one of my earliest memories is sitting in the backseat of a car while my father used his pocket knife to peel away the tough outer skin of a sugar beet. I was six years old. My father had pulled the car over on a stretch of road in Southern Alberta, not far from where we then lived in 1968. There were sugar 1 beets scattered in the ditches and gullies, and even on the shoulders of the road. It was not an uncommon sight. Many farming trucks, piled high with sugar beets would travel down these roads and some of the sweet cargo would escape. On this particular day, my father stopped the car and provided my sister and me with a lesson on sugar beets, which helped us to understand that inside these innocuous little roots was the sweet stuff of sugar. I can only imagine what drove him to pull over the car for this object lesson. After the lesson about sugar and a brief mention of how he used to pick sugar beets by hand, he said nothing. It is a fond memory, one that I cannot help remembering whenever I drive down a farming road. It was not until I was myself an adult that this memory became rooted in a larger memory. It was not until families and communities began to break what amounted to a collective silence about their own histories of imprisonment, dislocation, and loss that I started to understand the significance of that memory on the side of the road in Southern Alberta. It was not until the government participated in this memory that I could speak that significance aloud. In fact, even now, my own voice often sounds louder than natural when I speak of my history. Perhaps this is because in comparison, the history books still only whisper about the dark period of Canadian history that includes the "wartime evacuation and detention of nearly 21,000 people, three-quarters of whom were Canadian citizens" (Adachi, 1991, xii). Much of the history remains buried in the past, overlooked by those who write our history. The limited, tentative accounts that are offered in history books provide little indication of either the contributions or the suffering of Japanese Canadians. Instead, the snippets in history books offer an aborted and distorted understanding of Japanese Canadian history. My work here strives to provide a bridge between that past, this present, and the future. However, in order to understand even the recent past, it is necessary to understand that which came before. Canada's first Japanese immigrant, Manzo Nagano, came to Canada in 1877. He stayed for 46 years in British Columbia before he returned to Japan in 1923 (Adachi, 1991, 9). It was 2 not until eight years later that Japanese immigration to Canada took hold. "From 1897 to 1901 a total of 15,280 Japanese arrived in Canadian ports, many of whom were transients who either remained for a season and returned home or traveled through to the United States" (Adachi, 1991, 13). Despite these large numbers, however, Japanese Canadians were far from welcome in their new home. Many viewed Japanese Canadians as a threat to 'white' 4 labour, especially in British Columbia where by 1900, for instance, in the fishing industry, "the Japanese were strongly entrenched, holding 1,958 of the total number of 4,722 licenses. Moreover, the 1,900 licenses issued to canneries were used mainly to employ Japanese fishermen so that over 4,000 Japanese, including cannery workers, were engaged in the industry" (Adachi, 1991, 57). This deep entrenchment resulted in many calls to decrease the number of fishing licenses issued to 'Orientals' (Adachi, 1991, 58). Perhaps the greatest indication of the hostility directed toward the Asian populations in British Columbia was the Vancouver Riot of 1907. The immigrant population in Vancouver, especially Japanese immigrants, increased dramatically in July of 1907, when "over 2,300 arrived in the province, more than double the number of entrants in any month since the first of the year" (Ward, 1990, 65). This dramatic increase led to heightened concerns expressed by the 'white' population, most notably by the Asiatic Exclusion League, a group with ties to the Trades and Labour Council. This group was active in raising public awareness about the menace of the 'Yellow Peril' and even organized anti-Asian events, such as public parades (Ward, 1990, 67). After the September 7, 1907 parade which was followed by a number of speeches which denounced Asian immigration, part of the crowd drifted into Chinatown, less than a block away, and within minutes a riot was in progress. The outburst was precipitated when a youngster threw a brick through the window of a Chinese store. Within seconds the air was filled with sticks, stones, bricks, and bottles aimed at every window in sight. Minutes later another mob swept through the Japanese quarter on Powell Street, leaving a second trail of broken glass in its wake (Ward, 1990, 68-69) 3 Despite some who condemned these actions, the Asiatic Exclusion League continued to function, and indeed, grow in numbers after the riot (Ward, 1990, 69). According to Ward (1990), these anti-Asian feelings continued to persist throughout the early 1900s and in the interwar years (Ward, 1990, 119). In fact, it was often this type of public agitation which motivated Canada's early immigration laws such as the Chinese Immigration Act (Ward, 1990, 40) and the Continuous Passage rule which sought to curb or halt altogether the immigration of Chinese and South Asians respectively. Thus, it was amidst these racial tensions that the stage was set for one of the darkest moments in Canadian history. Additionally, the existing social and economic contexts in Alberta and Manitoba were to also play a role in this dark period. In Alberta, the period between the depression of the early 1930s and the beginning of World War II was marked by both economic instability and ethnic tensions (Palmer, 1982, 123). Agricultural droughts exacerbated the already bleak economic circumstances resulting in increased ethnic hostility. Recent immigrants were blamed for unemployment problems as well as for being burdens on an already tenuous social welfare system (Palmer, 1982, 129). Blatant discrimination toward the Chinese was especially evident. Given the perception of their low standards of living, Chinese who were also suffering financial hardship were offered less than half of the social assistance that was offered to 'whites' (Palmer, 1982, 146). This particular era was also marked by an increase in anti-Semitism, especially in rural areas, such as the ones that are the concern of this project. In fact, in the few years previous to the proposed implementation of the Sugar Beet Programme, rural areas sent "resolutions opposing immigration of any kind and some opposed Jewish immigrants in particular" (Palmer, 1982, 151). Manitoba also felt the effects of the Great Depression. The response there, however, was decidedly different. Prominent Winnipeg politician, John Queen, was an outspoken man, who publicly opposed any form of racism. He also had strong ties to labour, having been arrested for his part 4 in the Winnipeg General Strike in 1919.5 In 1934, when also faced with an increase in anti-Semitism in Manitoba, Queen "demanded in the Manitoba legislature that the attorney-general lay charges of sedition against the local Nazis" (Gutkin and Gutkin, 1997, 367) and later went on to instigate a bill being presented to the House, providing for an injunction against any publication defaming a racial or religious group or inciting hatred against a group; and with a further amendment making the printer's and the publisher's names mandatory on every kind of printed material, the bill passed into law as the Manitoba Defamation Act, the first group libel law in Canada (Gutkin and Gutkin, 1997,367). This outspoken man, John Queen, was also mayor at the time that the Sugar Beet Programme was implemented in early 1942. In British Columbia, the December 1941 attack on Pearl Harbor had increased the racial fear and hostility directed at Japanese Canadians (Adachi, 1991, 201, Ward, 1990, 148). Fears that the Japanese were a threat to the community resulted in the almost immediate internment of thirty eight Japanese nationals (Ward, 1990, 148). Additionally, 1,200 fishing boats were impounded, despite the fact that these boats were all owned or operated by naturalized citizens or second generation (Nisei) Japanese Canadians (Adachi, 1991, 200). On January 14, 1942, a policy was announced which dictated the removal from coastal areas of all Japanese male nationals, aged 18 to 45 years by April 1 (Adachi, 1991, 208). It was not until late February, however, that mass evacuation was publicly announced. In 1942 the Canadian government of Mackenzie King, following a policy similar to that of the United States, ordered the mass uprooting of all people of Japanese ancestry living in the 'protected zone,' an area that extended along the west coast of British Columbia and 100 miles (160 kilometres) inland. It established the British Columbian Security Commission on March 4 to carry out the incarceration of some 23,000 men, women and children who had been categorized as 'enemy aliens.' More than 75 percent of these people were either Canadian-born or naturalized citizens (Miki, 2004, 2). The evacuation of this population meant the confinement of many Japanese Canadians in Self-Support sites, 'ghost' towns in the B.C. Interior, sugar beet farms in Ontario, Alberta and Manitoba, and road camps in Ontario (Oikawa, 2002, 73, Miki , 2004, 3). Although, many 5 authors have contributed to a body of literature that addresses the evacuation, dispossession, and confinement of Japanese Canadians during this period, very little has been written specific to sugar beet farms and their role in the internment of Japanese Canadians. One of the goals of my work is to build on the very small body of literature that addresses this question. The Sugar Beet Programme was first announced on March 28, 1942 as a solution to the problem of relocating such a large number of Japanese Canadians as well as to alleviate severe farm labour shortages in Alberta and Manitoba. Initiated by the British Columbia Security Commission (B.C.S.C.), this program was considered to be a voluntary program that matched farmers in need of workers with Japanese families in need of a place to relocate. This program, although initiated by the B.C.S.C., meant negotiations between federal governments, provincial governments, and municipal councils. While the program sounded fairly benign and perhaps even helpful to Japanese Canadians, once families had volunteered, they had very few choices and almost no freedom of movement. While the initial announcement stated that 1,000 families would be moved to Alberta and Manitoba (Adachi, 1991, 280), eventually thirty-six hundred Japanese Canadians were relocated to Alberta and Manitoba as a result of this program (Oikawa, 2002, 86). Once in these provinces, many Japanese Canadians were dissatisfied with the conditions because "of inadequate housing, insufficient earnings to keep them through the winter, or dissatisfaction with the farms to which the Beet Growers Association had assigned them" (Roy et al, 1990, 142). Although some requested that they be allowed to leave, the B.C.S.C. denied these requests, although they did encourage some men to take up other work, for instance in forestry, during the winter months (Roy et al, 1990, 142). When beet workers complained about their lack of freedom to pursue supplementary work, their voices fell on deaf ears. Instead, beet growers, fearful of losing their docile work force persuaded the Department of Labour to make these workers even more vulnerable by freezing them not only to specific farms, but also to their 6 work as 'essential' wartime agricultural workers (Roy et al, 1990,142). This resulted in the Japanese becoming '"wards of the federal government and serfs of the soil' who were exploited by some farmers" (Roy et al, 1990,142). The goal of my thesis is to provide a sociological analysis which addresses specifically the gaps that have been left by an inattention to these sites as sites of exclusion. Thus, my geographic focus is confined mostly to Southern Alberta and Southern Manitoba farming regions (see the following maps which show the areas that are the focus of my study), although some attention is paid to areas outside of this focus area in order to provide a broader Canadian context. Caroling ^nMM^)R«I Deer V ( , »e y H a l h r k o^roneUor. '3«kmo; ISundre (f) H"^ ¥0°Bnora °Byemopr V^eteran Compeer^  i | {27)Jhree Hills 4 ! 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' ft Middlebro . .^ Figure 1.2 - Southern Manitoba Farming Area, Mapquest.com, 2005 By examining newspapers during a one-year period (February 1, 1942 - January 31, 1943) beginning with the month before the announcement of the Sugar Beet Programme and ending one month after the end of the sugar beet contract expired, this thesis addresses two important questions. First, how did sugar beet farms, which were often framed as 'self-support' sites thus implying a certain independence from state interventions and coercion, act as sites of incarceration; and second, how was labour used within these sites as a tool of discipline. Addressing sugar beet farms as carceral6 sites necessitates an understanding of the ways that Japanese Canadians were subjected to surveillance, supervision, constraint, and coercion. Thus, particular attention is paid to the ways in which official government surveillance and supervision became enmeshed with civic forms of surveillance and supervision, for as Foucault (2003) contends, in "Truth and Power," the effects of power "circulate in a manner at once continuous, uninterrupted, adapted, and 'individualized' throughout the entire social body" (308). Additionally, I examine the ways in which both spatial and temporal boundaries were used to constrain and coerce. I draw on Foucault's (1995) work on carceral sites and discipline to 8 address how citizenship is defined and contested for Japanese Canadians whose citizenship rights were being revoked while they were simultaneously contained within the nation's boundaries. The second question seeks to show how labour was used, not only as a carceral tool, but also a tool of discipline that informs both citizenship and nationhood. As Abu-Laban (1998) has argued, nation building, in this case through immigration, is built not only on ideological constructions, but also constructed "on the perceived economic needs of the nation" (71). Therefore, labour is an important component in the making of the nation. In the 1940s, Japanese Canadians were often framed in the media as being threats to national as well as economic security. This project illustrates how these narratives were tied under a single 'nationalist' citizenship discourse whereby some were constructed as citizens and others as outsiders or aliens. Further, by addressing how Japanese Canadian men, women and children were simultaneously managed and excluded through their labour I demonstrate how these less spectacular forms of violence operated. An interrogation of newspaper narratives is explored in order to understand how they were employed as part of a nationalist discourse of inclusion/exclusion, wherein 'white' became central to an understanding of nation and citizenship and how these narratives further reinforced the gendered, raced, (hetero)sexed and classed meanings of Canadian citizenship. In fact, one of my goals is to deal specifically with the ways that these constructions of citizenship affected not only Japanese Canadians in general, but Japanese Canadian women in particular. As a feminist, anti-racist researcher, I have been ever conscious of the importance of understanding the ways that the treatment of Japanese Canadians was complicated by social relations including race and gender. The treatment of Japanese Canadian women was expected to differ significantly from that of Japanese Canadian men. Although I was unable to find Q evidence of this, it is important to understand the ways that the erasure of gender has also served to marginalize women. Additionally, as a bi-racial woman, I have been conscious that 9 race as a category of analysis could be complicated by the histories of mixed-race adults and/or children. However, I was unable to find any indication that bi-raciality was a factor in any state or extra-state actions. , Finally, it must be noted that this work is both historical and sociological. Although it is formulated as a Master's thesis in sociology, it begins from the belief that, as Abrams (1982) contends, "sociological explanation is necessarily historical" (2). Further, what fuels this research is a belief that, Doing justice to the reality of history is not a matter of noting the way in which the past provides a background to the present; it is a matter of treating what people do in the present as a struggle to create a future out of the past, of seeing that the past is not just the womb of the present but the only raw material out of which the present can be constructed (Abrams, 1982, 8). Thus, this study strives not only to add to the historical record, but to underscore the ways that the historical (re)location of Japanese Canadians aided in the construction of past and present citizenship narratives. RELEVANCE OF THE CURRENT STUDY Understanding citizenship necessitates a locating of citizenship both spatially, as well as temporally. However, the boundaries, both spatial and temporal, that delineate citizen and non-citizen, must also be understood as fluid and flexible. These boundaries are informed by and through power relationships and are thus constantly shifting and evolving. Who can claim membership in the nation, therefore, is dependent upon both time9 and location.10 Spatializing citizenship, through an understanding of how citizenship is tied to the land is imperative, not only for understanding the history of citizenship, but also for understanding the effects of this history on present and future citizens of the nation. Further, the ways in which these citizenship narratives function spatially and temporally become History.11 Therefore, H/history is implicated in the shaping of citizenship in two ways: in the historical events themselves, as well as in the Historical record. The link between history and nation lies, at least partially, within the collective 10 memories of its citizens. Our ability to locate our own personal and family histories within History is what allows us to conceive of ourselves as part of the "deep horizontal comradeship" (7) that Benedict Anderson (1991) speaks of in his discussion of imagined communities. For Japanese Canadians, this ability to locate their own history within Canadian History is far from guaranteed. Despite their contributions to a vital war industry, the citizenship of Japanese Canadians, especially during World War II, was at worst revoked and at best often called into question. Further, the everyday conditions faced by Japanese Canadians are often minimized in light of the more spectacular forms of violence seen in prisoner of war camps, if indeed, they are seen at all. Oikawa (2002) however, argues that the many sites of internment such as 'self-support' sites, work camps, sugar beet projects and ghost towns were, in fact, carceral sites marked by violence of separation, financial and social losses, servitude, exclusion and isolation. She further argues that this violence is often exacerbated by the subsequent tendency to singularize or spatially conflate the "incarceration and displacement of twenty-two thousand people" (79). She explains that "the singularity of space conceals the extent and materiality of the violence involved in destroying communal and family relations" (79, emphasis mine). It is often assumed that labour sites such as the sugar beet projects were less coercive and much more 'free' than other sites. However, it is important to understand the ways in which Japanese Canadians were stripped of citizenship rights within these sites. Specifically, it is important to understand how citizenship was constructed in regards to these sites both discursively, in the media, for instance and materially, through space. In fact, I will argue that not only is citizenship shaped by and through space, but in many cases is also erased entirely by space. History is a technology of not only time, but of space. It is a story that requires boundaries of nationhood, while at the same time erasing many of the boundaries of the internment. 11 History has continued to tell its stories through the use of grand narratives: These grand narratives "identify who belongs in the nation and in what ways. The English Canadian grand narrative focuses on Europeans, tracing the progress of European-derived communities and institutions. ...It emphasizes continuities between the past and the present of the nation-state, ignoring discontinuities" (Stanley, 2000, 83). The presence of these grand narratives signals erasures and exclusions. Further, as Furniss (1998) contends the "real power of a selective tradition ... exists in its eventual colonization of popular consciousness: when it becomes transformed into a set of unquestioned, taken-for-granted historical 'truths' that define conventional historical understandings among members of a society" (8). These 'taken-for-granted truths' are what allow some Canadians to locate their memories within grand narratives, while others become dis-located from the nation. Citizenship is, in fact, dependent on our ability to be rooted in history, in collective memory. Citizenship is not free and accessible to all. Citizenship is dependent on our possession of many forms of capital. Some have argued that 12 13 language is one of those forms of capital and others have argued that 'whiteness' is also an important form of capital. I would argue that so too is memory. Bridging the spaces of the Japanese internment means providing connections between the past and the present. Remembering the internment as a singular moment of spectacular violence and exclusion, freezes it in the distant past, making it impossible to understand the many connections between this inglorious past and the historical present.14 It also allows for the Redress Campaign and subsequent 'settlement' of 198815 to act as a closure or conclusion to the internment. It is my desire to connect this limited history not only to what preceded it, but also to what sociologist Jeffrey Weeks (1985) described long ago as the historical present, to understand that the effects of the internment have not been settled, but remain active in the lives of subsequent generations of Japanese Canadians. 12 Very little work has been done to understand the lives of the men and women who worked long and physically demanding hours in the sugar beet fields or to locate these citizens within the larger national project. While there are histories that include stories of Japanese 'settlement' within their narratives,16 these histories seldom make it into mainstream texts. Additionally, while there are also many recent critical pieces of scholarship on the internment of Japanese Canadians, most of these studies focus on sites of confinement, and include P.O.W. 17 18 narratives and internment narratives. What appears to be missing is an analysis of how citizenship was spatially and temporally defined both within these spaces of confinement as well as in sites often perceived of as spaces of non-confinement. Non-confinement implies that Japanese Canadians in these sites were free to move about as they pleased. However, I argue that this is not the case, that they were indeed confined, but that their confinement was discursively, as well as materially constructed. In other words, physical forms of confinement in these instances were far more subtle than other types of physical confinement, including internment camps and prisons. Boundaries, for instance, were often enforced not through physical barriers, but through community by-laws and B.C.S.C. regulations which restricted movement of Japanese Canadians. Due to these perceptions of seemingly benign non-confinement, we still know very little about work sites, specifically sugar beet farms, and the violence that was perpetrated upon Japanese Canadians in these locations. By violence, I am referring to both physical violence, as well as the less spectacular forms of violence1 9 that were evidenced by the renunciation of Japanese Canadian citizenship rights. My work here strives to address the gaps and elisions in this particular time in Canadian history. Previous work done in this area focuses largely on sites that were marked by both violence and policed boundaries. It is my contention that work sites are also carceral sites and must also be understood in regards to the ways in which power and disenfranchisement operate within them. Although these sites are often seen as less violent or coercive, it is my contention 13 that they too must be understood as carceral, in light of the violence, surveillance and containment of bodies that marked these spaces. An examination of newspaper accounts can show how, although Japanese Canadians in these sites were not physically imprisoned, they were certainly under constant surveillance and indeed limited in their movements. This type of analysis is imperative, not only for understanding past citizenship narratives, but also for aiding in an understanding of how current forms of surveillance combine with public discourse to strip Canadians of their citizenship rights. Since the events of September 11, 2001, the media has played an increasingly central role in framing issues around nationalism and citizenship. Indeed, many of these discourses have a familiar ring as we hear of certain racialized populations being national security threats. As Thobani (2003) contends, "following September 11, the dangers posed by the 'enemy' were said to be most urgent at the nation's territorial borders and, in light of the methods used for the attacks, at flight-training schools and airports. Soon after, foreign students were named as presenting the threat of 'Israel-style suicide bombings'" (598). Another example is that of Mahar Arar. According to the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, "U.S. authorities detained Arar at Kennedy airport in New York in September 2002, while he was on a flight back to Canada from Tunisia. He was accused of having ties to Osama bin Lad en's al-Qaeda network and deported to Syria, the country where he was born" (January 22, 2004). Arar was subsequently tortured before finally being released some ten months later. These contemporary cases make it even more crucial that we understand the consequences of such discourses on visible minority people who have often lived a lifetime of exclusion from full citizenship. LIMITATIONS As with any piece of work completed for an M.A. Thesis, this work is limited by a number of factors. First, although restricting the geographical scope of this thesis to a small area of Alberta and Manitoba serves the purpose of addressing a largely unaddressed aspect of the 14 internment, it also limits the amount of print material that was available to study. Given the very small population of Japanese Canadians residing in Alberta and Manitoba prior to the implementation of the Sugar Beet Programme, there were no Japanese language newspapers that were published during this time period. Additionally, the War Measures Act required that all persons of Japanese origin who were interned or 'relocated' were now restricted in "their activities in relation to the dissemination of news or the propagation of opinions" (Adachi, 1991, 217). This meant that even if there were time or resources available, those who were relocated to these provinces had no avenue for publishing after their relocation. Thus, the only newspapers that were available were those that were printed and published in English. Therefore, the vast majority of voices preserved were those of the 'white', English speaking citizenry. While this certainly is regrettable, it is also a notable reflection of the voices that were deemed credible during this particular historical time period. Unfortunately, this does not leave many avenues available for interrogating Japanese Canadian resistance. I have tried to balance this shortcoming by applying a critical eye to the articles that were available. A second limitation of this study is the very short time period of one year. The goal of this thesis is to come to an understanding of how newspapers dealt with the contradictions inherent in imprisoning a largely Canadian population. An initial examination of two major newspapers, the Calgary Herald and the Winnipeg Free Press, in these areas showed a dramatic decrease in articles relating to the Sugar Beet Programme21 specifically or to Japanese Canadians generally about eight months into the program, followed by an even greater decrease in the following two months. My focus, then, was narrowed to include a one-year period. Additionally, the time period was also limited by my desire to provide a more in depth reading of these accounts. While it would be interesting to include data from these areas after all restrictions placed on Japanese Canadians were lifted, this was not included for two reasons. First, this would have meant a considerable temporal gap in the research, which would have hampered the 15 continuity and focus of this research. Secondly, and perhaps more importantly, there was no single date when all restrictions were lifted. Although the War Measures Act expired on January 1, 1946, many restrictions on Japanese Canadians were continued through Order-in-Council P.C. 7414 under the National Transitional Emergency Powers Act (Adachi, 1991, 309). This meant that restrictions were removed in a piecemeal manner, with the last controls lifted on March 31, 1949 (Adachi, 1991, 344). Although Adachi (1991) does offer a comprehensive account of the lifting of these restrictions, there is very little in his account that addresses the sugar beet farms of Alberta and Manitoba. A third limitation of this thesis is a failure to study the discourses that were present in neighbouring provinces where Japanese Canadians were not allowed to relocate. Saskatchewan, for instance, although also experiencing a labour shortage, refused Japanese Canadian labour. It would have been interesting to include at least one Saskatchewan newspaper in terms of its comparative value. However, given restriction of time and length, this was not feasible. Lastly, my decision not to do interviews with survivors of the Internment and/or their descendents means that the presence of Japanese Canadian voices in this work is virtually absent. However, again, a lack of both time and resources dictated that this was beyond the scope of this research project. CHAPTER OUTLINES The remainder of the thesis is organized as follows. The second chapter addresses the methodological and theoretical foundations of my research. In particular, my theoretical considerations include attention to debates surrounding issues of citizenship and history. These debates are further interrogated in their relation to Foucault's notion of the 'carceral' with special attention paid to the ways in which space and time are integral to these discussions. Chapter Three provides an overview of the literature that I draw on with a focus on Japanese Canadian internment and the history that preceded it. 16 Chapters Four and Five address the data analysis. Chapter Four explores questions concerning the ways in which sugar beet farms were used as tools of discipline and incarceration in Southern Alberta and Southern Manitoba. Chapter Five narrows this focus even further to show the ways that labour was used as a strategy of discipline. This chapter begins by providing a historical context by providing a brief history of pre-war labour relations regarding Japanese Canadians. This chapter focuses largely around issues of citizenship within these carceral spaces. The final chapter of this thesis provides an overview of the analysis, paying special attention to the links that can be made between the historical past, the historical present, and the promise of the future. In this chapter, I will also provide recommendations for future research. 17 NOTES FOR CHAPTER ONE The distinction between History and history is not arbitrary. By History, I am referring the historical project, which itself is informed by power relationships and must not be understood in any way as neutral or objective. By history, I am referring to the actual events that took place in the past. I am aware, however, that how we remember these events is also not unproblematic, however, as much of history is, indeed, dependent on the historical record. My father's presence in this thesis is not a reflection of his desire to have his stories told, but of my own desire to remember. His move to Alberta, when he was 14 (1942) as part of the Sugar Beet Programme and his experiences following the 'relocation', cannot be told here, as these are not my stories to tell. My use of the descriptive phrase "Japanese Canadians" is deliberate here and throughout this paper. To use Japanese is inaccurate, as the large majority of Japanese Canadians who were faced with the harsh terms of the internment were, indeed Canadian citizens. To leave out 'Japanese" altogether, however, is to deny the precariousness of their citizenship in the Canadian nation. 4 My use of 'scare quotes' in reference to 'white' citizens is to indicate my own recognition of the fragmented and often contested nature of'whiteness'. 'White' and 'whiteness' are social constructions, which are always shifting according to spatial, social and historical context. Thus, I recognize that especially in the context of World War II Canada, the definition of'whiteness' was constantly shifting, and was often constructed around issues of patriotism or nationalism, rather than'race'. 5 The Winnipeg General Strike "began as an attempt to achieve trade union rights, making only two basic demands: a living wage and recognition of the principle of collective bargaining. Six weeks of upheaval ensued, involving as many as 35,000 workers, both unionized and non-unionized, in a city whose population then totaled only 175,000" (Gutkin and Gutkin, 1997, 1). This strike is credited by Gutkin and Gutkin (1997) as having defining "a distinctively western sense of identity, nonconforming and generally left of centre" (2). 6 See Oikawa (2002) for a discussion of how Japanese Canadian spaces of internment were carceral spaces. Additionally, see Foucault (1995) for more on they ways in which discipline and surveillance are embedded in 'carceral' sites. 7 Here, and throughout, I am referring to the social constructions of race and do not mean to imply any biological validity to the concept of race. Race, as a social construction, thus holds multiple meanings, which often vary, for instance, over time and between spaces. o The erasure of gender is not to be confused with the erasure of woman, although in many cases, both of these issues existed. What I am referring to here, is the erasure of the gendered categories in newspaper discourses. In regards to Japanese Canadians, while the imposition of gendered categories undoubtedly existed outside of the newspapers, in newspaper discourses no distinction was made between women and men labourers (or indeed child labourers). Rather, newspapers only referred to 'workers' or sometimes 'workmen', which certainly implied the existence of an entirely male workforce. These terms, were of course inaccurate descriptors in the case of labour, as Japanese Canadian women and children laboured alongside of men in the sugar beet fields. 9 By time, I am referring to both historical specificity as well as the embedded-ness of any period of time in a history that precedes it, as well as its ties to that which follows it. 18 Location refers to both the land that is tied to nation in the general sense, that which lies within 'national' borders and boundaries, as well as to specific land, in relation to who has the right to control, own and/or inhabit these spaces. 1 1 See Note 1 of this chapter. i o See for instance Anderson's (1991) discussion on official nationalism and imperialism. See for instance Harris' (1993) article entitled "Whiteness as Property." 1 4 This concept, borrowed from Weeks (1985) is one that will be elaborated on later in this work. 1 5 For a detailed account of the redress, see Miki 's Redress: Inside the Japanese Canadian Call for Justice (2004). 1 6 See for instance Adachi (1991) and the Japanese Canadian Centennial Project (1977) A Dream of Riches: The Japanese Canadians 1877-1977. 1 7 See for instance Okazaki (1996). 1 8 See for instance Oikawa (2002) and McAllister (2001). 1 9 Scholars who have influenced my definition of violence are Razack (2002) in her discussion of the constitutive nature of violence, Oikawa (2002) in her discussion of the spatializing and memory, and Nelson (2002) in her discussion of how violence is "inherent in the regulation of racialized space" (213) in the spaces of Africville. 2 0 See Foucault (1995) on this point. 2 1 While many Japanese Canadians continued to work in the sugar beets throughout and in some cases beyond the end of the war, the initial agreement was only in place for the 1942 harvest season. 19 Chapter Two: Theoretical and Methodological Foundations One of the major goals of this work is to begin to fill some significant gaps in Japanese Canadian history. Thus, my work, here, is intrinsically historical. However, like all history, it cannot be contained within the period I intend to study. It must be understood as arising out of a past history, but also as connected to both the present and the future. These histories (past and present) are linked to issues of belonging and citizenship, of inclusion and exclusion and of nation, nationality, and nationalism. Therefore, citizenship is linked irretrievably to boundaries, both real and imagined. For Japanese Canadians who were interned, these boundaries must be understood in relation to their incarceration. While the goal here is to provide links between history, citizenship and the 'carceral', this thesis is based on very specific understandings of what history, citizenship and the 'carceral' mean. The first part of this chapter, then, is dedicated to providing an explanation of some of the theories that influence my understanding of these theoretical concepts. The second part of this chapter will address more methodological issues, including methods of analysis and a description of my data sources. HISTORY Historical context is crucial in order for memories to have a place to root. One goal of this project is to provide a historical context in which my own memories can take root. As Holt (1995) contends, historicity is crucial both in the sense of personal and collective memory and in terms of the constructs of the 'non-self that take shape within its space. Indeed, one cannot even conceptualize an individual consciousness, a self continuous from one time point to another, without a concept of history, of memory. To think T am' requires T was,' which needs in turn a narrative of'they' and/or 'we' (9). While the history books whisper about the Japanese Canadian internment, little or nothing is said regarding the sites of apparent non-confinement such as work camps or 'self-support' sites. The Sugar Beet Programme is one of the many elisions from history that have resulted in the personal 20 histories of my family and others remaining un-rooted. Citizenship is, in fact, dependent on our ability to be rooted in history, in collective memory. Anderson (1983) contends that history became the tool for both remembering and forgetting. For instance, he argues that there is "a vast pedagogical industry (which) works ceaselessly to oblige young Americans to remember/forget the hostilities of 1861-65 as a great 'civi l ' war between 'brothers' rather than between - as they briefly were - two sovereign nation-states" (201). History and memory are undeniably linked to nationalism and citizenship. According to Osborne (2001), "national cohesion ...requires a sense of collective awareness and identity that is promoted through a sense of mutual historical experience ... The orchestration of such collective remembering - and, i f necessary, collective amnesia - constitutes the crucial underpinning of national-state identities" (42). The project or orchestration of remembering has resulted in a kind of collective amnesia in regards to the internment of Japanese Canadians. Although the collective silence that spanned a period of about thirty years has been broken, the grand narratives of history contain only fractured, abbreviated, or distorted stories of Japanese Canadian history. Where history has begun to speak, there still remain many elisions, erasures, and unanswered questions. As Oikawa (2002) contends, "if we view history as a linear march of progress through time, we may fail to see the long-term effects of national violence and the multiple ways in which violence is continually being perpetrated against subordinated communities" (76). These long-term effects are more easily understood when one considers what Weeks (1985) describes as the 'historical present'. The 'historical present' is one that situates history not only in relation to the past, but to the present as well. Weeks' use of this concept arises out of a discussion on the different approaches used in the attempt to marry politics and history. The approaches he identifies are "history as a lesson", "history as exhortation" and 21 "history as politics" (10). It is in his discussion of the latter that he makes use of the concept 'historical present'. This approach Weeks explains, involves understanding the fundamental connections of history and politics, to grasp the ways in which the past has a hold on, organizes and defines the contemporary memory. The aim here is to understand 'the present' as a particular combination of historical forces, to find out how our current political dilemmas have arisen, to provide a historical perspective on political decisions, and to see the present as historical" (10). The historical present, then, is the link between politics and history, and between the past and the present. It is, indeed, a link that refuses a separation of the two realms; the first is always implicated in the second. According to Weeks (1985), "[w]hat is needed is a history of the historical present as a site of definition, regulation and resistance. History and politics on this reading are not uneasy bedfellows: they are essential partners" (10). This definition is useful in understanding how history is linked to the present, for in many ways we can only voice what we find in the remaining tattered accounts of history. The historical present also underscores the importance that history plays in our collective memory. If we fail, for instance, to understand the connections between history and politics in the past, we not only risk erasing or eliding the contributions of many, we also risk repeating past histories. Thus, my work strives to bring into memory a past that has thus far been erased from the national collective memory. Schwartz contends that "[rjecollection of the past is an active, constructive process, not a simple matter of retrieving information. To remember is to place a part of the past in the service of conceptions and needs of the present" (cited in West, 2002, 214). It is my contention that these remembrances are also always linked to citizenship. For instance, as West (2002) contends, "collective memory can be understood as one of the important imaginative ties that bind, without which individuals might feel less inclined to truly 'believe in' their nation, and therefore to act in its interests" (216). This link between history and memory highlights the importance, therefore, of what ultimately counts as history. Osborne (2001) argues that the material world becomes loaded with symbolic sites, dates and events - as well as silences - that 22 provide social continuity, contribute to the collective memory, and establish spatial and temporal reference points for society" (42). Not only do these physical representations of history contribute to collective memory, but Osborne also contends that they "evoke specific kinds of meanings and serve as spatial coordinates of identity" (44). This link between collective memory, identity, and history is an important one, especially when one understands that history is extremely selective. What becomes a part of the historical record, and consequently what does not, is rooted in power relations inherent in the colonial project.1 For those who worked in the sugar beet fields in Alberta and Manitoba, the lack of physical representation of their histories, of their contributions, means a disconnection from any "spatial coordinates of identity" (44). My work here, strives to add to the collective memory by examining the contributions and histories of Japanese Canadians in these locations. History cannot be adequately understood as a linear, objective accounting of past events. Rather, Foucault (2003) makes the following argument about history: In appearance or, rather, according to the mask it bears, historical consciousness is neutral, devoid of passions, and committed solely to truth. But if it examines itself and if, more generally, it interrogates the various forms of scientific consciousness in its history, it finds that all these forms and transformations are aspects of the will to knowledge: instinct, passion, the inquisitor's devotion, cruel subtlety, and malice (366). Each writing of history has embedded within it, power and purpose. History, whatever its direct subject matter, cannot be seen as a neutral project. According to Wishart (1997), the "assumption that 'the facts can speak for themselves', is of course wrong. The facts "cannot' 'speak' until they have been 'asked'," and no two scholars will ask exactly the same questions and activate exactly the same facts" (113). Further, he contends that historical debates "are less about facts than about 'frames of description' and frames of description are about values" (114). My commitment here is, therefore, two-fold. First, I am committed to providing a critique of so-called neutral histories and second, I am committed to moving outside of this history to provide an alternative history. In this way, my work understands that history, is part of a "vast 23 pedagogical industry' (Anderson, 1991, 201) which contributes to the national collective memories of future generations and further strives to broaden what constitutes our national collective memories. Further, history is linked not only to national memories, but also to citizenship. Citizenship includes far more than the legal rights and obligations that come with residence in a nation. It is also linked to issues of identity. For many visible minority populations, identity becomes synonymous with racialization. In our own history, "racialization is closely linked to projects of nation-building and the formation of 'imagined communities of citizens" (Creese and Peterson, 117). These "imagined communities are an important part of the common-sense of nationalism and citizenship claims" (Creese and Peterson, 118). Those who are framed as outside of the nation or in opposition to it, no matter what their legal status is, no matter what their place of residence, cannot claim citizenship within it. Those who have the power to define what counts as history, also help to define the nation. When history is understood as linked directly to power, it becomes easy to become suspect of hegemonic texts. However, as McAllister (1999) explains in "Narrating Japanese Canadians In and Out of the Canadian Nation: A Critique of Realist Forms of Representation," we may have good reason to be suspect of histories that were written from the margins as well. McAllister (1999) argues that while many Japanese Canadian histories were written out of a need to fill in the gaps in mainstream history, they also served another important purpose: they were part of a greater movement to demand redress from the Canadian government. Therefore, in order to "narrate Japanese Canadians into the nation, activists used a linear narrative propelled by the logic of cause and effect" (88). McAllister (1999) argues that these narratives, while useful for the purpose for which they were created, also had the destructive effect of "erasing the specificity of Japanese Canadians from the text: reducing the lives and accounts of Japanese Canadians into sociological and legal constructs ... as victims, witnesses, 24 and hard facts. So narrating Japanese Canadians into the nation as citizens simultaneously required their effacement as historically and culturally specific subjects" (91). What was missing in this re-writing of history was a questioning of the power relations that defined history. This history was designed to fill in the gaps, to bring to light events that had remained hidden. It did not, however, provide a critical reading of the history that came before it, nor provide crucial links to the present. History is and has been filled with homogeneous and hegemonic 'stories' that leave little room for difference and offer us few spaces to question the power relationships that perpetuate inequalities. For the purpose of this thesis, then, it is useful to adopt an "errant political" (Manning, 2003, xxvii) approach to history. According to Manning (2003), errant politics "is a politics that seeks to instantiate a vocabulary of incommensurability, maintaining a critical stance toward all discourses that offer the promise of homogeneity and cohesion.... Errant politics is recasting of the politics of space and time as ephemeral, inciting us to question the terms of inclusion and exclusion that define our access to narratives of home, identity and territory" (xxvii). One way to accomplish this is by adopting a strategy that recognizes the importance of power in both the playing out of history and in the (re)telling of it. My project must also be acknowledged as a re-telling of history. However, there is no claim of objectivity or unbiased narration in this work. Instead, I take note of Foucault's (2003) contention that effective history must hold an "affirmation of a perspectival knowledge [savoir]. Historians take unusual pains to erase the elements in their work which reveal their grounding in a particular time and place, their preferences in a controversy - the unavoidable obstacles of their passion" (362). I have chosen, instead, to tell the story from an invested perspective. An important theory that aids in such a strategy lies in Foucault's notion of 'effective history' and Jennifer Terry's interpretation of it: 25 Effective history is an interventionist strategy useful and necessary to those positioned in the margins of dominant accounts. It is, however, more than a deconstruction of traditional history. It involves what Foucault calls 'historical sense' - a strategic awareness of points of emergence or 'possibilities' existing at particular historical moments in the formation of particular discourses. ... Effective history exposes not the events and actors elided by traditional history, but instead lays bare the processes and operations by which these elisions occurred (emphasis in the original, Terry, 1991, 56). It is as important, therefore, to not only examine the places where Japanese Canadian history has been subverted or misrepresented, but also to understand "the processes and operations by which these elisions occurred" (56). The erasure of Japanese Canadians from the newspaper texts that I studied, for instance, must be understood in light of certain processes, such as the use of discourses that equate 'whiteness' with citizenship. In order to uncover these processes, it is useful to make use of Spivak's notion of subversive readings of history. Terry (1991) explains that although we are often limited by "accounts of the past which simultaneously constitute the dominant historiography and the history of dominance" (57), we can still manage to destabilize these accounts. Borrowing from Spivak, she suggests "a subversive reading strategy from within the dominant account which questions how this account establishes itself as 'truthful.' By this operation, an archivist/reader reveals that the dominant account is never fully capable of containing the subaltern it launches, nor fully able to stabilize itself (Terry, 58). In this way, we can examine historical accounts through a critical lens in an effort to make visible the invisible and give voice to the silenced. Central to my research is the contention that the present cannot be understood without attention to the past and that conversely, history must also be considered in relation to the present. In other words, the proposed work resides both in the past and in the present. The history of WWII Japanese Canadians, then, cannot be seen as separate or distinct from the present day lives of these or other Japanese Canadians, but rather must be understand as having political, economic and social consequences in this, the historical present. While great strides have been taken in regards to the citizenship of Japanese Canadians today, the effects of the 26 violence of the past is often revisited on the present in a myriad of ways. Therefore, we cannot understand the present except in relation to an understanding of the past. According to Abrams (1982), historical sociology, the "sociology of becoming, is for the sociologist, the best way of discovering the real relationship of structure and action, the structural conditioning of action and the effects of action on structure" (6-7). Thus, the historical relationship between media and discourses of citizenship is key to understanding the historical legacy or the 'historical present', of Japanese Canadians. CITIZENSHIP My understanding of citizenship is anchored in a broad range of literature in the field of citizenship studies. Understanding how the carceral acts to strip citizens of their rights necessitates an understanding of the meanings and constructions of citizenship. While many definitions of citizenship exist within this body of literature, my own stance is that citizenship must be seen as including far more than the legal rights and obligations that come with residence in a nation. What I am referring to here is the right to claim a Canadian identity, to claim membership within the 'imagined community' of Canada. Citizenship is thus understood as socially constructed. Further, it is constructed in such a way as to function in the maintenance of the racialized, gendered, sexualized and able-bodied hierarchies.3 Yet, despite the fact that citizenship is rooted in the discursive world of hierarchies, it is equally important to understand that citizenship informs and dictates our relationship to the material world, enabling access to the nation as well as to a nation's resources. Citizenship cannot be understood without understanding its relationship to nation, which in turn must be understood as marked by boundaries and borders. Thus, citizenship is not only linked to time, but also to space. The connection between time and space is of vital importance in understanding the connection between the discursive and the material world. Adding a spatial dimension to understanding citizenship is thus imperative. "To question how spaces come to be, and to trace 27 what they produce as well as what produces them, is to unsettle familiar everyday notions" (Razack, 2002, 7 ) . Understanding how citizenship is linked to the land also aids in our understanding of how citizenship is rooted in power relations. These power relations dictate who has access to ownership and use of land, for instance. Manning (2003) explains, "human spatial relationships are not neutral. Rather, they are the results of influence and power" (xix). Like the power that resides in the discursive and temporal relations that surround history and the making of collective memories, this spatially grounded power can be understood as influencing identity, as well as cultural, juridical, political, and economic domains. Previous histories of Japanese internment have tended to focus on the temporal, resulting in linear time-lines which place Japanese Canadians in a temporal context without also examining the spatial context in any depth. By historicizing the spaces of Japanese Canadian internment, and likewise spatializing the histories, I hope to provide important links between land, labour, and citizenship. Further, citizenship is always linked to discourses of nation and nationality. A nation, for Burney (2002), can be described as "a group of people brought together by ties of history, culture, and ancestry. The attributes of nationalism are the ownership (or dream of ownership) of a territory or land, shared cultural, social, and religious institutions, a shared belief in a common history or ethnicity, a shared pride in past and present achievements, and a shared indifference or hostility to those perceived as the other"(3). This definition provides both an understanding of how national discourses can include and exclude and how these exclusions are explicitly spatial. Further, Burney (2002) also offers a Weberian definition of nationalism in which nationalism is seen as "serving the ideological and material interests of a particular class. As a result, nationalism becomes the prerogative of a political and intellectual elite" (4). This will be an important concept to consider when attempting to tie together media discourses, national discourses and discourses of citizenship, especially in terms of a spatial analysis of Japanese Canadian internment. 28 In "Ephemeral Territories: Representing Nation, Home, and Identity in Canada", Manning (2003) explains that time and space are interdependent. She uses Mikhail Bakhtin's definition of the chronotope to illustrate this interdependence: "Every entry into the sphere of meaning is accomplished via the gates of the chronotope, which results in the construction of timed-places and placed-times. As Bakhtin writes, in some chronotopes 'a locality is the trace of an event, a trace of what had shaped it. Such is the logic of all local myths and legends that attempt, through history, to make sense out of space'" (13). Therefore, the link between temporality and identity can be understood in relation to how we identify with hegemonic accounts of history and how we come to identify our place within these narratives. The ways in which we are able to understand ourselves in relationship to our national collective memories has much to do with whether or not we can locate our personal and inherited memories within the larger context of collective memory. Just as collective memory is about nation-building and citizenship, so too is the relationship between identity and space. The relationship between identity and space is important, therefore, to understanding issues of nationalism and citizenship. As Manning (2003) explains, the concept of ontopology is a useful way to begin. "Jacques Derrida's notion of 'ontopology' allows us at the outset to better understand the implicit connection, in the language of the nation, between ontology (being) and topos (territory, native soil, city, or body)." (xvi). Further, Manning (2003) defines nationalism as the "conflation of identity and territory" (4). If nationalism is understood as membership in a nation, then citizenship can also be seen as a fusion of identity and territory. This distinction is imperative to understanding how identity is an imperative part of citizenship, especially in its linking to territory. The relationship between land and subject is, therefore, vital in understanding systems of inclusion and exclusion. In relation to Japanese Canadians, for example, we cannot understand their exclusion from citizenship without understanding how their territorial dispossession 29 affected their relationship to the nation. Instead of a fusion of identity and territory, we have a con-fusion, a link that has become tethered only by memory. The links between land and subject are violently severed, severing with it any claim to full citizenship. The land that once tied Japanese Canadians to the nation did not become the ground in which future generations were rooted. For many Canadians, family land is the basis of their claims to citizenship. Thus, to be able to link their ancestry to the land is a tool of power. The land that was taken from Japanese Canadians, however, cannot be the link between current generations of Japanese Canadians and their collective past. Just as their ties to the land were severed, so too was their (our) citizenship. The family home in Mission, B.C., where my father grew up prior to the war has no cache, no historical capital. It is only a site of loss, with little or no connection to the present generation. My father will not return there to make a claim that this land was once his; to do so would be to be reminded that in reality it never was. Any legitimate claim to the land was erased when the government seized the land. Further, Japanese Canadians could not even grasp the tenuous ties they may have felt to the land that they toiled upon, for as we will see, this link was also severed through discourses of non-citizenship and nationalism. The compensation that came over forty years later can never replace these ties to both space and citizenship. Nor can it be understood as a way to correct the economic hardships that were linked to the loss of land and citizenship. The material, economic relations that are embedded in the spaces of the internment cannot be understood as separate from the meaning that was inherent in them. Razack (2002) explains that we can understand space by traveling "along two theoretical routes" (8). We can understand space as resulting from unequal economic relations, by considering the "materiality of space" (8) and we can also consider the "symbolic meaning of spaces" (8). Understanding how space is constituted both symbolically and materially is imperative. The links between the material and symbolic are crucial to understanding how 30 citizenship was constituted in terms of economic discourses and the resulting material consequences. Further, examining space can help us to understand the fragmentary nature of citizenship, as well as the fragmentary motives behind the construction of citizenship, especially upon examination of carceral spaces. As Bashford and Strange (2003) contend, "what often characterises places of isolation is the co-existence and awkward fit of multiple carceral objectives" (9). This is especially true of Japanese Canadians working in the sugar beet projects. The carceral aspects of their 'relocation' are often overlooked, given the multiple and often contradictory objectives of these carceral sites. For instance, on the one hand, the 'relocation' was motivated by the construction of Japanese Canadians as threats to national security, while on the other than, their relocation to sugar beet farms belied that threat in favour of the economic benefits of labour. Space, like citizenship, cannot be understood as neutral. In order to understand the importance of space to citizenship, we must interrogate the relationship between "historical and geographical circumstances" (Mawani, 2002, 51), as citizenship is constituted through a historical relationship to the land.. Throughout Canada's history, racialization was one tool that was used to separate those who were deemed less desirable from the land that guaranteed their citizenship. In "In Between and Out of Place: Mixed-Race, Identity, Liquor, and the Law in British Columbia, 1850-1913", sociologist Renisa Mawani (2002) explains that "race had everything to do with who could be included within the nation, and with who had access to land and how much" (50). While Mawani is talking specifically about racially-mixed subjects of Aboriginal and European ancestry, the separation of Japanese Canadians from their land was certainly not without historical precedents. Although the circumstances were very different, we can understand this separation by understanding what was at stake in separating Natives from the land. By interrogating how mixed-race identity blurred the lines between 'white' and 'Native', Mawani underscores the importance of racial boundaries in defining who had access to land and 31 citizenship. This can aid in an understanding of how race was undeniably tied to the loss of home, land, and citizenship that was experienced by Japanese Canadians. While Canada was at war with Japan, they were also at war with other 'enemies', such as Germans and Italians, who were not as easily identifiable by racial characteristics such as skin colour. The understanding of Japanese Canadians as security threats cannot, therefore, be separated from their racialized identities. The losses experienced by Japanese Canadians were not mirrored in German Canadians or Italian Canadians. This is not to suggest that German Canadians and Italian Canadians did not also face discrimination. Like the Japanese, German and Italian '"aliens' were ordered to register with the R C M P " (Sunahara, 1981, 28). Additionally, Germans and Italians faced increased public surveillance, the Hutterites, a German speaking colony, being subjected to particularly harsh scrutiny.4 However, "no evacuation was ever suggested for the Germans and Italians, aliens or citizens", according to Adachi (1991, 206). The separation of Japanese Canadians from their land, therefore, can only be understood as the separation of the racialized 'other' from what arguably was, therefore, never really theirs. Further, this separation was accomplished through the creation of a juridical discourse that equated 'white' with citizenship and racial 'other' with threat. It must be noted there that although the official policies were often employed and enforced by state agencies, these juridical discourses were often sponsored by extra-state institutions such as newspapers. Additionally, it can be argued that not only did these juridical discourses provided by extra-state institutions offer support of these policies, they often motivated them. Indeed, it is imperative that we understand citizenship as not simply a construction created and enforced by the state, but in fact as something that is continually shaped and imposed by extra-state imperatives. Further, the constructions of citizenship must also be understood as morally infused. It is here, then, at the site of moral regulation, that the juncture between state and extra-state agencies exists. As Hunt (1999) explains, governing "is not restricted to institutions that 32 intentionally set out to engage in governmental activities such as state governments or municipal authorities. Many other institutions and social agencies engage in governing" (5). This connection between state and extra-state regulation is one that Strange and Loo (1997) examine in their book, Making Good: Law and Moral Regulation in Canada, 1967-1939. They examine, for instance, not only legal (state) reform, but also church-driven regulation5 and community-based moral regulation. Other scholars such as Valverde (1991) and Backhouse (1999) also examine these relationships in their studies of moral reform (Valverde) and legal racism (Backhouse) in Canada. Further, this relationship between state and extra-state agencies and institutions is one that I engage with throughout this thesis. The juridical discourse that robbed Japanese Canadians of their land was a discourse of nationalism, a discourse that centered on Japanese Canadians as both security and economic threats to the nation. According to Adachi (1991), on February 24, 1942, "after the previous day's secret session of the Commons from which the press and spectators were barred, the federal government issued the first of a series of Orders-in-Council, which were to completely regulate the lives of all persons of Japanese origin, regardless of citizenship, and set into motion the mechanics of forced evacuation and detention on the basis that they were 'necessary for the security and defense of Canada'" (216). This discourse of Japanese Canadians as threats to national security was simultaneously supported by discourses that identified Japanese Canadians as economic threats. These two types of discourses combined to justify the legal steps that were necessary to dispossess and incarcerate Japanese Canadians. The framing of Japanese Canadians as threats becomes less a violent act and much more a protective measure designed to benefit the greater social good. As Nelson (2002) contends, "violence inherent in the regulation of racialized space is rendered invisible when law is conceived as being a product of consensus of liberal social values" (213). Further, Bashford and Strange (2003) argue that coerced exclusion is intricately "connected with modernity, with citizenship, with territory" (4). They contend that 33 "this socio-political ordering impulse was tied to differential distribution of rights: restrictions on the freedom of some were justified by the protection of many others" (4). By defining Japanese Canadians as threats to the nation, the state was able to legitimately strip them of their rights in the name of the greater good. This also served to simultaneously move them outside of the nation, while at the same time containing (and confining) them within it.6 In the 1940s, space, or rather the appropriation of space, was used to legally regulate and control Japanese Canadians. The segregation of 'the other' has a long history in Canada, a history that Japanese Canadians knew only too well. This segregation serves to provide spatially constructed notions of identity in regards to both citizen and 'other'. According to Nelson (2002), many "space theorists have described the way in which both marginal groups and peripheral space signal an existence 'beyond' society, apart from civilized norms, and as separate space in which undesirable activities could take place in order to preserve the purity of dominant, ruling space" (219). In this way, space is tied to identity, not just for those who are controlled through it, but also for those who have the power to control those spaces. Isolating or segregating the 'other' not only identifies the racialized other as outside of citizenship, it also contributes to the identity of those who remain within the boundaries of citizenship through a process of abjection. According to Somers (1998), "abjection marks the boundary between the pure and the polluted, between the self and the other" (289). Further, the "abject thus provides the constitutive outside, the outcast whose presence is indispensable for the construction of those categories of subjectivity from which its abjection is defined because it, in turn, marks the boundary of their identities" (289). Therefore, not only do the boundaries between spaces provide for the disavowal of citizenship for those outside, these boundaries also serve to contribute to the identities of both citizen and non-citizen alike. Often these boundaries are not only spatial, but discursive as well. 34 According to Manning (2003), Canadian identity "depends on a mortgaged investment in the specter of identity, where identity is conceptualized as the voice of a singular culture" (61). Further, national identity "relies on a simplified notion of culture that ignores the disjunctions and contradictions within historical and social (trans)formations" (61-2). The political is, at least in part, what defines both national (cultural) and individual identity. It therefore infiltrates and influences every aspect of citizenship. According to Brodie (2002), "the governed do not exist outside of historically-specific political rationalities; instead, the governed are created by and speak through these rationalities" (54-55). The 'rationalities' that created Japanese Canadians as a governed people during WWII were rationalities that were tied to both the political and the legal. In this way, what appears as a single source, the government, envelops political and legal institutions to 'identify'7 Japanese Canadians. Further, the government cannot be understood as simply a body of institutions, but rather must also be understood as the representative voice of citizenship. This factor alone demonstrates how it was impossible for Japanese Canadians to be considered, or in many cases, to consider themselves, full citizens. To be citizens, would mean claiming membership in the nation that had stripped them of their rights when, for instance, "the Canadian government used the War Measures Act to authorize the wholesale expulsion, detention, incarceration, dispossession and deportation of Japanese Canadians" (Oikawa, 2002, 78). Regulation of citizenship then, took on the form of both the state and extra-state regulation, o and arguably, internalized regulation. The measures taken by the government dictated that Japanese Canadians would be "a placeless and hence nationless people" (Oikawa, 2002, 78). Consequently, stripping Japanese Canadians of their homes was to strip them of their citizenship and identity. According to Manning (2003), "political philosophy is frequently bound to a strict understanding of the Heim (home) as the seat of the Heimlich (homely, canny), where the home promises an order that parallels that of the (imaginary) nation" (36). The home is both a 35 reflection of the political and an embodiment of it. For Japanese Canadians, losing their homes, therefore, created a deep fissure between themselves and the nation. The loss of home, especially at the hands of the state, meant a loss of citizenship. Further, the separation of families disrupts the order that "parallels that of the (imaginary) nation" (36) further jeopardizing the citizenship of Japanese Canadians. One of the links, therefore, that ties the individual to his/her citizenship or binds him/her from it, is the relationship between the individual, home, and state. Manning's idea of the 'recalcitrant body' is particularly useful for understanding these relationships. While Japanese Canadians were often seen as passive and compliant in their treatment, their bodies can also be understood through Manning's description of the recalcitrant body. For Manning, the recalcitrant body is one that: resists the narrative of the enclosure. The recalcitrant body is not a homogenous dweller. The recalcitrant body emerges in the interstices of the state, the home, and the nation, residing at its limits, calling forth the necessity to retheorize the political according to the bodies that remain outside the bounded limits of what is ordinarily thought of as 'politics.' .. .These are the bodies that rewrite the political by accommodating themselves outside the normative structures of containment, refusing to subscribe to the biopolitical imperatives of the time (Manning, 2003, 56). The bodies of Japanese Canadians, therefore, can be understood as resisting the biopolitical imperatives of the state, even as they were being contained and controlled by the state. Although they remained within the nation, Japanese Canadians in their multiple spaces, were "outside of the normative structures of containment" (56). They were both outside of the state's imperative of the home and yet also within the state's direct control. They are both housed by the state, and home-less at the same time. According to Manning (2003): Such recalcitrant bodies provide us with an opportunity not only to theorize unhomed spaces and bodies, but also to engage critically with the discourse of security at the level of the body of the nation. The dichotomy of the homed and the homeless is one that not only sustains the coherence of the nation-state, but also one that perpetuates the violence against the other in the name of the discourse of home (56). 36 Although forced into homelessness, many Japanese Canadians were not content to simply accept this fate. While often seen as passive, many Japanese Canadians engaged in resistance in a myriad of ways. For some, this resistance came in the form of the photograph. Kunimoto (2004) explains that "in this moment of crisis, when internees existed in a liminal, transitional and marginal space, Japanese-Canadian albums were employed to foster a sense of place" (134). Although Japanese Canadians were prohibited from owning cameras during this time, Kunimoto contends that this rule was not always strictly enforced (135). Separation of families, friends and communities could not be helped. However, Kunimoto explains, "with social interactions geographically impossible, the notion of community was maintained creatively, through memory, oratory and photography" (140). The use of photography to 'home' individuals worked "in conjunction with the social production of space, enabling a sense of control in an insecure environment" (143). These photographs now also serve another purpose; to capture Japanese Canadian histories and to provide a link between the present and the past. The separation of families and communities served to ensure the erasure or distortion of memory. According to Oikawa (2002), the "spatial fragmentation and separation of carceral sites masks the violence of the Internment" (88). Further, "the ability to remember the violence is also affected by the material: how could one person acquire and retain the multiple complexities of the innumerable spaces of loss and separation? Forgetting on the part of Japanese Canadians is evidence of the violence" (Oikawa, 2002, 89). Memories, as alluded to earlier, are far more than personal remembrances, but also fundamentally linked to history or collective memories. According to Schwartz (1982), "recollection of the past is an active, constructive process, not a simple matter of retrieving information. To remember is to place a part of the past in the service of conceptions and needs of the present" (in West, 2002, 214). Thus, the ability to remember a past is vital in framing and understanding the present. Further, memory, both personal and collective, is also intrinsically linked to issues of citizenship. 37 Further, as Oikawa (2002) suggests "spatializing the historical narrative, so that we conceptualize history as not solely about time but also about space" (76) is also crucial. Spatializing history is not only about mapping the many spaces of violence, but also about interrogating the ways in which each particular space contributed to the loss or gain of citizenship and the ways in which these sites were also spaces of resistance. The prisoner-of-war camps and work camps that were home to many Japanese Canadian men were perhaps the most obvious violations to the citizenship rights of Japanese Canadians. There was no attempt to hide these abuses, for "the demonization of Japanese-Canadian men and their spatial separation from women were critical to the government's legitimization of the Internment and promoted its notion that Japanese men were essentially 'different' from white men and inherently dangerous" (Oikawa, 2002, 81). What is less obvious, however, is the ways in which other sites also served to strip Japanese Canadians of their rights. Although these sites were often termed "interior housing centres, self-support communities, road camps,.sugar-beet projects, domestic-service placements ... these descriptors ... mask the violence" (Oikawa, 2002, 88) that was inherent in these sites. It is important to note that the treatment of Japanese Canadians in these sites was not free of violence or coercion, nor were Japanese Canadians free to move about as they pleased. Rather their confinement was, instead, dictated through Orders-in-Council, their own labour,9 by-laws, and hostility. Understanding citizenship as tied to space, as a legal and political construction rooted in hierarchal power relations, helps to interrogate hegemonic sources and uncover the processes by which citizenship was withheld from Japanese Canadians. THE CARCERAL While it is imperative to find the links not only between space in general and citizenship, we must also pay close attention to how carceral spaces inform citizenship. The use of Japanese Canadian men, women and children in the sugar beet projects must be understood as a tool of discipline, surveillance, and confinement. Thus, my research is strongly influenced by Michel 38 Foucault's (1995) work, particularly Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Most importantly, my work hinges on a belief that the carceral can take on less spectacular and conspicuous forms than prisons or other direct forms of confinement. These less obvious forms of confinement, however, are often overlooked and so too, therefore, are the violations of the citizenship rights of those who inhabit these spaces. As Bashford and Strange contend, moving beyond the, generally compartmentalized approach requires the consideration of carceral institutions (the penitentiary, for example), in concert with other forms of coerced segregation that confine without walls or buildings (such as the Native reserve). Furthermore it requires analyzing practices meant to punish and segregate, as well as techniques designed to cure and reintegrate in places of isolation" (2). For this,reason, I examine the carceral as a state of supervision, surveillance, coercion and constraint, rather than as only tied to specific concrete sites. For, indeed, the sugar beet projects meant housing Japanese Canadians in multiple locations over a fairly substantial geographical area. Outside of the sugar beet projects, many carceral spaces in terms of the Japanese Canadian internment were marked by boundaries based on gender, sexuality and able-bodied-ness. Oikawa (2002), for instance, interrogates the ways in which gender and able-bodied-ness played roles in further fragmenting the category of Japanese Canadian. Thus, the experiences of women and elder men, for instance, were very different than those of able-bodied men. Gender and able-bodied-ness influenced how each experienced the internment, as well as the locations to which Japanese Canadians were sent. The Sugar Beet Programme is a notable exception, however. With the exception of Ontario, the Sugar Beet Programmes were one of the few sites where women, children and able-bodied men lived and worked side by side. In most other sites, men worked and lived in male-only sites, and women and children, as well as men who were unable to perform the physically demanding work in work-sites,10 lived together in other sites. 39 In this way, carceral spaces also functioned in the maintenance of the racialized, gendered, sexualized and able-bodied hierarchies inherent in the citizenship project. Figure 2.1 - Ooto, Miki and Hayakawa families in a Manitoba sugar beet Field (photo courtesy of the National Association of Japanese Canadians, Shizuko Miki , used by permission) The many 'self-support' sites, including once abandoned ghost-towns, housed the majority of the women and children incarcerated not through their labour, but through isolation within the nation and through separation from friends and family. Although the amount of labour that was necessary to provide even the basic level of subsistence must have been immense and should not be discounted, much of this labour was often performed with little or no interaction with the outside world. 1 1 What makes the sugar beet projects so unique is that these sites housed men, women and children, whose labour was a condition of their settlement. Therefore, the use of Japanese Canadian men, women and children in the sugar beet projects must be understood as forced or coerced labour. In fact, labour was often a condition of admittance to or settlement in the nation, especially for racialized populations. For instance, as Abu-Laban (1998) contends, "the secure settlement of racialized immigrant minorities and their kin was contingent... on the perceived economic needs of the nation" (71). Chinese labourers 40 who were "recruited to work in the most dangerous jobs during the construction of the Canadian Pacific Railway and received little by way of remuneration" (71) are a case in point. Further, Foucault (1995) states "[fjorced labour is a form of incarceration" (115). He outlines several 12 instances where labour was used as a form of incarceration and/or discipline. Certainly, then, in the case of work camps and the Sugar Beet Programme during World War II, forced labour was used as a form of incarceration. Additionally, Japanese Canadian labour provided a direct benefit to the Alberta and Manitoba communities who were, in many ways, the source of their surveillance. I develop this point in more detail Chapter Four. The disciplining of bodies, often to the point of exhaustion, was an added benefit of this project. Indeed, the need to discipline bodies is inherent in the carceral project. As Foucault (1995) argues "discipline is no longer simply an art of distributing bodies, of extracting time from them and accumulating it, but of composing forces in order to obtain an efficient machine" (164). This required docile bodies, which could be (re)formed into efficient machines. Foucault (1995) explains that the making of docile bodies often meant the control of activity through, among other things, time-tables and exhaustion. The time-table as a tool of discipline involved "three great methods - establish rhythms, impose particular occupations, regulate the cycles of repetition" (149). Further, "discipline ... arranges a positive economy; it poses the principle of a theoretically ever-growing use of time: exhaustion rather than use; it is a question of extracting, from time, ever more available moments, and, from each moment, ever more useful forces" (154). The type of the work that was done in the sugar beet project was exhaustive and highly repetitive, both in terms of the daily work, and in terms of the seasonal repetition of planting and harvesting, contributing to the manufacturing of docile bodies. As Taylor (2004) explains, digging up heavy beets, to whose roots clung large quantities of soil, was back-breaking work quite unsuitable for the elderly or for most women. It was particularly demanding on low lying farms where the soil was damp and families had to labour from dawn to 41 dusk in order to gain any sort of living. The work was especially unrelenting in the fall when there was a need to harvest the beets as quickly as possible before the advent of the first frost. One family toiled from early morning until dark while grandmother looked after their babies. At the end of each day they were totally exhausted (67). Further, the labour must also be located within a capitalist framework; it, therefore, required maximum efficiency to the point of exhaustion. In these ways, labour was used as a form of discipline. Exhaustion can also be understood as an organic way of chaining the body to its site of incarceration, as well as a tool for stemming resistance. As I explained previously, the surveillance of bodies took the form of national, citizenry surveillance. Constructed as a threat to national security, Japanese Canadians were always under scrutiny. This scrutiny, combined 13 with the exhaustion of these 'inmates,' offered as much security as barbed wire and policed boundaries. These points will be further elaborated in Chapter Four and Five of this thesis. In these chapters, I build on and link these key concepts, citizenship, history and the carceral. According to Oikawa (2002), the spaces of the Japanese Canadian internment were characterized by their "numerous heterogeneous carceral sites scattered across the country" (79). While some were confined behind barbed wire fences, many others were confined through the use of more subtle techniques of surveillance, discipline, and incarceration. This multiplicity of space and technique provides not only for the possibility of numerous sites of entry for study, but also provides us with an understanding of "the capacity of exclusionary practices to hold several meanings at once" (Bashford and Strange, 2003, 9). For instance, while "the aim to protect or improve officially justified coercive exclusion, unspeakable rationales, which cut right across liberal principles of freedom, also governed institutions and places of isolation" (Bashford and Strange, 2003, 9). Japanese Canadians experienced a loss, not only of their homes, livelihoods and many possessions, but also of their freedom and their citizenship. Interrogating the ways in which space and time are tools of the carceral can help aid in understanding the formation of narratives and constructions of citizenship which excluded Japanese Canadians. 42 Citizenship is constantly undergoing a process of definition and redefinition. It is constructed through law, but also enacted and enforced by the law. The War Measures Act, for instance, informed the renunciation of citizenship of Japanese Canadians as well as enforced it through various spatial enactments, including the dispossession, dislocation and relocation of Japanese Canadians. Further, the economic sphere also informed citizenship. The use of Japanese Canadians as coerced or forced labour was one way of excluding Japanese Canadians from the nation, while at the same time economically benefiting those who were considered full citizens. The seizure of their land and the subsequent disposal of it to the economic advantage of their 'white' neighbors, further underscores who was considered to be a citizen and who was not. The anti-Asian sentiment exhibited prior to the war, as well as during it, was also evidence of how 'whiteness' was equated with citizenship. Finally, the internment not only dispossessed many Japanese Canadians of their lands and belongings, but also of their memories. These memories are rooted in the many locations of the internment and it is through an interrogation of these spaces that we can see their remnants. According to Bashford and Strange (2003), "institutional and non-institutional practices of isolation derive their meanings from the geography and social use of sites. They involve place-making - the rendering of certain spaces into undesirable zones of exclusion, or into enclosed sites of confinement and incarceration" (10). These sites are neither neutral, nor are they unchanging. These 'zones of exclusion' change both in their physicality and in their social meanings over time. Thus, this thesis looks specifically at two 'zones of exclusion', in Alberta and Manitoba in order to understand how they were constructed to both incorporate and exclude Japanese Canadians. The ties between carceral spaces, citizenship and history, therefore, must be recognized. Historical context is especially important in understanding, not only the locales of exclusion, but also the meanings inherent in them. The ability to remember, and to locate those memories in 43 the nationalist discourses of Canada is not a luxury that should be afforded to some at the expense of others. To claim citizenship in a nation necessitates a feeling of "deep horizontal comradeship" (Anderson, 1991, 7). The community that Anderson speaks of may prevail because of this conception of nation as comradeship. However, for others, membership in it is always uncertain because of it. For many, this comradeship is rooted deeply in the stories of their ancestors, as told in our history books. These are the stories that provide the fodder for meaning making and nation-building. For those who stand outside of this history, however, citizenship is always less certain, its roots never quite so deep. The sugar beet fields of Alberta and Manitoba, once carceral sites, are now seemingly benign and empty of meaning. However, these fields are filled with the silent memories of thousands of Japanese Canadians. What drove my father to stop by the side of the road cannot fully be explained by his need to provide us with an understanding of the organic roots of sugar. I believe that it was the rooted memories that called to him that caused him to stop. His need to connect those memories to the present was fulfilled, at least in some small part, by his brief explanation of sugar beets to his two young children. Many more memories lie beneath the soil of those fields. While some may never be uncovered, it is only through an understanding of these locations, both historical and spatial, that we can begin to link the past to the present and provide a space for locating our memories within the Canadian context. METHODOLOGY The two papers I examine in this study are the Calgary Herald and the Winnipeg Free Press. These newspapers represent the two largest cities in the areas that were involved in the Sugar Beet Programme. Although resettlement did not take place within the cities themselves, the choice of these two papers was based on two factors. First, one of my goals was to gain an understanding of the ways in which Japanese Canadians were framed both in areas where they were sent, as well as in the areas that rejected the importation of Japanese Canadian labour. 44 Choosing newspapers in these larger centres ensured that I would be able to access articles relating to these larger cities, as well as the smaller communities surrounding them. Secondly, I felt that by choosing larger newspapers, I would also be able to better capture larger, more nationalistic concerns. This certainly seemed to be borne out by the variation that I saw between these newspapers. The newspaper analysis is focused on a period of twelve months (February 1, 1942-January 31, 1943). An examination of this period uncovered the ways in which Japanese Canadians were represented in Manitoba and in Southern Alberta, prior to the announcement of the Sugar Beet Programme, as well as in light of the Sugar Beet Programme announcement and subsequent implementation. The program was announced on March 28, 1942 and by June of the same year was fully implemented. I began my study with the period two months prior to the announcement, in order to gain an understanding of how Japanese Canadians were framed prior to their arrival in these provinces as well as during the negotiations between the provinces and the British Columbia Security Commission. Further, 1 have extended it until the end of January, 1943 in order to allow for a greater understanding of how Japanese Canadians were being framed once work and settlement had begun. Although many Japanese Canadians continued to labour on sugar beet farms well past the end of the war 1 4, according to Sunahara (1981), it was claimed by the Manitoba Japanese Joint Committee that the "original beet contracts had covered only the 1942 crop year, [and that] they contended that Japanese Canadians were under no obligation to continue in beet work in 1943" (83). Given that in Manitoba Japanese Canadians were allowed to leave the farms in early 1943, my study concludes its analysis of January, 1943. This thesis adopts the use of discourse analysis as a tool for understanding historical discourses, not only from a theoretical (abstract) perspective, but also from one that understands the importance of the practical (material) 'effects' of such discourses. Discourse analysis has become the focus of many books, both in terms of theory and in terms of method. Arising ' 4 5 largely out of the work of Michel Foucault, it has become a popular method of doing research spanning many disciplines. More than a singular method, discourse analysis is perhaps more correctly understood as many methods. The methods are distinguished not only by their disciplinary differences, but also by their theoretical of ideological ones. While much has been written, for instance, on literary discourse analysis, which focuses primarily on semiotics,15 the focus here is on methods that are more specific to the social sciences. Valverde (1991) explains that "insofar as the ultimate and often forgotten interest of critical social theory is to change the world being interpreted, the discourse analysis of critical social theory has to give pride of place to the relations between discursive practices and the practical subjectivities of those who produce and/or consume discourses" (177). Thus, the most effective method for implementing discourse analysis was assessed by three important criteria. First, it was important that any method I chose was compatible with my own stance as a researcher; specifically that it worked well with a feminist, anti-racist approach to doing research. Second, it was also imperative that the method lend itself well to an analysis of historical documents. Third, and related closely to the second criterion, was that the method must be one that understood discourses and ideology as neither neutral nor static. Based on the above criteria, I adopted critical discourse analysis as the method for my research. However, no model can produce an ideal template for every project, so I have chosen to incorporate additional theories in order to customize my methodology. Given that there are many schools of thought regarding what discourse is, and therefore the best way to carry out discourse analysis, it is important to determine just what is meant here by discourse. I will be using a definition used by Henry and Tator (2002) in their book Discourses of Domination: Racial Bias in the Canadian English-Language Press. They contend that discourse "is the way in which language is used socially to convey broad historical meanings. It is the language identified by the social conditions of its use, by who is using it and under what conditions ... 46 [and that] it can never be totally free from the sociocultural influences and economic interests in which it was produced and disseminated" (Henry and Tator, 25). Further, discursive formation is the "totality of ordered relations and correlations of subjects to each other and to objects; of economic production and reproduction; of cultural symbols and signification; of laws and moral rules; and of social, political, economic or legal inclusion or exclusion" (Henry and Tator, 26) Jorgenson and Phillips (2002) offer some key premises of discourse analysis that are helpful in understanding all of the approaches to discourse analysis. These four premises are: that discourse analysis is a "critical approach to taken-for-granted knowledge" (5), that this approach take into account the "historical and cultural specificity" (5) of discourse, that there is a "link between knowledge and social process" and that there is also a "link between knowledge and social action" (6). Critical discourse analysis understands discourse as forming a dialectical relationship with the social world. Further, it views discourse as "just one among many aspects of any social practice" (Jorgenson and Phillips, 2002, 7). Critical discourse analysis, therefore strives to understand the relationship between both the concrete material world and the abstract discursive world. The model of critical discourse analysis that Jorgenson and Phillips (2002) describe is based largely on a model created by Norman Fairclough. This model is distinct in its three-dimensional approach to discourse analysis. Within this model, discourse is understood as having three purposes or effects. Firstly, it contributes to the "construction of social identities" (Jorgenson and Phillips, 2002, 65). Secondly, it contributes to the construction of social relations (Jorgenson and Phillips, 2002, 65). Lastly, it contributes to "systems of knowledge and meaning" (Jorgenson and Phillips, 2002, 65). It is the goal of critical discourse analysis to attend to the ways in which the discursive, in this case in its material form, plays a role in this construction. Discourse cannot be seen as separate from the individual (and her/his agency), the social world (and its structures) or the ideological one that often serves to connect the two. As 47 Fairclough (2000) contends, "social science should include theories and analyses of both structure and action, and of their interconnection. Social analysis based upon social practices and positions constitutes a theoretically coherent and methodologically effective focus for social research precisely because it allows structure and action to be brought into connection" (42). It is precisely this melding of analysis on structure and agency that I find so appealing in my own work. The first feature that Jorgenson and Phillips (2002) address is that "the character of social and cultural processes and structures is partly linguistic-discursive" (61). In other words, both the production and the consumption of texts are seen as part of the social and cultural practices which shape everyday life. This supports my own belief that ideology is neither neutral nor static. Ideology, instead, is embedded in social and cultural practices. As these practices change or evolve, so also do the ideologies that frame discourses. These discourses, therefore, shape the everyday lives of individuals through the shaping of "social identities and social relations" (Jorgenson and Phillips, 2002, 61). Henry and Tator (2002) concur, explaining that "ideology does not simply make sense of society; it also regulates social practices. ... Ideology constitutes a baseline that various groups in a heterogeneous society apply when framing their attitudes and organizing means and strategies to further their own ideals, goals, and interests" (Henry and Tator, 2002, 20). Further, they contend that discourses "are always changing. Dominant discourse is not a single process, nor is it monolithic, static, or unitary; rather, it represents a plurality of discourses that constitute a field ofpossible meanings'" (Henry and Tator, 2002, emphasis in original, 26). In my own research, therefore, it is vital that I examine not only the discourses themselves, but how the production of these discourses served to shape social meaning and identities. The second feature that Jorgenson and Phillips (2002) present is that "discourse is both constitutive and constituted" (61). Not only does discourse shape social meaning and identities, 48 it is also shaped by the social world. This feature was an extremely important one in influencing my decision to choose critical discourse analysis as my method. When attending to historical documents it is extremely important to understand historical contexts. We cannot simply apply an analysis of how social identities and practices would have been shaped by the texts that were produced without an understanding of how these texts were also produced by social forces and contexts that are uniquely historical. For example, in the case of the newspaper accounts of Japanese Canadians during World War II, we cannot simply understand these accounts as opinions or attitudes of particular (and often powerful) people. We must also understand them as closely reflecting and reflected in larger national discourses, in this case both economic and security discourses. These discourses are further framed by the social and political realities of this historical period, especially the prevalence of structural racism and the ongoing reality of war. This feature relates very closely, then, to the next feature. The third feature of critical discourse analysis is that "language use should be empirically analyzed within its social context" (Jorgenson and Phillips, 2002, 63). Discourse analysis such as the type encouraged by Laclau and Mouffe contend that discourses have the power to shape social meaning. The importance of this understanding is crucial. However, the focus on the power of discourses can often lead one to ignore the power of the social world in framing these discourses. Understanding how national and local discourses in the 1940s were carried out cannot be understood, for instance, as the same as the way that national and local discourses are carried out today. Although similarities would be sure to emerge in a comparative study of past and present, it is important to be mindful of the different social contexts that shaped the discourses in the 1940s. We cannot dismiss the everyday-ness or normality of racism as playing a critical role in the framing of these discourses. As shocking as some of these racist discourses may be today, we cannot impose our own 'political correctness' on the readers and writers of the 49 past. Social context plays a very important role, therefore, in the analysis of historical documents such as these. The fourth feature of critical discourse is concerned with the nature of ideology. In particular, Jorgenson and Phillips (2002) contend that it is important to understand that there are ideological effects embedded in discourse. Discursive practices "contribute to the creation and reproduction of unequal power relations between social groups -for example, between social classes, women and men, ethnic minorities and the majority" (Jorgenson and Phillips, 2002, 64). It is my contention that by attending to ways in which discourse plays a role in the reproduction of unequal power relations that we can come to understand the role that language plays in the reproduction of racism. Understanding this reproduction is especially important when working with discourses found in newspapers, given the wide-spread distribution of them. According to van Dijk (2000), "media discourse is the main source of people's knowledge, attitudes and ideologies, both of other elites and of ordinary citizens" (36). Understanding racism in news media, therefore, is of critical importance. In my own work, examining how this reproduction of unequal power relations takes place is of primary importance. In fact, understanding racist discourse as being embedded in national discourses, both economic and security, is crucial in understanding how these discourses reflected and shaped the economic realities and freedoms of Japanese Canadian people during World War II. Further, understanding the unequal power relations as multi-dimensional is equally important. As a feminist researcher, it is important to acknowledge that power relations based on race, gender, class and sexuality do not occur in isolation from each other. For this reason, it is important that my choice of discourse analytic approach acknowledges the importance of intersectional theorizing. According to Stasiulis (1999), this type of theorizing understands "the social reality of women and men, and the dynamics of their social, cultural, economic, and political contexts to be multiply, simultaneously, and interactively determined by various 50 significant axes of social organization (emphasis in original, 347). Further, these axes include, but are not limited to "ethnicity, colonialism, imperialism, nationalism, sexuality, religion, language, culture, citizenship, and disability" (350). It is my intention, then, to understand not only how Japanese Canadians were framed in terms of their 'race', but in particular how they were also "multiply, simultaneously and interactively" (347) framed in terms of nationalism, citizenship, sexuality, class, and gender. Understanding the importance of these 'ideological effects' of discursive practices is crucial. However, understanding is never enough. As a feminist, anti-racist researcher, it is imperative that my research moves beyond the theoretical and that it is committed to social change. The last feature of critical discourse analysis that Jorgenson and Phillips (2002) acquaint us with is that discourse analysis must be critical research. In other words, this type of research does not "understand itself as politically neutral ... but as a critical approach which is politically committed to social change" (64). As mentioned previously, it is my belief that my research, while located temporally in the past has lasting effects that permeate into the present. History, what counts as history and who has the right to tell it, can never be understood as neutral. Adding to the historical record, therefore, is part of my commitment to social change. As a Sansei (third generation Japanese Canadian), I know that this historical exclusion was not inconsequential. In fact, the invisibility of the internment served to shape my personal understanding of who my father was. I had no context from which to understand his seventh grade education, nor any way to understand the importance of his choice to relocate to British Columbia after many years of living in Southern Alberta. Indeed, like many Japanese Canadians who refused to relocate back to British Columbia, my father did not leave Alberta until 30 years after the War Measures Act had dictated his family's relocation. However, when he did eventually return to British Columbia in 1972, he brought our family not to the city of his birth, but instead to the Interior of British Columbia, ironically, still outside of the once forbidden 51 zone. My father never spoke of the relocation of his own family, nor the conditions that led to his 'working sugar beets' when he was a teenager. It was, therefore, not my naivete that led me to believe this to be a summer job, a choice, or perhaps a sacrifice to help out his family. It was a powerful omission in the history books that contributed to the distortion of my understanding of my own family history. It is in part to correct this omission and in hopes of discouraging similar omissions that I have chosen this project. Therefore, my research is not neutral, but driven by many political and personal motives. The political importance of the relationship between the past and the historical present also became apparent in the Japanese Canadian struggle for redress. As Mik i (2004) has shown in his recent book, Redress, Inside the Japanese Canadian Call for Justice, history can, indeed, be used as a political tool both to exclude, as well as to resolve past injustices. In addition, understanding the relationship between the national discourses of exclusions that were seen in the media in the 1940s and present day discourses can also help us to understand how equally destructive these discursive practices are today. In the years following the events of September 11, 2001, the media has played an increasingly central role in framing issues around nationalism and citizenship. As Thobani (2003) points out, "the institutionalization of racial profiling in the wake of September 11, and the targeting of immigrants and refugees within Canada and the United States as a threat to the nation's security, especially of those who 'look' like Muslims" (402) follows from racialized discourses dividing people into an 'us' and a 'them'. These current examples are important in understanding the political relevance of understanding the consequences of such discourses on visible minority people who have often already lived a lifetime of exclusion from full citizenship. The focus of my own work centers on the notion that the discursive plays an integral role in perpetuating social inequalities and that it is through a greater understanding of how these discursive narratives are employed, that we can then disrupt these narratives and bring about 52 social change. Focusing on how discourse is constitutive, how it shapes the social world, is an important task. However, it is equally important to understand discourses as being constituted by individuals, in the service of those individuals. Critical discourse analysis lends itself well to both of these important issues. In addition, my own work focuses largely on grand narratives such as nationalist narratives, but is also mindful that these narratives are employed not only at the national level, but also at the local, everyday level, and consequently have material effects at the individual and community levels. This bridging of the gap between the material and the discursive is something that is also accomplished well by critical discourse analysis. In addition to using critical discourse analysis as a model for my own work, a second model that I believe can compliment Fairclough's model is a "critical linguistics" (Menz, 1989, 228) model. According to Menz (1989), this model, developed by Habermas, includes two dimensions, it "must first of all be self-reflective and secondly, it must consider the historical life-context in which linguistic and social interactions take place" (228, emphasis in original). Both of these dimensions are important in my own work. As a feminist, I believe that self-reflexivity1 6 is not only beneficial to the research, but is essential from an ethical standpoint. As Menz (1989) contends, research does "not take place in a vacuum, in an ivory tower so to speak, it is shaped by interests, and also by the scholar's own interests" (228, emphasis in original). Therefore, any discourse analysis must acknowledge the standpoint of the researcher as a critical component in deciding what questions to ask, what answers are important and whose voice gets heard. The notion of the invisible, unbiased researcher is not one that can co-exist with my own standpoint as a feminist anti-racist scholar. Menz (1989) also contends that in addition to the importance of self-reflexivity is also the importance of historical life-context. Research, according to Menz (1989) "must be conscious of the fact that the social rules and social context which it analyzes are historically grown and not given by nature. They are derived from a life-context and must be interpreted within their historical development" (229, 53 emphasis in original). While Fairclough's model attends to the importance of the social and cultural context of discourses, it does not specifically deal with historical context, which I believe affects both the social and cultural context immeasurably. Thus, critical linguistics can aid us in understanding the importance of acknowledging that both the researcher and the researched occupy socially and historically constructed positions and that these positions influence the final research and should thus be made visible. My own research combines both of these modes to provide a study of two spatially distinct (geographic) areas - Manitoba and Alberta. These two areas were chosen because of their participation in the Sugar Beet Programme, as well as because of the similarities and differences between the two areas. I have chosen to examine newspapers, as I believe that they have the ability to not only transmit 'nationalist' ideals, but also to reflect commonly held ideals within a society. In this way, these texts are viewed as active. As Smith (1990) explains, the active text "might be thought of as more like a crystal which bends the light as it passes through. The text itself is to be seen as organizing a course of concerted social action" (121). Thus, news shapes social action through its transmission of national values. Additionally, it is important to consider that while newspapers transmit 'national values', they are at the same time reflective of a certain type of national values. The news 1 7 is not neutral reporting of the facts, but instead is, itself a social construction. The transformation of a news event into a news story, for instance, is shaped by what Tuchman (1978) describes as reflexivity and indexicality (189). Reflexivity specifies that accounts are embedded in the very realty that they characterize, record, or structure. Indexicality specifies that in using accounts (terms, utterances, or stories), social actors may attribute meanings to them apart from the context in which those accounts are produced and processed... Both reflexivity and indexicality are integral components of the transformation of occurrences into news events (189). In terms of indexicality, then, it is imperative that we not only understand that social actors who are creating news reports are influenced by their own values and beliefs but that these social actors are also located within powerful social institutions. Newspapers are both reflective of the 54 hierarchies of power within society and embedded within them. In fact, as Herman and Chomsky (1988) argue, despite the severing of the state from mass-media, "money and power are able to filter out the news fit to print, marginalize dissent, and allow the government and dominant private interests to get their messages across to the public" (2). This is true at the level of both national and local newspapers. However, it is the local newspaper that concerns us here. My choice of local newspapers, as opposed to national newspapers, was based on my belief that local newspapers are particularly sensitive to the types of discourses I examine here. It is my belief that 'nationalist' and citizenship discourses are employed, not only in national terms but also in local, spatially bounded terms of inclusion and exclusion. It is at the local level that these discourses often have the most practical consequences, and thus it is at this level that I have chosen to focus my study. In terms of the newspaper analysis, I engage in a critical analysis, which at times includes a comparative study of the two spatially distinct (geographic) areas. The newspaper accounts in these areas were examined for their content, with special attention to narratives that portray Japanese Canadians as situated both within and outside of citizenship narratives. These contradictions will be explored in greater depth in my discussion, for instance, of narratives of patriotism and duty, as well as of discursive constructions regarding labour and nation building. 55 NOTES FOR CHAPTER TWO 1 See for instance Tuhiwai Smith (1999, 53) and Stanley (2000, 83) for more on this discussion. 2 See Anderson (1983). 3 These racialized, gendered, sexualized and able-bodied hierarchies have been documented in the work of many scholars. Many authors, such as Yuval-Davis (1999), Anthias and Yuval-Davis, (1996), Ng (1993) and Fine and Weis (1998) have examined the interconnections within these hierarchies. Fine and Weis (1998), for instance provide evidence of race, gender and class hierarchies in their study of the lives of urban, working class young adults. For examples of contemporary work that documents racial hierarchies see also Mawani (2002) and Lawrence (2002). These hierarchies are also evident in critical analyses of whiteness, such as that done by Bourgeois (2004) and Schick (1994: 2002). For a discussion of sexualized hierarchies, see Ross' (1998) discussion of the colonization and subsequent attempts at de-colonization of sexuality. 4 See, for instance, Palmer (1982) for a discussion of the treatment of German and Italian Canadians in Alberta. 5 They show, for instance, how the church worked in conjunction with the state to regulate citizens in terms of (French) national identity (30-33) as well as how moral regulation was enforced through the use of missionaries (43-48). 6 It must be acknowledged that while many Japanese Canadians were simultaneously excluded from and incarcerated within the Canadian nation, others were being expelled from it. For some, there was little choice, while for others, the choice was limited, remain an alien within the borders or be expelled from them. Homeless within or homeless without were the only choices offered. 7 By identify, I am referring not only to the ability of the government to identify Japanese Canadians as threats and therefore outsiders to the Canadian nation, but also to the ability of the government to shape the identity of Japanese Canadians both in terms of how they were perceived from the outside and in many ways how they ultimately perceived themselves. Q It is impossible to know for sure whether Japanese Canadians did indeed internalize these powerful discourses. However, throughout this paper, I attempt to theorize an internalization of power and regulation as a way to provide an alternative explanation to existing discussions which have explained the lack of Japanese Canadian resistance through the universalizing of traits such as passivity to the entire Japanese Canadian population. 9 See for instance Oikawa (2002) who adopts the Foucauldian definition of confinement to include forced labour. 1 0 Oikawa (2002) explains that these men, often elders in the communities, were emasculated through this process. "Separating men who could not labour in the work camps for reasons of disability was a way to mark them as 'dependents' and emasculate them within this hierarchy" (85). 1 1 See, for instance, Adachi's chapter called "Exile", as well as Oikawa's (2002) discussion of the various sites including Slocan City, Tashme, and Roseberry. 12 See for instance, Foucault (1995), Part Two, Chapter 2 and Part Three, Chapters 1 and 2. 1 3 The use of'scare quotes' around terms such as 'inmates' or 'prisoners' is used as an indication of my own political choice to adopt a language that reflects what I believe are the carceral 56 aspects of the Sugar Beet Programme. This is not to imply that Japanese Canadian men, women and children who worked in these areas would identify as inmates or prisoners, nor to impose such an identity upon them. To do so would be shortsighted as well as unethical in light of the fact that no interviews were done in this study. 1 4 See Adachi (1991) and Sunahara (1981) for instance. 1 5 See Valverde (1991, 174-177) for more on the distinctions between semiotics of literary discourse analysis and social discourse analysis. 1 6 According to Ramazanoglu and Holland (2002), reflexivity "covers varying attempts to unpack what knowledge is contingent upon, how the researchers is socially situated, and how the research agenda/process has been constituted" (118). 1 7 While I use the word 'news' here, my analysis does not focus exclusively on news reports, but also on other seemingly less 'objective' forms of reporting as seen in editorials or letters to the editor, for instance. 1 8 By practical, I am referring to the types of consequences that affect that the 'practical' realms of the everyday lives of people in their everyday locations. 57 Chapter Three: Literature Review My research builds upon both Canadian internment literature and American internment literature. Within this scholarship, three distinct bodies of literature exist. The first body of literature was written prior to 1988 and often takes the form of documentary, realist, autobiographical or fictional literature. Much of this literature was written in order to corroborate and authenticate claims for redress. The second, more recent body of literature was written after the redress of 1988 and deals primarily with the redress movement. The third body of literature is also post-redress, but offers much more critical scholarship regarding the internment period. Although there are certainly areas of overlap, especially in the post-redress period, it is useful to address these three bodies of literature as at least somewhat distinct from each other. PRE-REDRESS LITERATURE Pre-redress literature was largely written during the period from 1977 until 1988. This time period is significant as it begins with the 100-year anniversary of Japanese 'settlement' in Canada in 1977, and ends shortly after the government redress and apology in 1988. Much of the academic work written during this time was done so in an attempt to correct a glaring absence of Japanese Canadians in Canadian history. These earlier works tend to be much more descriptive and linear in their accounts of the internment. They tend to be ordered sequentially and while peppered with first hand accounts, also tend to be based on 'facts' that have been uncovered in government documents or other 'official' sources such as newspapers. Perhaps the three most widely cited books in Japanese Canadian scholarship are Ken Adachi's (1991) The Enemy That Never Was: A History of the Japanese Canadians, Ann Sunahara's (1981) The Politics of Racism: The Uprooting of Japanese Canadians During the Second World War and The Japanese Canadians: A Dream of Riches which was published by The Japanese Canadian Centennial Project.1 This type of literature arose out of and in response to a very specific historical context. 58 McAllister (1999) explains that when "Japanese Canadians mobilized to demand redress they realized that it was politically necessary to write themselves into the nation's public sphere" (88). According to McAllister, the aforementioned books were written in response to this need, resulting in "chronologically mapped" (88) accounts. This narrative, while serving a specific purpose, also has serious ramifications: Japanese Canadians were forced to frame their internment and exile in terms defined by the government. At a semiotic level, this meant narrating themselves into the Canadian nation and embracing the narrative of assimilation, a narrative specific to the modern nation which requires a standardized, homogeneous population. This narrative represses the violence Japanese Canadians experienced by making it comprehensible within a logic of cause and effect. While the narrative works to erase the cultural specificity of Japanese Canadians, it also reifies what is represented as their immutable differences: marks of their otherness" (98). The narratives of this period, then, while imperative to the redress process, were not without cost. Very little could be said that discounted or contradicted these assimilationist citizenship narratives and thus these texts tended toward documentary, rather than critical, accounts. Adachi's book is written largely as a journalistic work. Himself a journalist and survivor of the Japanese internment camps, Adachi tells the history of Japanese Canadians as comprehensively and 'objectively' as possible in one single text. The editor's own words reflect the dictated positionality of the author: "[the authors of this series of books] have been asked to give, as much as possible, an insider's view of what the immigrant and ethnic experiences were like at different periods of time, but yet at the same time to be as objective as possible, and not simply to present the group as it sees itself, or as it would like to be seen" (viii). Thus, it is not surprising that this book includes a thirteen page bibliography, including two pages of 'public documents', over four pages of 'articles and pamphlets', as well as a page and a half of 'unpublished sources' (453-466). Much of Adachi's work was based on archival research with documents that had never before been made public. While the book is balanced by many 59 Japanese voices, the vast majority of Adachi's 'official' sources seem to represent the dominant hegemonic voice. As the title suggests, Adachi's text was written "to set forth the historical record and to trace the manner in which the evacuation policy came to be formulated" (xiii). What is of particular interest here is Adachi's focus on not only the internment, but also on the links between it and a long history of racism that preceded it. The text begins, in fact, with a chapter entitled "First Contacts," which describes not only the first accounts of Japanese immigration to Canada, but also describes a number of 'discovery' narratives that preceded this immigration by a century (11). His next seven chapters provide detailed accounts of the racism faced by Japanese Canadians that informed and contributed to what Adachi calls "The Time Of Decision," which resulted in the evacuation, dispossession, relocation, and sometimes repatriation of British Columbia's Japanese Canadian population. This ninth chapter, as well as the six that follow it, deals specifically with the terms and consequences of the invocation of the War Measures Act in 1942. While this book is an invaluable documentary resource, one that I draw upon heavily, in fact, perhaps its greatest shortcoming comes from its own historical context. Written during a period in Canadian history when Japanese Canadians were actively seeking redress, this book had an important mandate: to provide a comprehensive history on which to base redress claims. Thus, while this book contributes much in terms of the breadth of this subject, depth of analysis is often sacrificed at the expense of providing such a comprehensive history. Sunahara's text, like Adachi's, is also fairly documentary in nature but some notable differences are apparent. Sunahara's focus is much narrower than Adachi's. She focuses specifically on the period beginning with the 1941 decision to uproot Japanese Canadians, although in her conclusion she does address some of the precursors to this decision, and ends with the Bird Commission in 1950. Her decision to focus specifically on this nine year period, results in a much more detailed account regarding the many sites of the internment. However, 60 accounts of each site are very limited. The sugar beet projects, for instance, comprise only eight pages of this 169-page text. Additionally, due to Sunahara's more focused approach, she is able to incorporate interviews as well. These interviews help to provide a vital human balance for the more documentary sources. This balance is also created in The Japanese Canadians: A Dream of Riches, although through a much different technique. The Japanese Canadians: A Dream of Riches is an interesting compilation of pictures, interspersed with numerous voices, laid neatly and orderly in a time-linear fashion. Each voice and story is written first in English, then Japanese, and finally in French. It is a history that was compiled by the Japanese Canadian Centennial Project Committee, which boasts thirty-eight contributors. It is this multiplicity of voices and perspectives that give this book a human dimension, while the 'facts' and photographs provide a more documentary dimension. This book, a beautiful combination of sepia tinged photos, government 'facts' and statistics and reminiscences, is a wonderful history of 100 years of settlement in Canada. This book, unlike Adachi's and Sunahara's texts, provides a fairly superficial and much more subjective accounting of Japanese Canadian history. Each of these books has been extremely useful for providing a historical backdrop for this research project. The comprehensive histories that are to be found in each of these texts have provided not only a starting point for my own work, but also the motivation to begin. While each of these texts includes brief, and often overlapping, descriptions of the sugar beet project, they tell me very little about the conversations that were taking place during the negotiations between Alberta, Manitoba and the British Columbia Security Commission. Additionally, they do not provide any analysis of the complexities of relocating a population deemed to be a security threat to these other provinces, nor do they address the varying motivations that drove those in favour, as well as those opposed to the relocation. While I have drawn extensively on these works for providing a historical framework, my goal was to examine the many contradictory and opposing discourses, in order to 61 contextualize the sugar beet farms as complex sites of disfranchisement, coercion and incarceration. REDRESS LITERATURE The second body of literature, redress literature, also draws extensively on the pre-redress literature. Examples include Mik i and Kobayashi's (1991) Justice In Our Time: The Japanese Canadian Redress Settlement, Omatsu's (1992) Bittersweet Passage: Redress and the Japanese Canadian Experience, and most recently, Miki 's (2004) Redress: Inside the Japanese Canadian Call for Justice. The major distinction between these this body of literature and pre-redress literature is the focus. This second set of literature focuses on the movement for Japanese Canadian compensation. Each of these texts is written after redress was realized in 1988. The similarities between these books and earlier texts are found in the historical accountings of the evacuation, relocation, dispossession and deportation of Japanese Canadians. However, in many ways, these texts are also attempts to move beyond whispered remembrances of the past. While the early books broke the silence that surrounded Japanese Canadian experiences, they were, in many ways, only one step in a journey toward healing and justice. The books that followed redress are in many ways both a celebration of this journey, and a description of it. The first book to be written in this body of literature was Miki and Kobayashi's book. According to the authors, Justice in Our Time is a "chronological documentation of the NAJC's campaign, from its beginnings to its resolution on September 22, 1988" (12). It seeks not only to tell the story of the political struggle for justice, but also the struggle to break the silence that surrounded the treatment of Japanese Canadians during World War II. This book reiterates much of the same history told by earlier scholars such as Sunahara (1981) and Adachi (1991). However, this book also documents the involvement of three generations (Issei, Nisei and Sansei) of Japanese Canadians who participated in the redress movement. Although chronological, rather than taking a purely linear approach, this book documents the movement 62 for redress by examining the contributions of several key players, including prominent individuals and several organized groups. The text is interspersed with many images, photographs, personal narratives and excerpts from newspapers. Through this collage of voices and perspectives, this book outlines not only the solidarity that took place within and between these individuals and groups, but also summarizes many of the disagreements and dissent within these groups. Further, the authors document not only the multiple successes, but also the failures that paved the way for the 1988 settlement. Although the format of Omatsu's (1992) book is very different than that of Miki and Kobayashi, much of the story is the same. Omatsu also documents the events that followed the invoking of the War Measures Act in 1942. However, her documentation is much different than the standard histories that precede it. She tells the stories of Japanese internment by telling the stories of numerous Japanese Canadians, many of whom went on to play major roles in the redress movement. The portion of the book that deals specifically with the redress movement is told through the use of both personal narrative in some places, for the author herself was one of the key figures in the movement, and a more journalistic approach in others, describing the efforts of other key players, as well as of the National Association of Japanese Canadians (NAJC), a group which proved to be "a small but irritating thorn stuck in the government's side" (161). Omatsu's book celebrates the successful redress movement, but also adds a critical component by not only documenting the movement, but additionally examining the consequences of the movement on the Japanese Canadian communities. She explains that "redress was a form of recuperation and of exorcism" (171), as well as of healing. However, she also examines her own disappointment that stemmed from many of the initial goals which remained, and still remain, unfulfilled. One of the aspirations of the NAJC, for instance was to "forever rid the land of the War Measures Act and its replacement, the son of the W M A , now called the Emergency Procedures Act" (173). As evidenced by recent post-9/11 government 63 policies, similar acts, such as the Anti-Terrorism Act (Bill C-36) are still being used to violate the rights of Canadian citizens. Miki 's book, Redress: Inside the Japanese Canadian Call for Justice, followed the early works on redress by over a decade. His goal in this book was to "re-enter the history of the movement and to ground this history in the rich body of archival sources I had accumulated on the mass uprooting of Japanese Canadians and their decades-long efforts to articulate their responses to that catastrophic event" (xiii). Although the story of the redress movement had already been documented, in his and Kobayashi's earlier work, Miki wanted to write a more "'unofficial' story of the redress movement" (xiii), as it is his contention that this earlier work reflected "the perspective of the N A J C " (xiii) rather than his own. Thus, this book is far more critical, dealing with such issues as the role that racialization played in the "shaping of the Canadian nation" (xiii). To this end, Mik i uses "archival documents, journals, letters, interviews, tapes, studies of Japanese Canadians, critical theory and even memory" to not only tell the story of claims for redress, but also to help us understand the ways that this movement shaped and continues to shape the lives of Japanese Canadians. In his chapter entitled "Constructing a Redress Identity," for instance, Miki discusses how the redress movement brought to the surface memories that had, for many, lain dormant for years. Mik i argues that events that acted as a precursor to the redress campaign were crucial in not only shaping the identity of the movement itself, but also of shaping personal identities as well (241-267). In sharing memories, people were able to consider the common threads among them in the seemingly infinite variations. It was here that the connections between the personal and the social, the individual and the collective, could become the medium of another identity - what I would call a 'redress identity' - produced through the language of redress in the NAJC (253). These links that Mik i provides between the individual and the collective are links that I also strive to provide in my own work. 64 The redress literature documents a journey of perseverance, survival, and some would argue, healing. As such, this body of literature provides a much needed link between the past and the present. While the historical stories in these books tend to be much more critical, again, they do not deal extensively with specific sites of incarceration. My work is an attempt to fill in. at least a small piece of the gaps left by these types of histories. What I have drawn from these texts is a sense of the immense amounts of strength and determination exhibited by Japanese Canadian survivors of the internment. Many of the previous histories have often painted Japanese Canadians as obedient, submissive and compliant, either by nature, or because of a long tradition of respect for authority.4 Indeed, while many of the previous histories describe acts of resistance, the tendency here is to focus on a few exceptional acts of outright defiance. However, the movement for redress is evidence of strength that has previously gone undocumented. This battle not only shows the strength and resistance of Japanese Canadians in recent history, but also is suggestive of earlier acts of strength and resistance. These books, like redress itself, provided closure for many. For others, redress meant not closure, but an opening for more stories to be told. This time, however, the stories were free of the constraints dictated by the negotiations for redress. It is the resulting works such as those by scholars such as Oikawa (2002) and McAllister (2001) that have inspired my own project in numerous ways. POST REDRESS LITERATURE The more recent examples of scholarship regarding Japanese Canadians attempt to disrupt the often homogenous portrayals of the past. These works tend to take a less linear and 'objective' stance, striving to give voice to the silent and add dimension and depth to the telling of this history. What is central to these pieces of scholarship is the links that they provide between past histories and the historical present. By past histories, I am referring not only to the events of the past, but also the ways in which they were told and in many cases left untold. Some of the most recent works on Japanese Canadian history discussed here are Kunimoto's (2004) 65 "Intimate Archives: Japanese-Canadian Family Photography, 1939-1949", McAllister's "Captivating Debris: Unearthing a World War Two Internment Camp" (2001), Oikawa's "Cartographies of Violence: Women, Memory, and the Subject(s) of the 'Internment'" (2002) and Pamela Sugiman's "Memories of Internment: Narrating Japanese Canadian Women's Life Stories"(2004). What makes these three works distinct from earlier works is that they move beyond a linear re-telling of history, instead focusing on the links between the material world and the ideological one. The focus of their works, therefore, is necessarily narrower in terms of space, time, or subject. These works add a human dimension that recognizes the multiple and heterogeneous experiences of Japanese Canadians during this period. Although not examined here, it is important to also acknowledge other post-redress works that have also told the 'stories' of Japanese Canadian internment through a variety of mediums such as plays, novels, poetry, and film.5 In "Intimate Archives: Japanese-Canadian Family Photography, 1939-1949", Kunimoto (2004) argues that it was through photographs that Japanese Canadians gained "a greater sense of stability during a time of transience and powerlessness" (129). Through examinations of family photograph albums, as well as loose photos found in personal collections and photographic archives, Kunimoto illustrates the ways in which ordinary objects produce meaning and act as forms of both control and resistance. Although it was "forbidden for anyone of Japanese descent to own a camera, the existence of photographs from this period shows that these rules were inconsistently enforced" (135). This alone is evidence that resistance did take place, albeit in what may seem to some to be insignificant ways. However, Kunimoto argues that the results of this resistance, the photograph, became very significant for family both before and after the war. While families were being broken apart under the guise of national security, the photograph "worked to construct, preserve and contain the visual narrative of cohesive family stability and communal belonging" (133-134). Photographs, according to Kunimoto (2004) also served the 66 purpose of spatializing the community, granting "the possessor of the image a sense of control over the representation, and, by extension, over the physical space" (144). After the war, these photographs also served as a catalyst for memory in a country which undertook to erase these memories, at least from public consciousness; "it was through the photographs that personal experience and memory could be shaped into narrative form" (147). Kunimoto provides a type of history, therefore, is one that is deeply textured and opposes the linear histories of the past. McAllister (2001) begins her analysis with an acknowledgement of her discontent with linear histories. She contends, "like all histories that narrate heterogeneous experiences into linear trajectories... [Japanese Canadian] history could not give shape to worlds other than those worlds that it had already constituted" (98). Further, "its narrative also entraps us. It exerts fixity, making anything diverging from it a threat" (98). For McAllister, then, the answer was a "phenomenological analysis of how yielding to remains of the past might allow us to reconnect with the destroyed worlds from which they were removed" (97). The sterile history that proclaims to tell the story of Japanese Canadians is countered by an approach that is at once both emotional and analytical. For McAllister, the dilemma arises when she attempts to write about her experiences while working with the Nikkei Internment Centre.6 She finds it difficult to escape what she calls a "paradox of repetition" (99). She explains that: This paradox might be said to characterize what has become known as 'testimonial culture'. Across impossible differences, it encompasses those who struggle to emerge from the void of the unspeakable in order to publicly testify. The compulsion to repeat exerts a force that exceeds whatever is required to guard against dissipation: that slide of the self into entropy" (99). For McAllister, escape comes through moving into what she refers to as "the sensory images" (100) of her experiences. It is through her encounters with "the remains of the camp" that she explores "the potent force of objects in testimonial culture" (101). Thus, she argues that it in these objects that we find the power to move outside of the linear histories of the past and to instead provide links 67 between the past and the present. For McAllister, this interaction with objects was "part of a process of mourning. [For her] the remains [of the camp] were those of the social body of Japanese Canadians that was systematically torn apart during the war" (111). Further, she explains that for the elders, "recovering the past was not about returning to the moment of loss. Recovering the remains of the camp did not revive the shattered prewar and wartime worlds. Rather, it brought people together in new configurations around what had happened as it continued to unfurl through the present" (107). Like McAllister, Oikawa also examines how spaces in the past become significant in the present. Oikawa (2002) critiques previous histories of Japanese Canadian internment for their focus on the laws and sites of incarceration. She explains that "while scholars have described these laws and sites of incarceration, they have devoted relatively little attention to the long-term effects upon those subjected to these laws and forcibly displaced through their enactments" (73). She uses a spatial accounting of the many sites of internment and dislocations of Japanese Canadians to draw attention to these consequences. This history is then connected to the historical present when she explains, "for each generation of Japanese Canadians, then, the spaces that emerged out of a series of laws enacted during the 1940's, produced and sustained racially subordinate subjects who continue to experience their exclusions from the nation. These spaces also produced and sustained dominant subjects" (74). What her study provides is an understanding of how the multiplicity of sites has distorted the ability of Japanese Canadians to remember the internment and to add to the historical record these many accounts, in order to remedy this collective amnesia. Oikawa conducted interviews with eleven interned women and ten of their daughters and then used these multiple voices to provide insight into the multiple violences that occurred. Her analysis not only establishes a Japanese Canadian perspective; it also offers an understanding of how even the category of "Japanese Canadian" is internally fragmented by 68 categories of gender, ability, age and citizenship. Previous histories describe the many sites of incarceration, explaining the ways in which families were separated based on these categories. However, Oikawa moves beyond this re-telling of history in an attempt to explain how the multiplicity of sites impacted the lives and memories of Japanese Canadians. She explains that not only was there a spatial separation of families, friends and communities, but that this spatial separation was also apparent in memory. "Women's reconceptualization of the violence of expulsion, forced separation, dispossession, homelessness, and loss of community reconstructs their sense of selves relationally to different physical carceral sites and the social relations producing materialized divisions" (97). Thus, identity and memory are shaped by spaces in ways that deny or denigrate the experiences of individual women. As Oikawa further contends, "memory of entire communities destroyed and how one constructs oneself in relationship to remembering them, therefore, profoundly affects how women describe their own experiences of violence" (98). Memory is also a prominent theme in Pamela Sugiman's (2004) article "Memories of Internment: Narrating Japanese Canadian Women's Life Stories." In this article, Sugiman draws on 30 oral testimonies of second generation Japanese Canadian women (Nisei) to explore the use of memory in the unearthing of personal histories. She explores memory as agency, as a social act that "reflects personal and historical transformations, ideological shifts, changing relations of power, strategy and struggle" (364). Further, she also underscores the ways in which memory provides a vital link between generations and between the past and the present. Her exploration of memory, forgetting, and history is compelling. She explains that "[o]ur cultural traditions and artefacts tell us much about memory. Standard history books underscore our 'traditions of remembering,' as do school curricula, war memorials, and museum exhibits" (364). Further, as "a society, we furthermore have social rules that tell us what we should remember and what must we forget" (364, emphasis in the original). In fact, it was the untold stories of her parents and 69 grandparents that motivated her project. Like Sugiman, I too am a Sansei who has been left to fill in the gaps left by the '"fragments and splinters' of stories" (362) that I have heard. Thus, my desire to spatialize the sugar beet projects arises out of a desire to bring to light not only the stories of oppression of Japanese Canadians, but their resistances and their victories as well. By focusing on spaces, objects or photographs, Oikawa, McAllister and Kunimoto all point to the relationship between the material world and its effects, between the past and the present, and between the everyday and the political. The works of both Kunimoto and McAllister have informed my own work through their interrogation of the everyday. Their examination of how everyday items, photographs or artifacts for instance, provided avenues for or are evidence of stability and resistance in an unstable time, informs my own understanding of how constructions of citizenship and nationality are made meaningful at the level of the everyday. My examination of local daily newspapers is motivated by a desire to understand how seemingly small acts of the everyday, collectively became greater acts of violence and intimidation for Japanese Canadians, how a letter to the editor, for instance can be understood as one person's opinion, but additionally as an incitement of racial hatred. AMERICAN INTERNMENT LITERATURE Additionally, my own work focuses on representation of Japanese Canadians in the Canadian press. While I was unable to find Canadian scholarship that deals specifically with this issue, two American studies fill this gap. While the circumstances surrounding the internment of Japanese Americans differed in many ways,7 these studies are useful for providing an understanding of how narratives of representation reflect the 'silent' motivations that fueled the internment. Many of the earlier texts point out some of the blatant racism in the Canadian media prior to this period but mention very little in regard to how Japanese Canadians were portrayed in the media during the war. Alison Renteln (1995), the author of an American study entitled " A Psychohistorical Analysis of the Japanese American Internment," however, addresses the 70 representation of Japanese Americans during WWII. Another useful study for understanding how representation cannot be absented from its historical specificity is Susan Moeller's "Pictures of the Enemy: Fifty Years of Images of Japan in the American Press, 1941-1992." Renteln (1995) provides an analysis of various forms of texts and media to show how the representations of Japanese Americans in the media during WWII were tied to the same racism and fear that provided much of the fuel for the actions of the government in regards to the internment. She argues that the two most relevant stereotypes of Japanese Americans during the war were that "Japanese Americans are highly un-American and sexually aggressive" (632). Renteln identifies these themes throughout immigration testimony, relocation testimony, press editorials and headlines, comic strips, films, as well as analytical texts during the period in question. These stereotypes were often implicated in proposed policies regarding the treatment of interned Japanese Americans, such as a policy recommendation that Japanese "be offered a choice between sterilization and deportation" (641). While the implication that Japanese Americans were un-American certainly implies that their treatment was related to issues of citizenship, Renteln's study does not discuss the ways in which the internment further entrenched this renunciation of citizenship. Further, by taking a 'psychohistorical approach' to understanding the evacuation, Renteln focuses on the stereotypes of Japanese Americans, especially the stereotype of sexual aggressiveness "as a motivation (albeit unconscious) for the decision to incarcerate", thereby erasing or diminishing the impact of other motivations such as racism or economics. While I draw on Renteln's work to make links between the discursive representation and political policy, my approach is far more sociohistorical. It is my desire to not only understand the complexities of representation of Japanese Canadians in terms of constructions of identity, but to also examine the relationship between these constructions and the social, economic and political hierarchies of power. 71 Moeller (1996), on the other hand, does not focus on the internment at all, but examines the representation of Japanese in American press during (as well as subsequent to) World War II. She analyzes over 50 years of "photography, graphics (illustrations, cartoons and charts) and articles on Japan and the Japanese in...mass-market news and general-interest magazines and major market newspapers" (29). While the study has an American focus, and the Japanese people she refers to are Japanese nationals, her study has some significant findings that inform my own research. Her overall conclusions were that "the American press has consistently constructed an image of Japan as the 'Other,' where the extent and type of 'Otherness' has been determined by the American press's sense of comfort about the place of the United States in the global arena" (29). Further, the security that the Americans were feeling was largely economic-driven. Moeller argues that the instability of representations of the Japanese correlated directly to the instability of the market. She explains that the "more strained the social, political and economic conditions under which "We," the United States, meet the "Other," Japan, the more the representations of the "Other" rely on stereotypes" (29). The representation of Japanese, then, is linked to how secure the press is feeling at any given time. The same can be argued about the Canadian context and perhaps even more so when those who were perceived as a threat were within the borders of the nation in question. Further, Moeller's study offers yet another interesting insight. While her work is a study of the role of dominant discourse in representing the 'Other', what she ultimately learned is that it is often through these definitions of the 'Other' that one learns the most about America. In fact, she contends, "the late 1980s-early 1990s Japan-bashing told more about the state of America than the country of Japan" (44). This reinforces my own belief that discourses which problematize the marginalized can also be examined with an eye to how these discourses define the centre.9 72 CONCLUSION Each of these pieces of scholarship adds important insights into my own research. My research is motivated not only by the theoretical insight that I have gained through them, but also by the gaps that I see in the literature. Central to any understanding of WWII history of Japanese Canadians, is the body of literature that was written in the late 1970s through to the late 1980s. This body of literature was part of the 'realist' literature that Kirsten McAllister refers to in her work. These works, while extremely valuable for both filling a void in the history and for obtaining redress, pay very little attention to the specificity of the many sites of incarceration. Although more recent works such as Oikawa, Kunimoto, and McAllister provide alternatives to these realist histories by paying attention to the specificities of space, none of them deals in any depth with labour sites, such as the sugar beet projects. My goal here is to provide an analysis that connects the links between the present and the past and between the material and the ideological by interrogating sites that have previously received very little attention. Recent scholars underline the ways in which violence is perpetuated, not only at the macro level, but also at the level of the everyday. Thus, it is my objective here to illustrate how this violence can be better understood through an analysis of the interactions between, for instance, citizenship and space. Additionally, it is also imperative to understand how these violences are further marked by interlocking categories such as gender, race, and sexuality. This is especially imperative given that sugar beet farms, where women, men and children worked together, have largely remained unexplored and are therefore often understood as less coercive and less violent than other sites. Thus, it is through a study focused specifically on these types of sites that I address the spatializing, racializing, (hetero)sexualizing and gendering of citizenship. 73 NOTES FOR CHAPTER THREE 1 See also Takata's (1983) Nikkei Legacy, and Nakano's (1980) Within the Barbed Wire Fence for more examples of pre-redress literature. 2 See Miki and Kobayashi (1991), Omatsu, (1992) and Miki (2004) for more on the redress movement. 3 See Bennett and French (2003) for a discussion of the implementation and consequences of this Act. 4 This is a point I develop in greater depth in my analysis. 5 Examples of this type of work are plentiful and include Roy Miki 's (2001) collection of poems, Surrender, Joy Kogawa's (1983) novel Obasan, Kerri Sakamoto's (1998) novel, The Electrical Field, National Film Board of Canada 2001 documentary Obachan 's Garden and Atlantis (1994) film The War Between Us. 6 McAllister describes the NIMC in New Denver as "a memorial that Japanese Canadian elders built in 1994 to mark the [Slocan] valley with the history of their internment" (97). 7 According to Miki (2004), "a simple comparison reveals a number of significant differences in policy between the U.S. and Canada: American properties were not confiscated and liquidated; families were moved together; the costs of their internment were borne by the U.S. government" (88). 8 See for instance Adachi (1991) and the Japanese Canadian Centennial Project (1977) A Dream of Riches: The Japanese Canadians 1877-1977 9 See also Jennifer Terry's (1991)notion of'theorizing deviant historiography' for more on this topic. 74 Chapter Four: Imprisoned in Glass: Farms as Carceral Sites Liberty is one of the fundamental rights of citizenship. For those who were imprisoned in prisoner-of-war camps, the stripping of their liberty was a sure sign of their loss of citizenship. However, in Alberta and Manitoba, this lack of liberty was often not recognized. During the period of February, 1942 to January 1943, both the Calgary Herald and the Winnipeg Free Press often depicted Japanese Canadians as free, if somewhat limited, subjects. This was evident in the three hundred articles that I analyzed. These articles were pulled from the two daily newspapers, after a thorough search of each daily paper for this one-year period.1 An analysis of these articles showed that the forced evacuation of Japanese Canadians from coastal areas was often represented in terms of'relocation', rather than incarceration. As Oikawa (2002) contends, the "very name given to these sites by government — sugar beet projects - masked their function as carceral sites" (86). Despite the use of such benign sounding language, an analysis of newspaper accounts shows that these sites were, in fact, sites of incarceration. Once the British Columbia Security Commission (B.C.S.C.) had agreement from the Alberta and Manitoba governments to participate in this scheme, farmers were encouraged to make applications to take on Japanese Canadians. By mid-April, 2664 Japanese Canadians were on their way to Alberta and 1053 were on their way to Manitoba (Sunahara, 1981, 80). Although Japanese Canadians were promised "decent housing, a reasonable standard of living, relative freedom of movement, and placement on farms in close proximity to one another (Sunahara, 1981, 80), these promises mostly went.unfulfilled. Where they were to be placed was often left up to the whims of farmers, who inspected families at local train stations and chose the families based on which families had the most working people. For Japanese Canadians in Manitoba, their arrival was the first of many rude awakenings. When the first Japanese-Canadians arrived in Winnipeg on 13 April, after a two day journey that had seemed interminable, they were taken from the station of the 75 Immigration hall to await placement. This building in the North End had been closed for some time and it was dirty and the water was rusty. Each floor of the five storey building consisted of a large hall and one bathroom and the men and women were segregated on separate floors, sleeping in two-tiered steel army beds without curtains for privacy. It was still cold in April and the building was inadequately heated. The Japanese-Canadians were not free to leave the building at will , in case a farmer came seeking their services (Taylor, 2004, 64). Additionally, for those incarcerated on farms in Alberta and Manitoba, their accommodations were at best minimalist. In Alberta, for instance, "Eleven people, including elderly grandparents and very small children, crammed into an uninsulated granary was not unusual. With one small stove at one end and sleeping platforms at the other, families ate, slept, washed, dressed, loved, fought and, in winter, shivered within inches of each other" (Sunahara, 1981, 81). In Manitoba, Much of the accommodation provided for these families was very far from meeting the standards required by the Commission. In previous years, the beet farmers had made use of itinerant workers who moved on at the end of the season; many were single men who were prepared to put up with extremely primitive conditions. Housing often consisted of barns or tar paper shacks with cracks between the boards, and it was in these uninsulated buildings that some of the Japanese-Canadians would have to spend the coming winter, which as luck would have it was to prove exceptionally severe (Taylor, 2004, 65). Figure 4.1 - Home to Three Families (photo courtesy of National Association of Japanese Canadians, Shizuko Miki , used by permission) 76 Thus, although the sugar beet projects may have been perceived by many as simply a labour agreement, these conditions point to the coerced nature of Japanese Canadian labour. Further, security was also in place which dictated that Japanese Canadians required a "permit to travel more than ten miles from where one lived" (Taylor, 2004, 66). This meant that isolation was also a component of their incarceration. As Bashford and Strange (2003), contend "multiple kinds of marked populations, not just criminals inside prison, have been subjected to punitive strategies of exclusion" (9). Further, "isolation has proven a flexible technique for modern states to manage all types of dangers and all kinds of 'undesirable' people"(9). Incarceration, contrary to more traditional definitions, is more correctly understood, here, as the combined use of various tools of discipline. It is important here to note the distinction between tools of discipline and tools of punishment. Given that there was no indication of wrong-doing on the part of Japanese Canadians, there could be no punitive aspect to their incarceration. Instead, their incarceration could be seen more accurately as what Bashford and Strange (2003) call "confinement-as-prevention" (7). In this case, the Canadian population was protected through the incarceration of the "potentially criminal" (7) Japanese Canadians. In this chapter I show how Japanese Canadians were subjected to the disciplining effects of both state and extra-state institutions. To do so, I draw extensively on the work of Michel Foucault. According to Foucault (1995), The 'carceral' with its many diffuse or compact forms, its institutions of supervision or constraint, of discreet surveillance and insistent coercion, assured the communication of punishments according to quality and quantity; it connected in series or disposed according to subtle divisions the minor and the serious penalties, the mild and the strict forms of treatment, bad marks and light sentences (299). In the case of the sugar beet projects, these institutions included state supervision, both state and civic surveillance, constraint through the use of spatial and temporal boundaries, and coercion through labour. While many of these disciplining tools of the state were common to all Japanese 77 Canadians who were 'relocated', many were unique to those who became workers for the state. It is important here to note that although many were, in fact, hired by private farmers or companies, their employment was arranged by the state, controlled by the state, and subject to termination by the state. What makes these sites even more interesting is the fact that unlike many more isolated sites of internment, the sugar beet projects were marked by more, although still limited interaction, with other Canadians. This interaction is significant, as it allowed for the participation of ordinary citizens in the disciplining and surveillance of Japanese Canadian 'inmates'. SUPERVISION AND SURVEILLANCE One of the markers of incarceration is lack of autonomy. According to Foucault (1995), this "'self-evident' character of the prison, which we find so difficult to abandon, is based first of all on the simple form of 'deprivation of liberty'. How could prison not be the penalty par excellence in a society in which liberty is a good that belongs to all in the same way" (232). In the case of Japanese Canadians, this loss of liberty in the 1940s was characterized by discourses of supervision and surveillance. While it is impossible to separate notions of surveillance completely from notions of supervision, it is important to acknowledge the differences between the two, especially in the case of the internment of Japanese Canadians on sugar beet farms. In prisons, surveillance and supervision necessarily take place within distinct boundaries, and therefore can be carried out by a limited and finite number of people. My argument here is that because the physical boundaries were less fixed and rigid than in conventional prisons, although supervision necessarily remained officially sanctioned and carried out, surveillance was carried out both at state and civic levels. The lack of fixed or rigid boundaries cannot be mistaken for a total lack of boundaries, as will be argued later in this chapter. Indeed, it was because of the weakness and invisibility of these boundaries that it became necessary for the state to take an active role in the supervision of and responsibility for Japanese Canadians. Surveillance, 78 however, became an important issue that was not manageable at the state level, given the dispersion of Japanese Canadians over a large geographic area. It is important to note the distinction being made between supervision and surveillance. For the purpose of this thesis, I use supervision to refer to the responsibility and accountability of the governments and the British Columbia Security Commission (B.C.S.C.) for Japanese Canadians during this period of time. This includes, but is not limited to, economic responsibility. Surveillance, on the other hand, took many forms, and it will be argued that although there was a sense of civic and government responsibility for surveillance, that surveillance unlike supervision, was more closely tied to disciplinary power than to notions of responsibility and accountability. Disciplinary power... is exercised through invisibility; at the same time it imposes on those whom it subjects a principle of compulsory visibility. In discipline, it is the subjects who have to be seen. Their visibility assures the hold of the power that is exercised over them. It is the fact of being constantly seen, of being able always to be seen, that maintains the disciplined individual in his subjection" (Foucault, 1995, 187). Further, as Bashford and Strange (2003) contend, "The constant spatial and temporal surveillance in places of isolation, combined with intervention over the minutest aspects of daily life, has been driven by the objective to produce desirable subjectivities" (12). Supervision is an important component of carceral spaces, as it serves as a marker of the lack of autonomy held by those who inhabit these spaces. Foucault (1995), contends that the prison "must be an exhaustive disciplinary apparatus: it must assume responsibility for all aspects of the individual ... the prison, has neither exterior or gap; it cannot be interrupted, except when its task is totally completed; its action on the individual must be uninterrupted: an unceasing discipline" (236, emphasis added). While many people have termed sites such as sugar beet farms as 'self-support' sites (Miki, 2004, 5; Oikawa, 2002, 85-88), there were numerous references that indicate that while Japanese Canadians in these locations were required to provide for their own families financially through their labour, the federal government continued 79 to hold a level of responsibility for them, as was demanded by the provinces that were to house these special 'inmates'. The terms of their 'imprisonment' demanded that Japanese Canadian families labour in the sugar beet fields. They, therefore, had some level of secure employment, at least for the duration of the planting and harvesting seasons. Additionally, as Miki (2004) contends, "A l l Japanese Canadians were forced to use their resources, including funds collected through the liquidation of their properties, before they were allowed to seek any government assistance" (5). This is borne out by a report on March 14 t h, 1942, which described assurances made by the B.C.S.C. to Lethbridge city council that "[s]hould hospitalization and medical care be required, it will be paid for by the Japanese, or if not, by the commission."3 However, despite these reassurances, and past evidence that showed Japanese Canadians to be hard-working, resourceful people,4 newspaper accounts indicated a considerable degree of concern regarding who would be financially responsible for Japanese Canadians, should they be unable to care for themselves. Therefore, the B.C.S.C. and the Dominion government were expected to act as guarantors of Japanese Canadians. This was especially true in regards to the discussion of provincial resources, such as medical services and education. In fact, with regards to education, despite numerous accounts of pressure applied to the federal government to provide for the education of Japanese Canadian children, there was no mention in the newspapers of the fact that even after the federal government provided an "outright grant to the Alberta Board of Education", Japanese Canadian families were forced to pay an additional $70 per child, per year, to local high schools (Adachi, 1991, 282). This is further evidence of the refusal of the press to portray Japanese Canadians as having even a small measure of economic autonomy in their lives. This occurred despite the fact that they were required to pay for their own incarceration, a requirement that was, and is, unparalleled even among inmates in prisons. Those jailed in prisons, although often 80 seen as non-citizens, were provided for by the state, a privilege not afforded Japanese Canadians, who therefore must be seen as subordinate to other prisoners. Although the day-to-day living costs were ultimately the responsibility of Japanese Canadians, the B.C.S.C. did shoulder the responsibility of caring for Japanese Canadians should they be unable to care for themselves. This responsibility was a marker, not of Japanese Canadian citizenship, but of their incarceration. Prior to the movement of Japanese Canadians from the West Coast, negotiations took place between the B.C.S.C and provincial governments, as well as with municipal governments. While it remains unclear who ultimately paid for medical care or welfare when it was needed, the B.C.S.C, who was answerable to the federal Labour Minister, Humphrey Mitchell, made guarantees in early March of 1942, to the city of Lethbridge that "no Japanese moved from the coast will become a charge on them for relief, medical services, medicine or hospitalization."5 Additionally, a resolution, reported on March 19 t h of the same year, was introduced in the Alberta legislature that demanded similar assurances from the federal government: [U]rging the Dominion government to assure adequate supervision of Japanese brought into Alberta underwartime conditions and demanding that government pay all costs in connection with these Japanese. ... The motion adds the legislature demand the Dominion government pay any educational, medical, supervisional and other costs which would be imposed upon local authorities by the gathering of Japanese into Alberta communities.6 In Manitoba, similar demands were made, "Premier Bracken wired Mr. Mitchell 'the Manitoba government will not oppose the present proposal providing that the dominion government assumes full financial and other responsibility [for the Japanese]."7 The commission (B.C.S.C) assured the province that "[e]ducation ... and extra police protection, where required, will be the responsibility of the commission. It will also take full charge of medical services, medicine, Q hospitalization and relief." As Canadian citizens, Japanese Canadians had every right to expect that the Manitoba and Alberta governments would cover these costs, as they were not simply to 81 be housed in the province, but were, instead benefiting the local economy, as well as a vital war effort, the production of sugar. However, it was evident in the governments' responses, that Japanese Canadians were not considered by them to be entitled to these rights as Canadian citizens. It is important to recognize the contradictions here. Japanese Canadians were expected to be contributing 'self-supporting' citizens on the one hand, but it remained clear that, in fact, Japanese Canadians were not to be offered the rights of citizens on the other hand. Instead, they were viewed as the responsibility of the federal government. In addition to financial responsibility, the federal government, through the B.C.S.C, was also expected to take responsibility for the supervision, through surveillance, of Japanese Canadians. Surveillance is not simply about the power to see, but the power to act upon what one sees. It can be more clearly understood, then, as a type of moral regulation. Surveillance acted to regulate Japanese Canadians through constant monitoring of their actions and movements. Surveillance of Japanese Canadian workers took on two forms, government or official surveillance and civic surveillance. As Valverde (1991) argues, moral regulation "is very closely linked to state formation, as the British school of historical sociology has argued; but as Foucault and his followers have pointed out, the state has no monopoly on moral regulation, and private organizations ... have exercised crucial leadership in the regulatory field" (165). Further, the overlapping of state surveillance and civic surveillance arises out of the fact that, The distinction between the state and civil society is a flexible one and is articulated differently at the level of rhetoric, at the level of administrative practice, and at the level of people's experiences. Similarly, the distinction between different modes of regulation (moral vs. economic vs. political) is not found ready-made but is constantly produced in varying ways by agents located outside as well as inside the state (Valverde, 1991, 166). Thus, the distinctions between state and civil forms of moral regulation evolve out of changing moral, economic and political agendas.9 Therefore, the terms of state and civic surveillance were flexible and under constant negotiation, meaning that at all times, Japanese Canadians had the 82 potential to be monitored simultaneously by both state and civic sources such as newspapers, service groups, labour ogranizations and concerned citizens. It is evident, through the discourses of dependence and responsibility that these workers, like other 'prisoners', were considered wards of the state. Thus, workers in sugar beet fields were at all times in the custody of the state. In fact, much of the negotiations that took place in March of 1942, between federal government agencies and provincial and local governments revolved around notions of official forms of surveillance, especially in regards to public safety. For instance, in Alberta, the legislature urged the Dominion government to accept not only financial responsibility for Japanese Canadians, but also urged "that any Japanese brought from British Columbia be effectively and constantly supervised to prevent any possible acts of sabotage and espionage."10 In Manitoba, similar demands were made, asking that the government assume responsibility for "protection against possible sabotage."11 In late April of the same year, both provinces were subsequently assured that the commission (B.C.S.C.) would provide "extra police protection, where required." Surveillance, here, was clearly disciplinary, rather than simply an increased measure of responsibility. In fact, although there were no indications that these types of measures were necessary, or indeed implemented, when Japanese Canadians began to show any spirit of independence or resistance, calls for state surveillance increased dramatically. This is a clear indication of the ways in which civic and state surveillance worked symbiotically, with civic surveillance sometimes leading to increased state surveillance. A case in point, Japanese Canadians were initially allowed some measure of choice and autonomy. For instance, the Winnipeg Free Press reported in mid-February, 1942 that "Enemy aliens can start leaving the protected area anytime and go anywhere east of the boundary of the area." 1 3 However, on March 4 t h , when a number of Japanese Canadians arrived in Raymond, 83 Alberta, people were "up in arms about it" and it was reported that "the Japanese were arriving as a result of their own desire to move and were not being escorted by police." 1 5 In Raymond Area Number of' JApanes^vjaye ijjtnying: m the Raynrndr<Ustetet ana^ne; "people St^pi^eam: about'It," J. H Walker ^ Ind,)'Warner, stiid-Question^, latter outside the House, Mr^.MRftU^'ttid th« Jfa>, anese were arriving, as, a result of uieir own aeslre'io ntove and were not being £s&rfedTjjj[Dolice. He «aW -ihmnffi^tfapmiae:- colony of about 133per«asjf fa) thcaistricj Figure 4.2 - Local Protests, Calgary Herald, March 4, 1942, p. 1 A report, which was published the following day, however, indicated that some in the area did not "object to the importing of Japanese labor providing it is done under government supervision."16 Interestingly, despite the differences in attitude both articles, as well as many other articles, used the racist term "Japs" to refer to Japanese Canadians. The use of such terminology served to both dehumanize and demonize Japanese Canadians, especially as this term was frequently used to refer to the 'enemy' overseas as well. In this way, the use of this racist epithet acted as part of the discursive exclusion of Japanese Canadians from the nation. Further, these protests did not go unnoticed and on March 7, 1942 it was reported that "[a]ll voluntary migration of Japanese from the Pacific coast defence area to places in Canada not designated by the British Columbia security commission has been halted under an order signed by Justice Minister St. Laurent, Austin Taylor, commission chairman."17 After this time, Japanese Canadians were required to be supervised and their movements were closely monitored. In fact, when the first Japanese were to arrive in Alberta in early April, it was 84 reported that "[t]he families are to come by train under police supervision, and will be placed on 18 farms of the district and remain there under police supervision." In fact, even after the transfer of Japanese Canadians into the Prairie Provinces, there were often calls for increased supervision and surveillance. In a June 20 t h, 1942, article in the Winnipeg Free Press, for instance, Canadian Labor Minister, Mitchell was forced to defend against several allegations by "British Columbian members who claimed the Japanese in that province were being treated too leniently and were too loosely guarded."19 Although there were no reports of sabotage, there were a number of concerns set forward, including the concern that "residents reported seeing road gangs working with only one guard" 2 0 and there were reports that camps in northern British Columbia were "poorly guarded with only one gun in a tent occupied 21 by several guards and only 12 rounds of ammunition." These calls for increased surveillance need to be understood as disciplinary in nature, especially when one considers that they took place only three days following a highly reported protest by Japanese Canadians who refused to 22 accept employments because it meant separation from their families. The following month there were even more demands for increased security. The Calgary Herald reported that in the House of Commons, both Conservatives and Liberals called for the following measures to be taken: 1. Handling of the Japanese be taken from the British Columbia Securities Commission and undertaken directly by the government 2. Turning further control and moving of Japanese over to the military authorities. 3. Adoption of a policy by the government which would aim at post-war repatriation of all Japanese in Canada, including Canadian-born. 4. Adoption of the U.S. policy of concentrating Japanese in one or two settlements -Wainwright, Alberta, park suggested. 5. Keeping Japanese out of the northern interior of British Columbian, where they are now being moved from coastal area, because this may become a battle area in event of Japanese attack. 23 6. Treatment of Japanese exactly as Canadians are treated in Japan, virtual internment. A similar report was also published in the Winnipeg Free Press, on the same day. 2 4 Although the B.C.S.C. was ultimately answerable to the Department of Labour minister, it is interesting that 85 there was a demand for increased government and military control. It is also important to note that despite the fact that the internment was often justified based on issues of nationality, there was a demand that even Canadian born Japanese be repatriated after the war. Indeed, in some cases, Canadian born or naturalized Japanese were deemed even more dangerous that Japanese nationals, for as one author, "Torchy" Anderson, noted on February 20 t h, their "knowledge of 25 English and the country made them dangerous." This is compelling evidence that race was far more of an issue than nationality. The danger posed by Canadian born Japanese arose, not out of former allegiances, but simply by virtue of their race. Even without direct police surveillance, Japanese Canadians were always being watched. The War Measures Act ensured that Japanese Canadians were seen as threats to national security. Every citizen in the nation, therefore, had a stake in participating in the surveillance of this enemy within. For, as Hunt (1999) contends, civil society engaged in moral regulation and surveillance out of an "increasing concern with social order and stability" (60). Japanese Canadians were, according to discourses of national security, a threat to security, but they were also a threat to a racialized social order. Thus, 'white' citizens had an added stake in the surveillance of Japanese Canadians. The enforcing of racial categories through surveillance also served to act as a barrier or boundary between 'white' citizens and their Japanese counterparts reinforcing notions of white supremacy. Surveillance, then, served to mark the boundary between self and 'other'. Surveillance acted as a marker of abjection. According to Sommers (1998), the abject is said to "mark the boundary between the pure and the polluted (289). In her book Power of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, Kristeva (1982) explains that the abject cannot be confused with that which it borders. She explains that "filth is not a quality in itself, but it applies only to what relates to a boundary and, more particularly, represents the object jettisoned out of that boundary, its other side, a margin" (69). So, for Kristeva, then, the abject is not that which is outside, but the boundary itself which defines that 86 which is outside. Therefore, that which is outside and hence deemed pollution, is defined thus only in relation to the border that marks it. As Douglas (1966) contends, "if we remove "pathogenicity and hygiene from our notion of dirt, we are left with the old definition of dirt as matter out of place" (35). This is an especially useful concept when anticipating the othering of the racialized subject, as it "implies two conditions: a set of ordered relations and a contravention of that order. Dirt then, is never a unique, isolated event. Where there is dirt there is system" (35). This understanding of the abject as demarcating the line between the pure and the polluted, or the 'white' and the racialized subject, is especially effective. The abject must be understood, then, as the objectification of that which is out of place in a system, in this case, the racialized other. Further, as Mawani (2003) explains in her work "Legal geographies of Aboriginal segregation in British Columbia", the constructing of new and racialized identities was purposeful, providing for justification of the isolation and exclusion of Aboriginal people. The Japanese Canadians, unlike the Native populations of which Mawani speaks, could not be forced onto reserves, but instead became bounded by and through acts of surveillance. Thus, like the Native population in British Columbia, Japanese also "became a salient racialized reference point through which Europeans constituted their own material and metaphorical visions of white superiority" (Mawani, 2003, 174). This reference point was conceivable only through surveillance. 'White' citizens, thus, acted much like the panopticon. Foucault (1995) describes the panopticon: At the periphery, an annular building; at the centre, a tower; this tower is pierced with wide windows that open onto the inner side of the ring; the peripheric building is divided into cells, each of which extends the whole width of the building; they have two windows, one on the inside, corresponding to the windows of the tower; the other on the outside, allows the light to cross the cell from one end to the other. A l l that is needed, then, is to place a supervisor in a central tower and to shut up in each cell a madman, a patient, a condemned man, a worker or a schoolboy (200). The panopticon, therefore, "arranges spatial unities that make it possible to see constantly and to recognize immediately" (Foucault, 1995, 200). Instead of a single tower from which all could be 87 seen, the surveillance of Japanese Canadians worked as a diffused panopticon whereby Japanese Canadians were surveyed and scrutinized from all around them. Rather than one guard, the whole Canadian citizenry watched. Instead of inhabiting one prison, Japanese Canadians, therefore, carried their prisons with them wherever they went. The effect, however, was the same, making it 'possible to see constantly and to recognize immediately'. Like the panopticon, the result of constant visibility and constant surveillance induced "in the inmate a state of conscious and permanent visibility that assures the automatic functioning of power. So to arrange things that the surveillance is permanent in its effects, even if it is discontinuous in its action; that the perfection of power should tend to render its actual exercise unnecessary" (Foucault, 1995,201). Further, to be recognized immediately did not necessitate prison uniforms, as Japanese Canadians always carried their markings with them. Their race, in fact, marked and identified them in ways that a prison jumpsuit could not, for their race could never be shed. That race became an important marker is evidenced in the following article. Figure 4.3 - Marking Race - Winnipeg Free Press, May 28, 1942, p. 10. To avoid being mistaken for Japanese, the Chinese people in Winnipeg and other parts of Manitoba are now wearing little victory buttons. Announcing the wearing of buttons by the Chinese, Charlie Foo, chairman of the Chinese Patriotic league, said: 'So many people have mistaken us Chinese for Japanese that we decided it would be better i f we wore some distinguishing mark.'...The word Chinese is plainly seen on the button.26 While the article does not discuss what the consequences were of being mistaken for Japanese, it is clear that they were not positive ones. That the buttons also showed clear indications of Chinese loyalty is also testament to the contrary view of Japanese Canadian (dis)loyalty. Additionally, the 'inclusion' of Chinese who wore these distinguishing buttons is also evidence 88 of the powerful, all-encompassing anti-Asian ideology at work. Furthermore, that the Chinese were being recognized as Japanese was, itself, a clear indication of the omnipotent anti-Asian civic surveillance directed at Japanese Canadians. Newspapers, themselves, also acted as a form of civic surveillance by tracking the movements of Japanese Canadians and subsequently reporting these movements to all of their readers. This constant reporting implied an associated danger. There was constant reporting of all movements of Japanese Canadians, whether this was their arrival in farming areas or their movement through these areas to other more Eastern locales. In Alberta, attention focused on the impending arrivals or actual arrivals of Japanese Canadians into various districts. Although there are a similar number of articles of this nature in Winnipeg, half of the articles in Winnipeg report Japanese Canadians who are passing through the province. While this could be explained by the fact that Alberta saw the arrival of more Japanese Canadians into their province, by April, 1942, 2664 Japanese Canadians had arrived in Alberta and onlyl053 in Manitoba (Sunahara, 1981, 80), it is important to note that the types of discourses that were employed in the provinces differed significantly as well. In Alberta, the primary focus of the articles seemed to revolve around the number of Japanese Canadians arriving. In most cases, the articles provided the number of families as well as the total numbers of persons, but provided no other information about these newcomers.27 Earlier articles also provided details regarding police supervision, although this type of reporting ceased as the numbers grew. As alluded to earlier, the constant reporting of the whereabouts of Japanese Canadians certainly implied an increased threat of danger. In fact, the forced registration and subsequent tracking of Japanese Canadians is not unlike the use of present day sex offender registries that are used to alert communities about new threats to their safety. By contrast, in Winnipeg, the focus of the articles was much more humanizing. There were indications, for instance, that on at least two instances, April 1s t and April 18 t h, 1942 89 reporters took the time to interview members of Japanese Canadian parties who were passing through the city. One of these interviews is discussed in some depth in the following chapter. There also seemed to be much more interest in moving beyond mere numbers when reporting on the arrival of Japanese Canadian families in Winnipeg. For instance, one article, dated April 11 t h, that dealt specifically with the arrival of Japanese Canadian families explained that those arriving were, "mostly Canadian citizens who have been educated in Canadian schools and in some cases have attended Canadian universities ... They know no other country but Canada and have a Canadian outlook." Unlike the Alberta articles, the articles in the Winnipeg Free Press were much less objectifying and focused to a far lesser degree on issues of surveillance and security. This is certainly an indication that those Japanese Canadians who settled in Manitoba had a greater degree of freedom than did those who settled in Alberta. This has been attributed to the fact that Albertans resisted the "influx of Japanese, sensitized as they had been to the problem of colonies of'inassimilable' people, such as the Hutterites, already in their midst, and against whom they 'seethed with resentment'" (Adachi, 1991, 280). No similar situation was prevalent in Manitoba, making this province less resentful of the newcomers. Additionally, as mentioned earlier, Manitoba governments, including the then current Mayor, John Queen, were strongly opposed to racism and were equally committed to workers' rights.30 Despite the less objectifying slant of the Winnipeg articles, it must be noted that neither newspaper made any distinctions regarding the gender of the travelers. The only indications that women were among those described were the references to 'families'. This is a clear indication that women, although ultimately used as labourers in the sugar beet fields, were discursively constructed in the private realm of 'family', thus reinforcing hetero-gendered normative hierarchies. Thus, while surveillance, by all appearances, seemed to be directed at Japanese men, these indirect references to women and children are also evidence that gender roles were also being policed by the watchful eyes of the Canadian media. 90 Newspapers acted not only as a form of surveillance in and of themselves, but they also acted as a transmission of other acts of civic surveillance. Although there seems to be nothing extraordinary about the 'prison' that contained Japanese Canadians - no rifles, no chains and no locks or keys - this type of civic surveillance acted at the level of the everyday. As Holt (1995) argues, it is, in fact, at the level of the everyday, "that race is reproduced via the marking of the racial Other and that racist ideas and practices are naturalized, made self-evident, and thus seemingly beyond audible challenge" (7). The civic surveillance that was evident in the newspaper accounts took the forms of organized group protests undertaken by 'concerned citizen' groups, labour councils, and service groups, as well as more individualized attention evidenced in editorials and letters to the editor. This response was perhaps related to earlier constructions of Japanese Canadians as dangerous. The earlier newspaper articles acted to "recruit and mobilize newsreaders as active participants in the discursive construction" (Heir and Greenberg, 2002, 492) Prior to the 'relocation' of Japanese Canadians to the Manitoba and Alberta farms, it was evident that Japanese Canadians were also subject to civic surveillance in B.C. In fact, it has been argued that the evacuation of Japanese Canadians from coastal areas of British Columbia was driven, at least in part by the anti-Asian feelings being expressed by B.C.'s white citizens.31 For instance, in an attempt to protest the continued occupation of Vancouver Island towns and cities by Japanese Canadians, "Delegates representing 24 Victoria and Vancouver Island organizations ... unanimously passed a resolution threatening a total boycott of all Japanese people and all individuals and businesses trading with them if all Japanese of all ages and both sexes are not removed from the coastal and other vital areas of British Columbia by March 30" (reported on February 22 n d , 1942 in the Winnipeg Free Press)12 This delegation was comprised of many organizations including the Victoria Kinsmen club, "native Sons of Canada, the C.C.F. district council, the Saanich board of trade, the Vancouver Island Fruit Growers' association, the 91 Greater Victoria Teachers' association, the Gyro, Rotary and Lions clubs of Victoria and other 33 organizations." This type of protest by service and community groups was soon echoed in Alberta as well. Thus, it is evident that it was not only the state who condemned and governed Japanese Canadians, but also private interest groups. Group protests in Alberta were often organized and led by service groups with ties to military service, such as the Canadian Legion. These service groups strongly opposed the movement of Japanese Canadians into the province. In fact, the Canadian Legion organized or sponsored protests in Raymond, Alberta (March 10, 1942),34 Taber, Alberta (March 17, 1942)35 and Jasper, Alberta (April 8, 1942). It is important to note that although these protests took place at the local level, their reach extended beyond the local. The protests in Raymond, were, for instance, "forwarded to the federal government by the Alberta Legislature" on April 11, 1942.37 That public protests were effective was also evidenced by the fact that plans for placing Japanese in Cranbrook, B.C. were suspended. The reason cited, in a March 23 article, was "public protest against bringing these people into the district." While many protests, such as the one in Cranbrook took place prior to any Japanese Canadians being moved into the district, it is my contention that this nevertheless is an indication of surveillance of Japanese Canadians. In fact, surveillance must be understood as the watchful control of spaces of inhabitance, as well as forbidden spaces. In this way, surveillance continued to discipline its subjects in triple ways. First, it had the power to create awareness that Japanese Canadian bodies and behaviours were always being monitored in their locality. Second, Japanese Canadians may have experienced an internalized disciplining. Third, this form of surveillance was almost unlimited in its scope. It was beyond them, but it was also within them, as this constant surveillance almost certainly had the effect of internal regulation even when Japanese Canadians were out of public view. As Foucault (1995) contends, constant surveillance through the panopticon "should be a machine for creating and sustaining a power relation independent of the person who exercises it; in short, that 92 the inmates should be caught up in a power situation of which they are themselves the bearers" (201). Thus, surveillance was everywhere they were, as well as everywhere they might go. In Manitoba civic surveillance in the form of protest came much later than it did in Alberta. While much of the protest in Alberta happened during the months of March and April, 1942, in Manitoba, there were no reports of protests until May and they continued only until early June. There are no reports of protest prior to the movement of Japanese Canadians into the province. Some scholars have attributed the lack of protest to the smaller numbers of Japanese Canadians sent to this province, or to the Winnipeg Free Press' "vigorous stand against racism" (Adachi, 1991, 283). Interestingly, all but one of the protests in Manitoba were framed around "proximity to war industries, particularly where a German colony is already established" (May 13, 1942).40 These protests were all confined to the Lockport district, surrounding Selkirk, Manitoba, which was the location of the Manitoba Steel Foundry, considered a vital war industry. It is interesting to note that these communities felt national security threats, not only in terms of the Japanese population, but also from German colonies and communities.41 The surveillance, therefore, seemed to take the form of not only a racialized surveillance, but also a nationalistic one, with Germans also being the focus of this disciplinary gaze. For instance, one article published on May 8, 1942, cites that objections to Japanese presence "were raised on the grounds that they would be employed by German farmers of allegedly pro-Nazi sympathies."42 Like the protests in Alberta, these protests were taken very seriously and the Japanese were ordered removed from the Lockport area. It is interesting to note that incidences of individual surveillance, as seen in editorials and letters to the editor, differed greatly between provinces as well. The most significant difference was not, as one might expect, the tone of the letters to the editor and editorials, but instead the number of this type of articles relating to Japanese Canadians. In the Winnipeg Free Press, there were only three such articles relating to Japanese Canadian movement to the province during the 93 one-year period. The Calgary Herald, on the other hand, averages one editorial of this nature per month. A l l of the editorials in the Winnipeg paper encourage the settlement of Japanese Canadians in Manitoba and/or condemn the "irrational attitude of many people" in Ontario when faced with the transfer of Japanese Canadians to that province. However, there was much more variation in the Alberta articles. The first editorial, written by Richard J. Needham (March 30, 1942), for instance, discouraged protests against the influx of Japanese Canadian labour, calling it "a lot of hysterical nonsense" and claiming that "The Japanese ought to be settled anywhere in Canada that the government wants to put them, or that they themselves want to go, so long as they are under R.C.M.P. supervision."43 The same author also championed the importing of Japanese labour in a June 8, 1942 editorial: "Walking down the main street of Lethbridge last week we saw many B.C. Japanese on hand, looking tolerably cheerful, and apparently causing no undue alarm, distress or fainting fits to the citizens of the airmen from No. 8 Bombing and Gunnery."4 4 The article goes on to condemn the "fol-de-rols of Ontario and Idaho" which resulted in them "facing a labor crisis." 4 5 This type of editorial is certainly an indication that civic surveillance was taking place in Alberta. It is also one of the few indications that there was, in Alberta, some resistance to hegemonic and mainstream attitudes. However, other than these two editorials, all of the other letters to the editor and editorials take on a much more sinister note, calling for increased surveillance (April 8, 1942),46 use of concentration camps (May 13, 1942),47 and repatriation (July 10, 1942) 4 8 Demands, such as the one reported in the April 8 t h Herald, which called for increased limitations on the movements of Japanese Canadians were further evidence of the surveillance that arose out of the discomfort felt by Alberta citizens with the idea that Japanese Canadians were being allowed to "roam where ever they please."4 9 Additionally, the larger number of editorials that appeared in the Alberta newspaper could certainly indicate an increased level of civic surveillance in the area compared to that found in Manitoba, despite the fact that a few editorials were fairly positive in 94 nature. This need for increased levels of surveillance may have been rooted in their distrust of what they deemed inassimilable populations.50 Additionally, it may be explained by the more balanced reporting in the Winnipeg Free Press, where articles tended to represent both the positive and the negative aspects associated with the 'relocation' of Japanese Canadians. The less balanced reporting in Alberta may have contributed to the creation o f a crisis, which stirred local populations into action. Npme&JHeroijte^ Of Jap 'Retreat' Figure 4.4 - Local Heroine, Calgary Herald, July 4, 1942, p. 1 Civic involvement in the surveillance and policing of Japanese Canadians was not confined to the discursive. In fact, one front page report (See Figure 4.4) in the Calgary Herald, described how one woman "used a rifle to stop a group of Japanese during a ... disturbance at Gosnell, B.C. . " 5 1 The article did not expand on what the disturbance was, other than that "there were six or seven Japanese men in the party which approached the house where Miss Fry was alone."5 2 However, the article did go on to call the woman a heroine when she "took a 30-30 53 rifle from the wall and told the men if they advanced another step she would shoot." Not only was this article indicative of perceptions of white superiority, it also served to feminize Japanese Canadian men through their perceived submission to this 'white' woman. There are, thus, contradictory constructions of Japanese Canadian men here. On the one hand, these Japanese Canadian men were deemed a threat to this 'white' woman, while on the other hand, these six or seven men were easily dealt with by a woman. This contradiction is also reminiscent of earlier contradictions which framed "Chinese males as more 'feminine' than white men" (Backhouse, 1999, 141) on the one hand, and as sexual predators of 'white' women on the other. In fact, Saskatchewan first enacted legislation 95 that banned any Japanese, Chinese or "other Oriental person" (Backhouse, 1999, 136) from hiring white women based on the fear that the "male Chinese could lure white women to their ruin" (Backhouse, 1999, 141). The report of the woman heroine here, then, can be understood in light of these stereotypes which framed Asian men as threats and 'white' women in need of protection. The protection of white women,, as the symbolic emblem of the 'white race,' became a crucial cornerstone in the attempt to establish and defend white racial superiority and white racism. White women were called into service in their reproductive capacity as the 'guardians of the race,' a symbol of the most valuable property known to white men, to be protected at all costs from the encroachment of other races (Backhouse, 1999, 141). It is no surprise, then, that this woman was singled out for her heroism. Interestingly, the report of this incident was not confined to newspaper accounts, but the woman was also named for her bravery in the House of Commons.5 4 One would assume that if there had been any actual danger to the woman from these men that this would have been reported as well, but no such mention is made. Therefore, it can safely be assumed that the fear that this woman felt was not based on any real or imminent danger. To call her a heroine, however, certainly implied that her actions were legitimate, thus, it not only legitimized the treatment of Japanese Canadians but had the added effect of encouraging the use of civic surveillance and policing. While surveillance certainly seemed to vary from province to province, there is no doubt that both provinces engaged in both official as well as civic surveillance. The constant supervision and surveillance acted to both rob Japanese Canadians of their autonomy, as well as discipline them through a tight control on their movements and behaviours. This control is even more pronounced when one examines how constraint was used through the implantation of both spatial and temporal boundaries. 96 CONSTRAINT AND COERCION The ubiquitous nature of surveillance meant that spatial boundaries were far more fluid and flexible than those of other carceral settings. With such far reaching surveillance, it was not necessary, nor desirable in terms of the type of labour needed, to use traditional forms of incarceration such as were used in concentration camps or even road camps, which were also closely guarded. Although there were no prison walls or prison guards, escape was an impossibility. For Japanese Canadians the entire nation was their warden and their bodies were their prison. Forced to register with government agencies and further marked by race, meant that anywhere in the nation that they went, Japanese Canadians would face the same scrutiny. While increased security was often called for, it was impossible to meet both the needs of labour and these calls for increased security. Farm labour required that family groups be kept somewhat intact and that they had a fairly wide range of movement. However, this is not to say that constraints on movement were absent in these settings. For instance, by tying families to individual farms, the movement of these families was strictly controlled (Adachi, 1991, 281). They were forbidden from obtaining work outside of the farm to which they were assigned unless they could obtain official permission to do so (Adachi, 1991,281). This control meant that the objectives of security, supervision and surveillance were not, therefore, necessary components of confinement. Instead, constraint took on a much more disciplinary and exclusionary form. According to Matthews (1999) the "separation of prisoners from the rest of society represents a clear statement that physical and social exclusion is the price of non-conformity" (26). In the case of Japanese Canadians, their non-conformity was based both on their race and on their suspect loyalty. Although many Japanese Canadians were, in fact, born in Canada or naturalized citizens, their loyalties and thus their citizenship were called into question. This perception of divided or misplaced loyalties was tied closely to race as well as to notions of 97 nationality. It was through these ties to race and nationality that complex spatial, as well as temporal boundaries were established. Further, the ties between race and nation must be understood as occurring at both the legal (national) level and then social (local) level (Razack, 2002, 17). For instance, as Oikawa (2002) shows in Cartographies of Violence: Women, Memory, and the Subject(s) of the 'Internment', the violence produced through the War Measures Act functioned in and through the multiple localities that Japanese Canadians inhabited. Thus, the legal enactment of the War Measures Act "presented an opportunity to ascribe the mark of 'enemy alien' upon Japanese nationals and 'disloyalty' upon Canadian citizens of Japanese origin" (77). Further, this racialized construction had consequences not only for Japanese Canadians in the multiple spaces they inhabited during the war but after it as well. This is indicative of what Foucault, in "Truth and Power" calls "the productive aspect of power" (2003, 97). Rather than power acting as solely repressive, power acted to produce subjects. As Foucault contends, What makes power hold good, what makes it accepted, is simply the fact that it doesn't only weigh on us as a force that says no; traverses and produces things...forms knowledge, produces discourse. It needs to be considered as a productive network that runs through the whole social body, much more than as a negative instance whose function is repression (307). Whether repressive or productive, power is inherent in the construction of space. Matthews (1999) contends that space is "never neutral. It establishes social divisions. It defines and redefines behaviour. It sends out messages. It provides the basis for the construction and dissemination of ideologies. It is a mechanism through which the distribution and circulation of bodies is achieved. It reflects and defines social relations and finally, it is a mechanism through which order is realized" (Matthews, 1999, 27). The messages that were sent regarding Japanese Canadians were clear. They had no inherent rights in regards to what spaces they could inhabit. Further, their rights were not simply violated in regards to the spaces of dislocation and relocation, but also in relation to their ability to traverse the spaces between these sites of 98 contestation. Mobility was, and continues to be , one of the ways in which the state establishes social divisions. Full citizens could travel without fear of reprisal, while Japanese Canadian movement was monitored and controlled through state sanctioned policies. Choice did, however, become a common discourse of relocation, especially in terms of labour sites. Although officials claimed, as early as February 24, 1942, that "Japanese nationals who are to be moved from the protected areas of British Columbia are not internees,"56 and thus did not fall under the Geneva Convention, it was clear that there was some concern that the treatment of Japanese Canadians in Canada would affect the treatment of Canadians interned in Japan. One article in the February 27, 1942 edition of the Winnipeg Free Press, for instance, stated that "the Government is wise in acting carefully to leave no room for complaint by Japan that there has been harsh or unfair treatment." Therefore, many articles spoke in terms of Japanese Canadians' agreement in coming to the provinces. However, as Mawani (2004) contends, "emphasis on agency and 'choice' obscures the racial violence upon which settlement colonies like Canada have been founded" (129). By framing the decision to relocate Japanese Canadians to Alberta and Manitoba in terms of choice, these newspapers not only erased the violence of forced relocation, but also justified the treatment of Japanese Canadians once they had been relocated. Additionally, despite these discourses of 'choice', it is clear that the choices were limited at best. Mik i (2004), for instance, explains that representatives of the B.C.S.C. "approached many families in the Fraser Valley — and urged them to accept work on what was called the 'sugar beet project,' either in Alberta or Manitoba. In the midst of the panic caused by the policy of splitting up families, the Fraser Valley communities were told that the families going to sugar beet farms could remain together" (5).59 Although the choice was ultimately in the hands of Japanese Canadians, the threat was clear: one must comply or risk separation from one's family. While the initial choice of participation, limited though it may have been, was given to Japanese Canadians, it is clear that once they committed to the program, 99 the choices were no longer their own. Choices, instead, became dictated by negotiations between the B.C.S.C. and towns and cities in Alberta and Manitoba. Although power is certainly productive, one of the qualities of carceral sites is also their repressive nature. Certainly, the freedoms, which were normally afforded to citizens in regards to freedom of choice especially in terms of home spaces, were not afforded to Japanese Canadians. The limited choices were administrated through the British Columbia Security Commission, an arm of the state. However, it is quite clear that the reach of the commission was, itself, limited. The power to decide where Japanese Canadians could and could not make their homes was often in the hands of municipal governments. This was especially the case when requests were made of larger cities, such as Winnipeg, (April 10, 1942)60 Edmonton (June 11, 1942),61 Lethbridge or Calgary (April 11, 1942),62 to admit Japanese Canadians. In these centres, labour concerns were common refrains in the protests against approving Japanese Canadian settlement. The Lethbridge city council, for instance, was "'positively' opposed to employment of Japanese evacuees in any capacity whatsoever" (August 19, 1942).63 This response was arguably due to the fact that cities saw cheap labour as a threat, while farming communities continued to be dependent on any labour they could get. This is not to say, however, that all farming communities welcomed Japanese Canadian labour with open arms. The Sugar Beet Programme was not based on an agreement between Japanese Canadian citizens and Alberta and Manitoba farmers; instead it took the form of an agreement between the B.C.S.C. and the communities, regarding the movement of Japanese Canadians. In fact, it was not unlike a process of prison building, whereby communities have power to approve or disapprove such plans. As full citizens, 'white' community members have the power to accept or reject the movement into their neighborhoods of those disfranchised groups such as prison inmates. In fact, many of the same types of discourses were called into play as are used today when half-way houses or other carceral sites are proposed in or near neighborhoods. These 100 include safety concerns. One article, for instance, protested allowing Japanese Canadians to inhabit a home where "a large percentage of children .. .would pass immediately in front of or behind."6 4 Also evident were concerns regarding property value, "one of the dwellings in which it is proposed to house the Japanese is immediately adjacent to some of the best dwellings on the banks of the Red river."6 5 Both of these concerns were voiced in a April 28 t h 1942 article in the Winnipeg Free Press. These types of protest were very effective, as the B.C.S.C. had vowed that no Japanese Canadians would be sent to places where they were not wanted. This meant that the already limited choices offered by the B.C.S.C. were restricted even further by a largely 'white' Canadian citizenry within these provinces. The decision to refuse entry to communities was one element of the carceral nature of the 'relocation' of Japanese Canadians. So too, however, were the ways in which Japanese Canadians were received. Prisoners, rather than becoming subject to discipline, become objects of it. According to Foucault (1995) the "classical age discovered the body as object and target of power. It is easy enough to find signs of the attention then paid to the body - to the body that is manipulated, shaped, trained, which obeys, responds, becomes skilful and increases its forces" (136). Thus, bodies subject to carceral conditions are both constrained in order for these powers to be acted upon them, as well as coerced through the discipline acted upon them. Further, Foucault (1995) argues that discipline "dissociates power from the body; on the one hand, it turns it into an 'aptitude', a 'capacity', which it seeks to increase; on the other hand, it reverses the course of the energy, the power that might result from it and turns it into a relation of strict subjection" (138). This objectification of Japanese Canadian bodies is especially evident in discourses of labour, which spoke only in terms of the use-value of Japanese Canadian bodies. Additionally, objectification took place through the use of space as a tool of discipline of Japanese Canadian bodies. For instance, upon arrival in Manitoba, Japanese Canadians "were first placed in the Immigration Building in Winnipeg, near the railway station. Some families remained there for 101 weeks, especially those with small children, as they waited for farmers to come and 'select' a family. One man who underwent the process recalled that 'it was sort of like slaves in the old slave markets'" (Miki, 2004, 6). In Picture Brides: Japanese Women in Canada, one woman describes a similar situation upon arriving in Alberta: We got to Lethbridge in Alberta, after two whole days in the train. Nobody came to meet us, no bosses. They didn't want any Japanese coming. Then it got to be like being sold as slaves. We got taken all across Alberta from west to east, stopping at every station, and family after family got sold off. We were just five adults and a baby, but we weren't farmers so it was very hard to find a buyer. We were leftover goods, and got sold at the very end" (Makabe, 1983, 60). While the newspaper accounts did not hint at the slavery-like conditions, they clearly indicated that Japanese Canadians were not free subjects, but instead, were objects of power. The language that was used to describe the movement of Japanese Canadians placed them as object, rather than the subject of these movements. Thus, Japanese Canadians were passively moved, rather than actively moving. Examples of this strategy were evident in the media coverage of relocation; phrases as "pending their dispersal to sugar beet farms in the province, where they have been already allocated" (April 11,1942),6 6 or "before being moved out to rural points" (April 27, 1942) illustrate that Japanese Canadians did not move, but were dispersed. They did not choose, but rather, they were allocated. This type of objectification was also evident in reports of the negotiations between the B.C.S.C. and an Ontario lumber company. Objectification was tied to the coercive forces of labour, whereby the bodies of Japanese Canadians became objects of trade, rather than subjects within trade. One article on February 7, 1942, reported that "[negotiations with some lumber companies are still continuing, but as one source explained, 'we are not having the success we hoped for. One company which placed an order now has cancelled it'." Another article three days later also referred to the company having "cancelled its order."69 Although, there was no indication from the language of these texts that they were discussing human subjects, the 'order' that they referred to, was an order for 102 Japanese Canadian men. Perhaps even more disturbing is that the exchange of bodies between spaces within Canada was also mirrored in an international exchange of the bodies of Japanese in Canada for Canadian prisoners held by Japan. Matthews (1999) contends that an attribute of temporal punishments is that "as time becomes commodified it can be 'traded', 'gained' or 'lost'" (39). This also becomes an issue when one considers the commodification of Japanese Canadian subjects, which in turn transformed them into objects. In March, 1942, the Canadian government had under consideration "the exchange with Japan of nationals with no official status." There was no indication whether these 'nationals' wished to remain in Canada or not. When the exchange took place in June, 1942, the names of Canadians being repatriated were released, although the Japanese were described only as "staff of the Japanese legation here and some Japanese nationals 71 from Vancouver." The distinction here, that the Japanese being traded were Japanese nationals, erases from view the probability that at least some considered Canada to be their home and that many were forced to leave behind Canadian family and friends in order to act as pawns in an effort to protect 'real' Canadians. There was no discussion of choice here. Those who remained in Canada experienced not only physical boundaries, but also the boundaries marked by social exclusion as well. According to Matthews (1999) "Prisons epitomize the ambiguous nature of notions of 'public' and 'private' space. Prisons are 'public' institutions in that they are run by or on behalf of the state, but they are 'private' in as much as they involve exclusion from the 'public' domain" (27). Even after the relocation of Japanese Canadians to these prairie provinces, life could not return to normal, as social exclusion became yet another carceral element in their lives. Already isolated by their ties to farms, Japanese Canadians were to face even further social exclusion when other Canadian citizens called for social restraints such as denied access to beer parlors, stores and taxis, proposed curfews, as well as for restrictions on Japanese employment and businesses. In Alberta, the Union of Alberta 103 Municipalities urged the provincial and Federal governments to prohibit Japanese from "going 79 into any beer parlors or stores" (June 27, 1942), the Lethbridge city council also forbid Japanese from occupying "jobs within the city limits" (August 21, 1942) and Calgary city council went on record as being unprepared "to permit a person forcibly moved by authorities to start up in business here" (April 1, 1942).74 In Winnipeg, the Manitoba Chapter of the Imperial Order of Daughters of the Empire, demanded that "no Japanese be allowed to hire or drive cars from any taxi agency in Winnipeg during the war" (October 17, 1942), although one reader, E. Jean Robinson, wrote a letter nearly two weeks later, strongly opposing this "most unworthy action on the part of an organization which has always stood for the good of all in this community."76 These boundaries between Japanese Canadians and other Canadians were evidence of the stripping of Japanese Canadian citizenship rights. Although many considered Japanese Canadians to be simply 'relocated', even after their relocation, sanctions against them continued. For instance, in Winnipeg it was reported that the Federal government ruled on March 5, 1942, that "[pjersons of Japanese race or belonging to 77 Japanese companies are forbidden to acquire or hold lands or grow crops in Canada" and in Alberta, it was reported on March 25, 1942, that legislation was in force "prohibiting Japanese from renting, leasing or buying land." Thus, issues regarding both the inhabitance and use of space are further evidence of the carceral nature of this 'relocation'. Additionally, even though most Japanese Canadians were permitted to stay within the nation, many were often discursively framed as outside of the nation through citizenship discourses. By spatially and discursively aligning Japanese Canadians with other racialized or marginalized groups, directly or indirectly, the media framed them as outside of the nation. For instance, although there was no direct contact reported between Japanese Canadians and Hutterites or First Nations groups, the media drew connections between the two groups, linking them together discursively. As mentioned earlier, prisons are marked by the ambiguity between 104 the public and the private. Those who inhabit carceral sites are, therefore, at once held captive within the nation, while at the same time excluded from participation within it. Thus, repatriation discourses were not only concerned with the physical expulsion of Japanese Canadians from the nation, they also framed Japanese Canadians as enemy aliens regardless of actual citizenship status, thus guaranteeing a less literal, but no less meaningful, expulsion for those who remained within Canada due to state intervention and labour imperatives. Although it cannot be denied that Japanese Canadians' rights were violated and their citizenship stripped through the War Measures Act, this was exacerbated by further marginalizing Japanese Canadians through their alignment with other marginalized groups, such as the Hutterites or First Nations people. Interestingly, this type of discourse was very prevalent in Alberta, while virtually non-existent in Manitoba. This may have been due, at least in part, to the hard stand that the Manitoba government had taken against racial intolerance, as evidenced in the anti-defamation laws enacted in that province. In Alberta, for instance, there were numerous articles that grouped together the rights of Japanese Canadians with those of the Hutterites. While there appeared to be little or no contact between these groups, connections continued to be drawn in the media based on issues of citizenship, duty, and nationalism. For instance, although only Japanese Canadians were singled out as a 'race' with the implementation of the War Measures Act, one article, dated March 11, 1942, reported on a bill introduced into the Alberta legislature which would "prohibit the sales of lands to any enemy aliens or Hutterites for the duration of the war. ...because they [the Hutterites] refuse to accept responsibilities of citizenship or support the war effort."" Another article only one day later, entitled "South Resents Foreign-Born Land Expansion", addressed the same proposed legislation in regards to both Hutterites and Japanese who hoped to settle where o n some "Japanese old-timers in the Raymond district own their farms." Other meetings such as one in Taber passed a resolution which asked, in regards to both Japanese Canadians and 105 Hutterites, that "legislation be framed to prevent any increase of colonies of any privileged group in Canada and also asking that present holdings be bought from these people and that they be 81 encouraged to move elsewhere" (March 17, 1942). Interestingly, in August of this same year, Lethbridge City Council also endorsed a resolution that asked the Alberta Liquor Control Board to prohibit both of these populations from "frequenting beer parlors in this city. The fear was expressed that if they continued to enter establishments visited by men in the armed services, trouble would arise."8 2 The Hutterites lived in colonies, in self-imposed semi-isolation that was based on strong religious convictions. While their isolation from surrounding communities seemed to be the basis for at least some of the hostility directed toward them, it is clear that attempts to further marginalize this population were based, at least in part, on their refusal to contribute to the 'war effort', again based on religious convictions. It is clear that this type of (in)action was not well-received, as it was another reminder that although this group was also 'white', there was an unwillingness on the part of this group to assimilate into the normative, 'white', Canadian society. In one case, reported on September 5, 1942, a "young pacifist farmer .. .pleading guilty to two charges under the Defence of Canada Regulations Act was fined $100 and costs on the OA one charge and was given a suspended sentence of one year on the other." Despite the fairly light penalty, the judge made his opinion clear, stating that a "man who doesn't protect his country and home is not worthy to be called a citizen." It is interesting that Japanese Canadians, whose efforts to participate in the war effort were not allowed, were still commonly linked with a group who were often seen as lacking patriotism and thus nationalism. Thus, their movements and rights were constantly being called into question through this imposed association. In fact, in some cases, Japanese Canadians were treated more harshly by the press. In response to the request to ban Japanese Canadians as well as Hutterites from beer parlors, one editorial on August 13, 1942, did not question the wisdom of such a request in regard to the 106 "enemy race", except to comment on his surprise that "the religious-minded, non-combatant 87 Hutterites are included in the request." Japanese Canadians were also aligned with another marginalized group, although this time the alignment was entirely spatial. What I am referring to here, is the proposed placement of 6,000 Japanese women and children in "Indian residential schools in British Columbia, Alberta and Manitoba" that was reported on June 5, 1942.88 What is interesting about this plan, proposed by the British Columbia Security Commission (B.C.S.C), was that this plan was aimed at relocating only women and children. It can safely be assumed that the men associated with these families would most likely have been placed in labour camps, as this was the case in other instances where families were separated. This plan, then, placed greater value on men's labour and placed both women and children in the vulnerable and dependent positions. By thus locating women as dependents of the state, Japanese Canadian women were depicted as having less economic value. Additionally, this proposed plan also would have had the added effect of disciplining men, through their separation from their families. Additionally, these proposed sites, like most sites that housed women and children, such as ghost towns in British Columbia, were isolated sites. It is my contention that this served to erase Japanese Canadian women from the public landscape. While it was possible to depict Japanese Canadian men as national security threats, traditional notions of feminine passivity made the treatment of women far more difficult to justify. Thus, civic surveillance of women would have been much more difficult to motivate. With isolation, however, it was no longer necessary. Although, this spatial alignment did not directly affect Japanese Canadians who worked on sugar beet farms, it is important to this study as this alignment is an indication of how their citizenship was viewed. This association and the spaces which formed the association must not be understood as neutral. As Manning (2003) has suggested, spaces "are the results of influence and power" (xix). The residential schools, run by church organizations, were a tool of discipline, 107 colonization, assimilation and cultural genocide, "transforming the mind of the aboriginal youth on rather than educating it" (Frideres, 2000, 211). Although I could find no evidence to suggest that Japanese Canadians were actually sent to these schools, this proposal is suggestive of the connections between the ways that space has been used to disfranchise both Japanese Canadians and First Nations. Just as reserves acted to free up Canadian land for 'white' settlers,90 land was also 'freed up' through the evacuation and subsequent disposal of property of Japanese Canadians. Additionally, just as residential schools acted as a tool of discipline, space was used in the form of sugar beet farms as a way to discipline Japanese Canadian bodies through labour. Unlike the First Nations people, however, Japanese Canadians did not have a long history of land ownership that predated 'white' settlement. Thus, more extreme spatial exclusion was often called for through repatriation discourses. Calls for repatriation of Japanese Canadians were extremely common during this time period. While other spatial constraints called into question the citizenship of Japanese Canadians, repatriation was the ultimate indication that Japanese Canadians were seen as outside of the nation. Although repatriation can be understood as resistance on the part of some Japanese Canadians, it was also for many Japanese Canadians the moment when the loss of citizenship was complete. Repatriation was the ultimate loss of space. Repatriation was, in many ways, a permanent form of incarceration or exile, as it meant a total exclusion from and boundary between Canadian citizenship and those who were repatriated. While the ephemeral nature of internment meant uncertain citizenship, repatriation had a permanence that ended the uncertainty, at least in regards to Canadian citizenship. Canadian citizenship was withdrawn from Japanese Canadians at the same time that Japanese Canadians were being withdrawn from Canada. Their once-hyphenated citizenship, for full citizenship had never been offered, was rescinded once and for all. 108 Interestingly, although calls for repatriation were common, the term 'deportation' was never used. However, as Roberts (1988) argues, repatriation indeed constitutes "an informal and extralegal system of deportation" (5). Additionally, according to the Merriam Webster Dictionary, repatriate is defined as "to restore or return to the country of origin, allegiance, or citizenship" (Merriam Webster Online), while deportation is defined as "the removal from a country of an alien whose presence is unlawful or prejudicial" (Merriam Webster Online). One distinction between these two terms, an important one, is the distinction of choice. However, as I will argue next, although framed as choice, repatriation was often a result of coercion and force. A second distinction is the motivation of deportation, that the alien's presence was unlawful or prejudicial. As I argue throughout this thesis, the War Measures Act produced subjects without choice, subjects of incarceration. Given that the spaces of Japanese internment were carceral spaces, 'repatriation' can more correctly be understood as deportation.91 Further, as Roberts (1988) in her study of early deportation laws and practices in Canada argues, "'deports' had fewer rights than criminals; they were not entitled to due process, to know the precise nature of charges against them, to confront their accusers, or to be tried by a jury of their peers. They were presumed guilty and their hearings took place at closed administration tribunals" (3). Thus, deportation must be understood as part of the carceral apparatus in relation to Japanese Canadians, for deportation acted as a tool of control and discipline, making docile those who 92 stayed in the country and ejecting those who were considered a danger to "the public health, the public safety, or the public purse" (18). Consequently, discourses of repatriation, euphemistic though the term may be, also served to work as tools of control and discipline, despite being framed in the media as issues of choice. Although in many cases repatriation was framed as a choice, for most it was not a choice, but the result of intense coercion and subterfuge. The 'repatriation survey' of 1945 "required Japanese Canadians to commit to moving 'east of the Rockies' or to Japan" (Oikawa, 2002, 87). 109 According to Kunimoto (2004), "rather than a voluntary choice between Japan and Canada, this demand offered repatriation at an unspecified time, or immediate, but not necessarily permanent, resettlement in eastern Canada... Government documents reinforced fears about an uncertain future in Canada, emphasizing that resettlement and employment would be designated by the state" (145). Interestingly, most of the calls for repatriation targeted not only Japanese nationals, but Canadian born Japanese as well. This was commonly seen in the Alberta newspaper, while the Winnipeg newspaper only reported on one resolution in British Columbia regarding repatriation. In Calgary, numerous articles asked for the repatriation of Japanese Canadians. For instance, in February, 1942, one politician was quoted as stating that he "hoped that the end of the war would see the repatriation of the whole Japanese population of British Columbia. They should be treated fairly, but they should go." 9 3 This opinion was echoed by other groups such as the Trades and Labour Council who, on March 14, 1942, asked "for the internment of all Japanese whether nationals or Canadian citizens" arguing that Canada should, "[s]hip 'em back to Japan now. Why wait till the end of the war?" 9 4 The Canadian Legion, another group strongly opposed to Japanese Canadians relocating to Alberta also took a similar stand. Although their official resolution was to send "Japanese nationals back to Japan as soon as possible",9 5 the June 3, 1942 article went on to say that, there may be some Japanese in this country who have turned their backs on Shintoism and the pursuit of world domination by the Japanese, but they are few. This country could well do without them. Like everything they do the Japanese lie with a smile and with a deadly serious purpose. And that purpose bodes no good for the white race.9 6 It is clear that this group as well would have certainly preferred that no Japanese be allowed to stay in Canada. Yet another indication that those in Alberta strongly supported the repatriation scheme was their strong support of B.C.'s stand in this matter. 110 Once Japanese Canadians were removed from coastal areas, B.C. took a strong stand, demanding on September 10, 1942, for instance, the "passage of an exclusion act and the repatriation of all Japanese residents now in Canada." A previous Alberta editorial supported this type of demand, stating: British Columbia does not want them back and will not accept them, and quite rightly. They will have to be repatriated to Japan where they cannot do Canada any harm. ..It is the feeling of the people in British Columbia and it would be the feeling of the people of the rest of the country if they were wise and informed that at the close of the war all Japanese in this country should not be sent back to British Columbia but should be repatriated. This is the time to take that action when there are 22,000 or 23,000 of them and not when we are overrun with 200,000 or 300,000 (June 10, 1942).98 Other similar articles also supported B.C.'s wish to rid themselves of "the Japanese problem" (October 19, 1942),99 but added to this support their own concerns about having to be "saddled with them" 1 0 0 and therefore supported calls for repatriation. It should come as no surprise that Alberta was quite vocal on this account compared to Manitoba. From the beginning of negotiations, Alberta was quite adamant that Japanese Canadians not be allowed to stay in the province after the war. While Manitoba had negotiated with the B.C.S.C. to have Japanese Canadians removed from the province after the war, they also accepted Japanese Canadians into the province although no actual agreement was put into place in this regard. With British Columbia's resolution that Japanese Canadians would not be allowed to return to the coast, the threat of Japanese Canadian settlement in Alberta became more imminent. Thus, their support seems to stem from the fact that while the Alberta government did have an agreement that the B.C.S.C. would remove all Japanese Canadians after the war, it seemed as if the B.C.S.C. had no intention of honoring this agreement unless they could arrange for the repatriation of all Japanese Canadians. Thus, the spatial boundaries which delineated where Japanese Canadians could and could not go were also linked to temporal boundaries that marked the duration of their stay. Ill Temporal and spatial boundaries, therefore, cannot be understood as separate and distinct from one another. They are always both "timed-places and placed-times" (Manning, 2003, 13). By their very nature, carceral sites are defined by boundaries which are always both spatial and temporal. According to Matthews (1999), one of the attributes of time-centred modes of punishment is that "[t]ime and liberty ... were commodities which all citizens possessed in equal amounts and could dispose of freely" (39). Further, "because time itself is essentially a social construct, it confers on imprisonment a quality which is truly social" (3). This becomes important in terms of Japanese Canadians as temporal constraints worked to limit social interaction. The limitations on creating and building social ties to the community were, in fact, bounded up in the temporary nature of their incarceration. In the case of Japanese Canadians, the internment was marked by temporary though undetermined time boundaries. The displacement, dispossession, and internment of Japanese Canadians were effected under the authority of the War Measures Act. The Act certainly implied that these measures were temporary, as the Act itself could only be called upon "until by the issue of a further proclamation it is declared that the war, invasion or insurrection no longer exists" (as cited in Adachi, 1991, 429). Although Japanese Canadians could perhaps garner some hope from the fact that this Act was of a temporary nature, they were also aware of the long-term effects of the Act. In fact, the subsequent dispersal of their property, which was initially held in trust, erased all hope that they would ever be able to return to their lives on the West Coast of British Columbia. So, although their incarceration was of a temporary nature, the effects were to be felt by generations to come. In fact, for the many Japanese Canadians held in custody, whether in self-support sites, work sites or P.O.W. camps, their release held almost as much uncertainty as did their confinement. Additionally, although the measures were deemed to be temporary, there was no way of knowing how many months or years this 'temporary' measure 112 would last. For those who died or were repatriated during this period, 'temporary' measures became, in fact, permanent ones. The temporary nature of the Act meant that legally, Japanese Canadians would regain their previously limited rights after the war. However, there were no guarantees that they would be able to return to their hometowns, nor that they could settle in the provinces to which they were sent. In addition to the disposal of their properties, Japanese Canadians were faced with the fact that each province was adamant that they should not be allowed to settle there after the war, although this was much less the case in Manitoba, than in British Columbia or Alberta. Although the B.C.S.C. had the "power to remove Japanese whenever deemed advisable",1 0 1 once Japanese Canadians were relocated to other provinces, Liberal member Cruickshank told the House of Commons on July 10, 1942, "I am warning this government that it will never put the Japanese back in British Columbia." Thus, despite the euphemisms such as 'relocation', it is clear from the temporal, as well as spatial boundaries, that nothing as benign as simple relocation was taking place. Instead, Japanese Canadians were faced with a dis-location. Relocation implies that Japanese Canadians were able to make these new provinces their home. However, dis-location attends to the fact that there could be no ties between the spaces they inhabited and what they might call 'home'. The impermanence of their stay made it impossible, therefore, to engage in or build social ties in the communities that housed them. The social, economic, geographical and ideological dislocation of Japanese Canadians served to both constrain and coerce this population. The efforts of both state and extra-state groups combined to make Japanese Canadians into virtual prisoners. The economic constraints placed on Japanese Canadians as a result of government regulations meant that the only work available to them was the work that tied them physically to the sugar beet farms to which they were sent. Further, municipal governments disallowed both Japanese Canadian men and women from working in surrounding communities, making them even more vulnerable to exploitation in 113 their work on the farms. Barriers which limited movement of Japanese Canadians in surrounding towns and cities also made civic surveillance much more probable. The B.C.S.C, for instance, required that Japanese Canadians have a permit to travel more than ten miles from where they lived, making social surveillance unproblematic, thus guaranteeing that Japanese Canadians were never outside of this civic gaze. This gaze took the form of newspaper reporting, civic group protests, individual 'concerned citizen' letters and in at least one case, civic policing. Unlike a prison, these carceral sites were unique in that there were no fixed boundaries, either spatially or temporally. Although some would argue that this meant more freedom for Japanese Canadians, it is also clear that it meant escape also became impossible. The fluidity of spatial boundaries meant that no matter where Japanese Canadians went, their prisons went with them. The uncertainty of the temporal boundaries meant that they could not count on returning to their old homes, nor could they plan to settle in their new homes. In many ways, these fluid boundaries also erased the carceral nature of these sites of internment, making protest and resistance much more difficult. To this day, many continue to discuss the internment of Japanese Canadians in terms of 'relocation'. However, as Oikawa (2002) contends, "the social processes of expulsion, incarceration, forced displacement, and deportation were euphemistically named evacuation, relocation, resettlement, and repatriation. These descriptors connote a sense of voluntary movement on the part of Japanese Canadians or benevolence on the part of the government and mask the violence and the force producing these processes and the force produced through them" (88). Despite this euphemistic language, the invisible boundaries that marked the sugar beet farms as carceral sites had the power to assure an internalized surveillance, ensuring compliance, submission, and obedience of Japanese Canadians who dwelled within them. Escape was impossible and resistance futile, for walls of glass leave scars upon the bodies of those who attempt to pass through them. 114 NOTES TO CHAPTER FOUR Of the three hundred articles, fifty seven percent or one hundred and seventy two of the articles came from the Calgary Herald: nearly ninety percent of these were news articles, eight percent were editorials, and two percent were letters to the editor. The Winnipeg Free Press articles were similarly comprised; of the one hundred and twenty eight articles, eighty eight percent were news articles, eight percent were editorials and four percent were letters to the editor. In conventional prisons, for instance, prisoners are confined in locked cells and patrolled by armed guards. None of these conventional markers were present for those who worked in sugar beet fields. 3 "Commission Wil l Check Movement Of Japs in South: Provide Extra Police Protection If Necessary", Calgary Herald; March 14, 1942, p. 17. 4 In fact, although often framed negatively, many newspaper accounts did refer to the resourcefulness of Japanese Canadians, which indeed made them an even greater threat to the white population. 5 "Commission Wil l Check Movement Of Japs in South: Provide Extra Police Protection If Necessary", Calgary Herald, March 14, 1942, p. 17. 6 "Urges Dominion Foot Jap Costs", Calgary Herald, March 19, 1942, p. 3. 7 "Japs to Help With Sugar Beets" Winnipeg Free Press, March 26, 1942, p. 5. "Farming Japs Help Province, Graham Says", Winnipeg Free Press, April 23, 1942, p. 3. 9 See also Hunt (1999) for a discussion of how, for instance, charity and philanthropy emeerged as forms of civic moral regulation (57-65).. 1 0 "Urges Dominion Foot Jap Costs", Calgary Herald, March 19, 1942, p. 3. 1 1 Japs to Help With Sugar Beets" Winnipeg Free Press, March 26, 1942, p. 5. 19 "Farming Japs Help Province, Graham Says", Winnipeg Free Press, April 23, 1942, p. 3. 1 3 "Order Aliens Out of B.C. Area", Winnipeg Free Press, February 14, 1942, p. 3. 1 4 "Protests Japs In Raymond Area", Calgary Herald, March 4, 1942, p. 1. 1 5 "Protests Japs In Raymond Area", Calgary Herald, March 4, 1942, p. 1. 1 6 "Opinion Divided On Japs Entering Raymond District", Calgary Heard, March 5, 1942, p. 15. 1 7 "Voluntary Migration of Japanese Stopped", Winnipeg Free Press, March, 7, 1942, p. 28. 1 8 " First Japanese Due This Week", Calgary Herald, April 6, 1942, p. 3. 1 9 "Mitchell Defends Handling of Japs, Winnipeg Free Press, June 20, 1942. p. 6. 2 0 "Mitchell Defends Handling of Japs, Winnipeg Free Press, June 20, 1942. p. 6. "Mitchell Defends Handling of Japs, Winnipeg Free Press, June 20, 1942. p. 6. 2 2 "Japs Interned", Calgary Herald, June, 17, 1942, p. 17. 2 3 "Wainwright May Be Jap Colony", Calgary Herald, July 30, 1942, p. 3. 2 4 "House Told B.C. Japs Defiant", Winnipeg Free Press, July 30, 1942, p. 7. 115 7 S "Neill Charges Friend of Japs Advises Ottawa", Calgary Herald, February 20, 1942, p. 5. 2 6 "Buttons to Show Manitoba Chinese Not Japanese", Winnipeg Free Press, May 28, 1942, p. 10. 2 7 "Japanese For Alberta" Calgary Herald, March 6, 1942, Sec. 2 p. 1. "First Japanese Due This Week", Calgary Herald, April 6, 1942, p. 3. "No Japanese Have Taken Land Near City Damn", Calgary Herald, April 9, 1942, p. 1 "B .C. Jap Families reach Lethbridge", Calgary Herald, April 13, 1942, p. 18. "More Japanese Coming Here", Calgary Herald, April 17, 1942, p. 2. "B .C . Japs Reach Alberta Steadily", Calgary Herald, April 22, 1942, p. 8. "Thousand Japs Now in South", Calgary Herald, May 1, 1942, p. 10. "Jap Beet Worker Exodus Near End", Calgary Herald, June 10, 1942, p. 8 2 8 "132 Japs From B.C. Go Through Winnipeg", Winnipeg Free Press, April 1, 1942, p. 3 'Third Group of Japs Passes Through City", Winnipeg Free Press, April 18, 1942, p. 2. 2 9 "Vanguard of Jap Farm Workers To Arrive in Manitoba Monday", Winnipeg Free Press, April 11, 1942, p 5. 3 0 See Gutkin and Gutkin (1997) for an in depth discussion of Manitoba's rich history of labour dissent. 3 1 See for instance, Sunahara (1981), Adachi (1991) and Roy, Granatstein, lino and Takarmura (1990). 3 2 "Demand Al l Japs Moved from Coast", Winnipeg Free Press, February 22, 1942, p. 22. 'Demand A l l Japs Moved from Coast", Winnipeg Free Press, February 22, 1942, p. 22. 'Raymond Objects To Jap Influx", Calgary Herald, March 10, 1942, p. 16. 'Meetings Protest Influx of Japs Into South", Calgary Herald, March 17, 1942 p. 11. 'Jasper Resents Presence of Japs", Calgary Herald, April 8, 1942, p. 7. 'Protest Settling Japs in Alberta", Calgary Herald, April 11, 1942, p. 1 'Public Protests Jap Settlements", Calgary Herald, March 23, 1942, p. 11. See Takata (1983) and Roy, Granatstein, lino and Takamura (1990). 'St. Clements Asks For Jap Removal", Winnipeg Free Press, May 13, 1942, p. 3. 'Japs Removed From Lockport After Protests", Winnipeg Free Press, May 8, 1942, p. 4. 'Japs Removed From Lockport After Protests", Winnipeg Free Press, May 8, 1942, p. 4. 'One Man's Opinion", Calgary Herald, March 30, 1942, p. 4. 'One Man's Opinion: The Japanese At Lethbridge", Calgary Herald, June 8, 1942, p. 4. 'One Man's Opinion: The Japanese At Lethbridge", Calgary Herald, June 8, 1942, p. 4. 'Japs Are Potential Danger", Calgary Herald, April 8, 1942, p. 4. 'Japs Should be Interned", Calgary Herald, May 13, 1942, p. 4. 116 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 4 8 "Must be Sent Home After the War", Calgary Herald, July 10, 1942, p. 4. 4 9 "Japs Are Potential Danger", Calgary Herald, April 8, 1942, p. 4. 5 0 As alluded to earlier in this thesis, scholars such as Adachi (1991, p. 280) and Sunahara (1981, 79) have regarded Albertan's negative attitudes toward Japanese Canadians as stemming from the "identification of British Columbia's 'Japanese problem' with Alberta's 'Hutterite problem' (Sunahara, 198179). 5 1 "Names Heroine Of Jap 'Retreat'", Calgary Herald, July 4, 1942, p. 1. 5 2 "Names Heroine Of Jap 'Retreat'", Calgary Herald, July 4, 1942, p. 1. 5 3 "Names Heroine Of Jap 'Retreat'", Calgary Herald, July 4, 1942, p. 1. 5 4 "Names Heroine Of Jap 'Retreat'", Calgary Herald, July 4, 1942, p. 1. 5 5 It is increasingly clear that these racialized limitations on mobility of the past are being revisited once more on the present. As Thobani (2004) contends, following the events of September 11, 2001, there has been a "new phase in the exclusion of people of color from the Western liberal democratic project. Even as the war is presented to the world as a defense of democratic rights and freedoms, the U.S. administration is institutionalizing racial profiling as a domestic security measure. Liberal democracy makes claims to the equal treatment of individuals before the law, but such profiling singles out individuals as suspicious on the basis of their "race," subjecting them to increased surveillance and control" (597). 5 6 "Japan Agrees On Treatment of Civilians", Winnipeg Free Press, February 24, 1942, p. 4. 5 7 "Moving the Japanese", Winnipeg Free Press, February 27, 1942, p. 15, 5 8 See Mawani (2004) for a discussion of the ways in which mythologies of choice operated in regards to Chinese Canadian redress claims. 5 9 Keeping families together may have been the incentive to go to Alberta and Manitoba. However, ironically, some families were forced to regroup "themselves to meet the requirement that families include at least 80 per cent workers and number approximately six in order to fit the available housing" (Roy, et al., 1990, 142), which meant that some families were not able to remain intact. 6 0 "Queen Explains City's Function as to Japs", Winnipeg Free Press, April 10, 1942, p. 10. 6 1 "Across Canada", Calgary Herald, June 11, 1942, p. 5. 6 2 Oppose Japs Settling in City", Calgary Herald, April 11, 1942, p. 9. 6 3 "Refuse to Employ Japanese Evacuees", Calgary Herald, August 19, 1942, p. 5. 6 4 "Jap Settlement Near Lockport Is Protested", Winnipeg Free Press, April 28, 1942, p. 5. 6 5 "Jap Settlement Near Lockport Is Protested", Winnipeg Free Press, April 28, 1942, p. 5. 6 6 "Vanguard of Jap Farm Workers To Arrive in Manitoba Monday", Winnipeg Free Press, April 11, 1942, p. 5. 6 7 "112 Japs Arrive to Work on Farms", Winnipeg Free Press, April 27, 1942, p. 6. 6 8 "Harris Suggests Japanese Fishermen Be Sent to Manitoba" Winnipeg Free Press, February 7, 1942, p. 5. 6 9 "First 100 Japs To Be Moved To Alta. Camp" Winnipeg Free Press, February 10, 1942, p. 17. 117 7 0 "Discuss With Japs Exchange Of Nationals", Winnipeg Free Press, March 19, 1942, p. 17. 7 1 "Canada, Japan Arrange Exchange", Calgary Herald, June 22, 1942, p. 3 7 2 "Want A l l Japs Out of Alberta After War: Municipalities also Want Them Barred From Taverns", Calgary Herald, June 27, 1942, p. 12. 7 3 "Lethbridge Frowns On Japs in City", Calgary Herald, August 21, 1942, p. 8. 7 4 "Delay Granting Japs Permits", Calgary Herald, April 1, 1942, p. 22. 7 5 "No Joy Rides: Curbs for Local Japs Asked By I.O.D.E. Chapter Resolution." Winnipeg Free Press, October 17, 1942, p. 14. 7 6 "Protests I.O.D.E. Resolution", Winnipeg Free Press, October 31, 1942, p. 14. 7 7 "Ruling on Japs", Winnipeg Free Press, March 5, 1942, p. 1 7 8 "May Place 400 Jap Families In South Alberta", Calgary Herald, March 25, 1942, p. 11. 7 9 "Walker Raises Jap Problem", Calgary Herald, March 11, 1942, p. 3. 8 0 "South Resents Foreign-Born Land Expansion", Calgary Herald, March 12, 1942, p. 17. 8 1 "Meetings Protest Influx of Japs Into South", Calgary Herald, March 17, 1942, p. 11. 8 2 "Would Bar Japs", Calgary Herald, August 5, 1942, p. 3 8 3 See for instance, Hostetler and Huntington (1980). 8 4 "No Jail Term For Pacifist", Calgary Herald, September 5, 1942, p. 19. 8 5 "No Jail Term For Pacifist", Calgary Herald, September 5, 1942, p. 19. 8 6 "Keep Them Out of Beverage Parlors", Calgary Herald, August 13, 1942, p. 4. 8 7 "Keep Them Out of Beverage Parlors", Calgary Herald, August 13, 1942, p. 4. 8 8 "Japs to Occupy Elkhorn School", Winnipeg Free Press, June 5, 1942, p. 12. 8 9 Interestingly, there were no indications that missionary work was directed at Japanese Canadians during this period, although churches did become involved in providing educational services to Japanese Canadians who were interned in some of the more isolated sites (Adachi, 1991, 264). What is interesting, however, is that although conversion attempts did not seem to take place within the camps, according to Ichikawa (1994) officials did try, initially, to keep groups together based on their religious affiliations, as prior to this period, many Japanese had converted to Christianity, though the majority still identified as Buddhist. Ichikawa (1994) states that at the outbreak of the war, some 15,000 of the 23,000 who were interned were adherents of the Buddhist faith. 9 0 See Mawani (2003). 9 1 See Oikawa (2002, 88) for a more detailed discussion of the ways euphemistic language operates as part of a discourse of voluntarism. 9 2 See, for instance, Roberts' (1988) discussion of the function of deportation in regulating "the balance between labour demand and labour supply" (9). 9 3 "Neill Charges Friend of Japs Advises Ottawa", Calgary Herald, February 20, 1942, p. 5. 9 4 "Labor Council Protests Moving Japanese Here", Calgary Herald, March 14, 1942, p. 20. 118 y s "Japanese Should Be Sent Home After War Ends", Calgary Herald, June 3, 1942, p. 4. (emphasis added). 9 6 "Japanese Should Be Sent Home After War Ends", Calgary Herald, June 3, 1942, p. 4. 9 7 "No Japanese Wanted When War Ends", Calgary Herald, September 10, 1942, p. 4. 9 8 "Must Be Sent Home After the War" Calgary Herald, July 10, 1942, p. 4. 9 9 "B.C. 's Japs", Calgary Herald, October 19, 1942, p. 5. 1 0 0 "B.C. 's Japs", Calgary Herald, October 19, 1942, p. 5. 1 0 1 "May Place 400 Jap Families In South Alberta", Calgary Herald, March 25, 1942, p. 11. 1 0 2 "Must be Sent Home After the War", Calgary Herald, July 10, 1942, p. 4. 119 Chapter Five: Labour and the Construction of Citizenship The period of February, 1942 to March, 1943 was a crucial period in the construction and reinforcing of boundaries of citizenship in regards to Japanese Canadians. During this time, decisions were being made regarding whether or not Japanese Canadians would be permitted to relocate to Alberta and Manitoba, and the terms of their labour and their relationships to farmers and communities were beginning to be crystallized. The newspapers from this period are a rich source for gaining an understanding of how citizenship was constructed for Japanese Canadians. The Calgary Herald and the Winnipeg Free Press, as large, local newspapers were extremely generative in this regard. Unfortunately, I was unable to find any Japanese newspapers in these areas, due to wartime restrictions. As previously mentioned, the three hundred articles that I analyzed were pulled from the two daily newspapers, after a thorough search of each daily paper for this one-year period.1 An analysis of these newspapers shows how labour was used to define some as citizens, while others, specifically Japanese Canadians were either framed as either outside of the nation or erased from view. THE ROOTS OF RACISM To begin a discussion of these themes without providing an historical context would be shortsighted. For Japanese Canadians, most of this context is rooted in the treatment they received prior to their relocation and hence the discussion here relates to Canada's west coast. Prior to their relocation, much of the Canadian Japanese population resided along the coastal areas of British Columbia. Understanding their tenuous citizenship during and following their relocation necessitates an understanding of their lives prior to it as well. Full citizenship allows for not only political freedom, but also economic freedom. Access to economic resources and rights to economic success are, therefore, markers of citizenship. 'Whites', especially males, in Canada have been guaranteed this access, not only through their absolute access to employment, 120 but also through their ability to exploit minority groups who have traditionally been provided with limited access to employment. 'White' society thus benefited from the cheap labour of minority groups, as well as from unlimited access to higher salaries and better opportunities. This can clearly be seen in the context of Canadian history. At the time that the Japanese began immigrating to Canada, the notion of a 'white settler society' was a pervasive one. According to Razack (2002), a "white settler society is one established by Europeans on non-European soil. Its origins lie in the dispossession and near extermination of Indigenous populations by the conquering Europeans. As it evolves, a white settler society continues to be structured by a racial hierarchy" (1). Initially, this notion helped to legitimize the "forcible and relentless dispossession of Indigenous peoples, the theft of their territories, and the implementation of legislation and policies designed to effect their total disappearance as peoples" (Lawrence, 2002, 24). Later, this hierarchy necessitated the control of non-white immigrants, especially through land ownership, citizenship rights and labour. Thus, Asian immigration, while certainly not welcome, was tolerated not as a source of potential settlers and citizens, but instead as a cheap source of labour (Avery, 1995, 45). However, it was clear that non-white populations were only tolerated when their labour was needed. "Between 1880 and 1884 Chinese labourers - primarily men - were recruited to work in the most dangerous jobs during the construction of the Canadian Pacific Railway and received little by way of remuneration ... following the completion of the railway in 1885, the federal government introduced the Chinese Immigration Act, 1885, which launched the infamous 'head tax' system" (Abu-Laban, 1998, 71). Thus, once the need for labour had passed, the government of Canada made it difficult not only for other Chinese people to enter the country, but also for Chinese men already in Canada to bring their families over as well. Further, in British Columbia Japanese and Chinese populations made up the lowest paid workers. "On the whole, Japanese workers, like their Chinese counterparts, earned one-half to 121 two-thirds of what whites were paid for equivalent work" (Ward, 1990, 112). Thus, the benefit to 'white' citizens was certainly evident and much of the support for Japanese immigration to Canada took the form of powerful allies such as the Canadian Pacific Railway (Avery, 1995, 47). It is clear, however, that the benefit of cheap labour was often not enough to ensure a non-hostile environment for the Japanese in Canada. As Ward (1990) explains, "the most durable of all Japanese stereotypes was the belief that they jeopardized the economic interests of white British Columbia.... Because they accepted low pay, long work days and low standards of living, Japanese immigrants seemed a threat to the white workingman" (103). Opposition to Asian immigration, therefore, often took the form of being protectionist of the "working class of British Columbia" (Avery, 1995, 45). This opposition took the form of lobbying, protesting against immigration, and sometimes violence. While largely made up of 'white' working class men, these anti-Asian groups were not without power and often found legislative support. "In 1878, for example, the employment of Asians on provincial public works was prohibited; at the same time legislation was passed placing a special tax on Chinese residents" (Avery, 1995, 45). However, despite the efforts at the provincial level to stem the immigration of Asian groups, at the level of the Dominion government, Asian immigrants continued to be viewed as a ready source of cheap labour. Thus, large corporations had much to gain and 'white' working class workers the most to lose. This certainly set the stage for not only racial tension, but also racially constructed policies of exclusion. Thus, Japanese Canadians continued to face hostility in British Columbia until their forced evacuation during World War II. For those who inhabited the sugar beet farms in Southern Alberta and Manitoba, their labour would continue to be a focus of state control, exploitation, and discipline. Further, it will be argued that in these provinces labour was central to the construction of citizenship as a privilege of 'whiteness'. 122 CONSTRUCTING CANADIAN' CITIZENSHIP Constructing citizenship is far more complex than controlling immigration and implementing citizenship laws. Citizenship is membership in what Anderson (1991) calls the imagined community. Canada was imagined as a 'white' community and thus, it was difficult to imagine offering membership to non-white residents. In fact, throughout the newspaper articles analyzed here, there were always clear delineations between 'Canadians' and 'Japanese'4 in Canada, with Canadians being equated with 'whiteness' and Japanese as always outside of the nation, regardless of actual citizenship status. Further, this discriminatory approach to nationalism and citizenship was linked closely to labour. This should come as no surprise, as racism according to Anderson (1991) found its origin in ideologies of class, rather than in those of nation: above all in claims to divinity among rulers and to 'blue' or 'white' blood and 'breeding among aristocracies. No surprise then that the putative sire of modern racism should be, not some petit-bourgeois nationalist, but Joseph Arthur, Comte de Gobineau. Nor that on the whole, racism and anti-semitism manifest themselves, not across national boundaries, but within them. In other words, they justify not so much foreign wars as domestic repression and domination" (150). As will become clear, allowing migrants entrance into a country, therefore does not guarantee full rights of citizenship. In fact, Canada has a long history of denying full citizenship rights to visible minority immigrants while at the same time taking advantage of their labour power.5 For instance, although many employers welcomed the first wave of Japanese immigrants to British Columbia, the provincial government proceeded to disfranchise them in 1895. According to Roy, Granatstein, lino and Takamura (1990), this disfranchisement "was tantamount to a denial of full civic rights, since inclusion on the provincial voters' list was often a prerequisite for voting in federal elections, for membership in certain professional organizations, and for the receipt of certain kinds of licenses" (7). We can see, therefore, that despite their admittance to Canada, citizenship rights were not granted to those of Japanese ancestry. 123 Citizenship is embedded in ideologies of power, specifically of inclusion, exclusion, and discipline. These ideologies inform and reflect who has rights to full economic, political, and social membership in the nation. Power, therefore, cannot simply be understood as that which is enacted within official political or economic realms. Power, according to Holt (1995), "can only be realized at the level of everyday practice, and it is dependent - ultimately and inherently - on the reproduction of relations, idioms, and the world-view that are its means of action" (10). Further, "it is precisely within the ordinary and everyday that racialization has been most effective, where it makes race" (Holt, 1995, 14). At the very basic level of the ordinary and the everyday, we find labour. Further, labour is an effective tool of inclusion, exclusion, and discipline, especially through the disciplining of bodies (Foucault, 1995, 139). According to Foucault (1995), "discipline increases the forces of the body (in economic terms of utility) and diminishes these same forces (in political terms of obedience) (139). In fact, labour is key to disciplining bodies, both in terms of utility and obedience. Understanding the ways in which labour was used not only to define citizenship, but also to control its citizens is a vital imperative of social history. Social history, according to Creese (1992), "attempts to overcome the organizational and economic orientation of conventional labour history by reinserting workers into their social context and examining a broad range of working-class practices arising from the many facets of workers' lives" (364). While many Canadian social historians have made important inroads to understanding Canadian social history, this history has largely revolved around the 'white', male workforce (Creese, 1992, 364). Many have attempted to correct this version of history by adding to it histories that include 'white' women as well as visible minority women and men. This chapter aims to add another dimension to these new histories by examining not only the contributions of Japanese Canadian men, women and children, but also the ways in which discourses of war, specifically discourses of patriotism, duty, and citizenship, served to privilege some labour over others. 124 Labour functions not only as a discursive symbol of membership in a nation, but is also integral to the material making of the nation. No nation functions strictly in the discursive realm, but is dependent on the physical labour of its citizens for the sustaining and building of the nation. This desire for nation building is often imbued with contradictions, with the need for cheap (de-valued) labour of racialized bodies on the one hand, and the desire for a 'white' Canadian citizenry on the other. As Satzewich (2000) contends, "the history of immigration control in Canada suggests that the imagined community that constituted the Canadian nation has been defined, at least in part, in terms of race. Immigration restrictions suggest that the Canadian nation was conceived by its ruling groups as not only a capitalist country, but also a 'white country'" (56). The desire for a 'white' citizenry was balanced by the fact that as a young nation, Canada was dependent on immigrant labour, especially cheap Asian labour, for the purpose of nation building.6 Whenever possible, 'white' labour was utilized, but when labour shortages demanded it, or where the work was considered too menial for 'white' workers, the labour of visible minority men was often exploited. Arguably, at no time was this demand for labour more critical than during the Second World War. According to Sunahara (1981), both "Alberta and Manitoba had lost 44 per cent of their prewar farm labour to the war industries and the armed forces by 1942. In Alberta the labour shortage was further compounded by the threat of a strike by the Alberta sugar beet Workers' Union" (78). The labour of Japanese Canadians, while certainly not welcomed by all, was considered by many to be the best solution. "They were experienced, were reputed to be cheap, and because they would be under government control, could not be organized by the union" (Sunahara, 1981, 78). This is further evidence that Japanese Canadians were not simply relocated but instead were incarcerated by the government. Thus, while the relocation to Alberta and Manitoba continued to be discussed in terms of the benefits to national security, labour played a central role in the decision to incarcerate Japanese Canadians in this area. 125 Discussion of Japanese Canadian labour is common in both the Calgary Herald and the Winnipeg Free Press during the period of February 1942 to January 1943. In fact, it is a primary or underlying theme in almost every article and editorial concerning Japanese Canadian relocation. While most newspaper accounts regarding Japanese Canadians focused on some aspect of the evacuation of Japanese Canadians from the West Coast of British Columbia, it was rare to find a news report, article, or editorial that did not also touch on some aspect of their labour, although many of these articles suggested that Japanese Canadian labour was far from welcome in this area. This focus on labour should come as no surprise, given that the British Columbia Security Commission, the body responsible for the evacuation and relocation of Japanese Canadians, had strong links to labour. The Chairman of the B.C.S.C, for instance was Austin Taylor, who Adachi (1991) describes as a "Vancouver industrialist" (217). Additionally, the only outside approval necessary for the implementation of B.C.S.C. plans was that of Minister of Labour Humphrey Mitchell (Adachi, 1991, 217). Thus, labour played an integral role in not only how and where evacuees were sent, but also the type of reception they received from farmers and community members once they arrived in Alberta and Manitoba. CONSTRUCTING A'CANADIAN' LABOUR FORCE My examination of newspaper accounts begins with an understanding of these documents as part of what Althusser (1971) called Ideological State Apparatuses (ISA). In his discussion of the 'reproduction of the conditions of production' Althusser explains that these ISAs are an important component in the reproduction of labour. While newspapers are understood by many as private institutions, Althusser (1971) notes that: the State, which is the State of the ruling class, is neither public nor private; on the contrary, it is the precondition for any distinction between the public and private. The same thing can be said from the starting-point of our State Ideological Apparatuses. It is unimportant whether the institutions in which they are realized are 'public' or 'private'. What matters is how they function" (p. 144). 126 Thus, newspaper discourses are vital for understanding how hierarchies of labour are produced and reproduced. Additionally, as Anderson (1991) contends, "print-language is what invents nationalism" (134). Further, it is important to note that these inventions of nationalism were, and are, fundamentally linked to the 'white' dominant class! Indeed, newspapers, while private institutions, have been (and indeed continue to be) run and shaped through a largely 'white', male influence. Herman and Chomsky (1988), for instance, illustrate how the limitation of ownership, a trend that "was applicable a century or more ago, and it has become increasingly effective over time" (4), has the power to act as a filter, which works in the owners' favour. As Herman and Chomsky (1988) further contend, these groups "obviously have a special stake in the status quo by virtue of their wealth and their strategic position in one of the great institutions of society" (8). Although the authors refer to American media, the same trend has been noted by many Canadian scholars. These influences are, therefore, a good indication of the power through which hierarchies of labour are formed, reformed and reproduced, sometimes promoting state interests and other times subverting these same interests. An examination of these newspaper discourses brings to light two common themes. First, during this one-year period, starting in February, 1942, it was clear that with a large number of'white' men absent from the workforce, discourses of citizenship, patriotism, and duty were used to protect 'white' men's economic interests, without jeopardizing the economic stability of a nation at war. This was accomplished, in many ways, through the discursive practices of the ISAs, specifically the newspapers. These discourses, however, cannot be understood as separate from the repressive apparatuses of the state itself. As will be seen, the relationship between state action and newspaper accounts was, in many ways, a symbiotic one. The interests, therefore, of the 'white' male, very easily found support in both areas. However, during times of war, the usual discourses that privileged the labour of 'white' men could not be called upon in the same ways. Due to war-related labour shortages, the discourses of labour that 127 once disavowed the value of female laborers, as well as minority workers, needed to be re-written using discourses of patriotism, economic stability, and in some cases, sacrifice. However, how these discourses were framed in relation to 'white' men and women, for instance, differed significantly from how they were framed in terms of Japanese Canadian workers. Second, throughout this same one-year period, Japanese Canadians were often framed as an economic threat in the media, both prior to their relocation, as well as following it. The threat of Japanese Canadian labour was not based on the lack of availability of resources or an overabundance of labour, which might undercut wages, but rather was a concern that was tied directly to race. This becomes even clearer when, after the war "some Japanese were deported at the same time that Canadian government officials were giving serious and thoughtful consideration to a proposal put forward by farmers that German prisoners of war held in Camps in Ontario be allowed to stay and settle permanently in Canada if they took farm jobs" (Satzewich, 2000, 183). Thus, the threat, while often framed in terms of economics, was clearly far more insidious, as the real threat was the threat to a 'white' Canada. According to Grace and Helms (1998), the "idea of Canada as a white man's country was prevalent not only in the media but also in political speeches and government policies" as far back as 1907. Others such as Ward (1990) and Avery (1995) have shown that this attitude has continued even into fairly recent history. The idea of Japanese Canadians gaining a foothold in the farming industry threatened not only the economic order, but the potential of Japanese Canadian settlement and reproduction also threatened the construction of Canada as a 'white' man's country. Despite the many newspaper accounts that depicted Japanese Canadians as an economic threat, there was also an underlying ambivalence here as well. This ambivalence was tied to the severe labour crisis in Canada during the war. While efforts were continually made to describe Japanese Canadians as an economic threat, the utility of Japanese Canadian labour could not be overlooked. As in the past, the goal was to find a balance whereby non-white labourers could be 128 used as a cheap and ready source of labour, without allowing them to gain economic power in the process. Thus, discourses of 'threat' were used as a way to disempower, disregard, and discredit these racialized populations. Additionally, the silencing and erasing of these populations from the public sphere served to reassure 'white' Canadians of their primacy in the labour force and to erase the national contributions of Japanese Canadians, thus also effectively erasing their claims to citizenship. Central to the construction of citizenship and the erasure of those deemed outside of it, was the role of the state and the media in what Hier and Greenberg (2002) call the "discursive construction of a crisis" (491). Writing about Chinese Migrants in the twentieth century, Hier and Greenberg argue that the construction of a crisis takes as its starting point the understanding that crises do not represent objective conditions of ideological contestation, but rather are subjectively perceived, and brought into existence through narrative and discourse. Constituted in and through narrative, crises assume the form of state processes which embody both an object and a subject. That is to say, crises are narratives centred on particular subjects collectively understood as symptomatic of a more general object believed to be existing in a period of crisis (a state policy, for example). The exercise of decisive state intervention, consequently, necessitates that authorities attend to the narrative construction of the crisis, and not to '... the conditions of contradiction and failure that in fact underlie it' (492). In other words, the construction of a crisis shifts the focus away from policies and instead onto the subjects of the policy. The policy does not, therefore, submit itself for appraisal or critique, but is instead offered only as a response to the larger problem, in this case, the presence of Japanese Canadians. This becomes very clear in the newspaper accounts that I address here. The War Measures Act, for instance, was rarely discussed in terms of its constitutionality or fairness. Instead, it was only framed as a response to the imminent crisis or threat posed by Japanese Canadians. In fact, in order for the above-mentioned themes to hold any meaning, they must be seen in relation to and in response to a crisis. It was necessary that the state frame these issues under the guise of national crisis. The media's role, therefore, became one of 129 constructing, reporting on, and responding to this national crisis and its proposed solutions. As Hier and Greenberg (2002) further contend, "crises embody processes of hegemonic regulation, re-constituted and reconfigured through discourse and narrative with the power of media influence residing in the process of framing news within the discursive confines of pre-existing ideological formations" (492). Thus, these newspaper accounts also served to "recruit and mobilize newsreaders as active participants in the discursive construction" (492) of the crisis of Japanese Canadians and their productive bodies. Further, this was accomplished through the construction of notions of citizenship, patriotism, and duty. CITIZENSHIP, PATRIOTISM AND DUTY Citizenship although often associated with privileges and rights, must be understood as also linked to duty and obligation. In fact, many privileges and rights are intrinsically tied to corresponding duties and obligations. The right to. claim membership in a nation, for instance, is Q often linked with the corresponding duty to defend that nation in times of war. Menzies, Adamoski, and Chunn (2002) explain, for instance, that citizenship can be understood through three patterns, civic republicanism, liberal individualism, and social citizenship. Whereas the first paradigm focuses on the individual's connection to civilization and participation in the structures and governing of civilization, the second focuses not on the individual's role, but instead on the autonomy of the individual, where individuals are "passive bearers of rights whose freedom consists in being able to pursue their individual interests" (17). The third paradigm, social citizenship moved from '"rights against the state,' ... to 'claims for benefits guaranteed by the state'" (17-18). Understanding citizenship through a model of civic republicanism is necessary in order to understand how hierarchies of citizenship operated during this period, for it is through social relationships, as well as participation in the structures and governing of civilization that many of these hierarchies are formed. One of the ways in which we participate in these structures is through our participation in the labour force. 130 Labour is one way for citizens to make vital connections to the society in which they live. For example, laborers make valuable contributions to the nation-state. As previously discussed, labour practices in early Canada almost exclusively favoured 'white' men and thus limited the participation of women and racialized populations in civil society.9 However, in terms of labour, World War II was a time of extreme hardship and insecurity. With many men at war overseas, labour shortages were a common problem. This was especially true in the case of farm labour. According to a July 30, 1942 article in the Calgary Herald, A Dominion-wide survey of farm labor by the economics division of the federal department of labor showed an over-all reduction of 240,763 persons, or 18.2 per cent in the male labor supply since Jan. 1, 1940, it was announced Wednesday. ... The net decrease in male family workers in 1940 and 1941 was estimated at 125,000. Subsequent additional enlistments and departures early this year brought the net loss in farm family workers between Jan. 1, 1940 and March 15, 1942, to 141,863.10 It is my contention that by constructing this labour shortage as a national crisis, the media helped minimize contradictions that were inherent in state discourses that framed Japanese Canadians as threats on one hand, and exploitable on the other. Thus, farm labour was framed in terms of a national crisis and the use of Japanese Canadians as a necessary response to it. In this way, the contradictions that were inherent in the policies themselves went unchallenged. Further, this 'crisis' also served to divert attention away from governmental policies that relied on exploited Japanese labour. This shortage of labour meant that earlier employment practices which had previously favoured 'white' men, needed to be temporarily pushed aside. The discourses which privileged the 'white' male worker could not, however, be dismissed outright. In a society that placed the value of 'white' men above all others, the rights and privileges of these men had to be protected even in their absence. This meant that the inclusion of women, children and racialized populations needed to be framed in such a way that these populations were encouraged to participate temporarily, but also that ensured the protection of'white' male rights. This was 131 accomplished through discourses of patriotism, duty, and sacrifice. Men and women who remained behind while 'white' men 1 1 did their duty overseas, were called upon to do their duty at home, to fill the vacancies left by these men, while at the same time protecting 'white' men's jobs for their anticipated return. However, that these discourses did not extend to Japanese Canadians was evidence of the revocation of their citizenship. While Japanese Canadians had never had full rights of citizenship - they lost the right to vote in 1895, for instance and did not regain it until 1949 - this war period marked a further decrease in their citizenship rights. The passage of the War Measures Act meant that "government officials were able to craft the language of the orders to create a virtual 'enemy alien,' one that was more a product of discourse than of actual conditions" (Miki, 2004, 90). In fact, even those who were legally Canadian citizens became, at least discursively, enemy aliens under this act. According to Miki (2004), "all 'persons of Japanese race,' which is to say, all those designated as such by government authorities, could be treated as if 'they were 'enemy aliens'" (90). Therefore, while their already limited Canadian citizenship was never legally removed, their classification as enemy aliens meant a stripping away of social and economic rights of citizenship. Duty and patriotism to one's country implies membership within that country. To afford Japanese Canadians the privilege of recognition of their acts of duty and patriotism would have been in direct conflict with the portrayals and treatment of them as enemy aliens. Discourses of citizenship are never neutral, but defined and constructed through relations of power. In particular, the discourses of patriotism, duty, and sacrifice were imbued with notions of temporariness, voluntarism, and privilege. While involvement in the structures and governing of society is a necessary component of citizenship, it is not an involvement that has been equally represented in terms of gender, class, race, sexuality or ability. This involvement has largely been the domain of 'white', middle to upper class, heterosexual men, and includes, 132 but is not limited to the realms of economics and labour. The ultimate sign of patriotism is the duty to one's country, especially the willingness to give one's life in war. This was a domain that was also marked by race and gender. This ultimate mark of citizenship was one that was the right of 'white' males.12 While many women 1 3 and visible minority men 1 4 served in the military, in the newspapers, the prominent discourses of duty continued to be centered on 'white' males. In fact, while scanning the newspapers for this one-year period, I found numerous photographs of soldiers serving overseas, but no photographs which depicted visible minority soldiers. However, for those who were discouraged or forbidden from serving their country in this respect, there were other markers of duty and patriotism, especially in terms of what was considered 'war work' at home. This included the filling of job vacancies left by those who were at war. These positions were often taken on by 'white' women and in some cases by visible minority men. However, as will be discussed later, for Japanese Canadians, patriotism and duty were absent markers of their labour contributions. Understanding the hierarchy of privilege in terms of labour can aid in an understanding of how these discourses of duty and patriotism shaped labour practices during World War II. 'White' men held a higher rate of positions of power but visible minority men were favoured over women, even 'white' women, especially in skilled labour positions.15 This was largely due to the belief that women only needed work when they did not have a husband and/or father to provide for them. According to Creese (1992), The burden of domestic responsibilities for married women usually restricted women's paid labour to the period before marriage or when other circumstances, such as high male unemployment or the death of or desertion by a spouse, made employment necessary (366). 'White' women were not denied access to employment outright and those without husbands or fathers to care for them were often afforded privileged jobs such as teaching positions. At the same time, there continued to be jobs that were deemed unsuitable for them. "Gender defined the 133 nature of one's experience in the labour market, the kinds of work available, the level of remuneration, and the patterns of wage labour" (Creese, 1992, 365). Thus, jobs deemed unsuitable for women, including many jobs that 'white' men would not do, were often left for visible minority populations. This is not to say, however, that the jobs given to visible minority populations did not continue to be tightly controlled.16 It is clear that this hierarchy that favoured 'whiteness' continued to be in place during the war. However, the hierarchy that favoured visible minority men over women for many jobs had to be challenged. While many 'white' men served overseas, their jobs, especially positions of power, could not be given to visible minority men who may not have been willing to relinquish these jobs when the war ended. Instead, 'white' women often held these positions, not out of financial need, but as a protectionist strategy. These women were, in many cases, not only workers, but trustees of these positions and acted as gatekeepers until the 'white' men returned home. 'White' women have often functioned as trustees of the 'white' race. In fact, 'white' women have benefited through the colonial enterprise in many ways. Their status in Canada, while certainly not equal to that of 'white' men, has consistently placed them in positions of power, oftentimes power above and over men and women of colour. This was true, not only in the economic realm, but was also reinforced through their construction as not only the saviors of 'white' men, but also as the binary opposite of First Nations women. As Perry (1997) points out, in British Columbia, for instance, 'white' women were recruited as part of the colonialist project, for three main reasons. "First, they would eradicate interracial sexual practice and mixed marriage. Second, they would compel white men to reject the rough homosocial culture of the backwoods in favor of normative standards of masculinity and respectability. Third, they would encourage white men to become permanent colonists" (504). Further, Perry argues that, In constructing a definition of white women in contrast to primitivist understandings of First Nations women, these representations reinforced, rather than disputed, the colonial discourse that positioned white women at the center of the effort to enforce normative 134 standards of whiteness and masculinity. Rather than rejecting the inherent racism and bounded definitions of womanhood explicit in this discourse, they celebrated it in a bid to enlarge white female power (525). 'White' female power, therefore, must not be overlooked. At the same time, however, many jobs were not deemed suitable or appropriate for 'white' women. These included, but were not limited to heavy manual labour. Despite the extreme shortage of farm labourers, very rarely were 'white' women called on to volunteer their services in the fields. It is also interesting that these jobs were not thought to be suitable for other racialized populations such as the Chinese, who were often feminized as well as racialized. Despite their earlier work on the railroads and in mining, Chinese men continued to be pushed into more traditionally feminine occupations such as work in households as servants, as well as in laundries and restaurants.17 Further, in rural areas where Chinese did become involved in agricultural work, their industriousness and low standards of living became an added disincentive to their employment (Bourgeois, 2004, 71). Likewise, Japanese Canadians were also seen as a threat to 'white' labour and 'white' industry (Ward, 115). This was evident in the concerns voiced in Winnipeg, for instance, over the possibility of "cheap Japanese labour from the Pacific coast invading Winnipeg and shattering wage scales"1 8 as well as in efforts to control Japanese Canadian access to land. 1 9 This tendency to frame Asian immigrants as economic threats underlines the ways in which the inclusion of Japanese Canadians in sugar beet jobs was distinct, and further, why a new type of discourse was necessary to convince 'white' farmers to take them on. Thus, 'white' men were called upon in two ways. Firstly, patriotic discourses were evoked to encourage government and 'white' farmers to accept Japanese Canadian labour, and secondly, these discourses were used as a way to recruit 'white' men from other occupations, including students, to work in the fields. Provincial governments were encouraged to do their part, as "there could be no better indication of the desire of the provinces to work together on 135 national problems than an expression of willingness on the part of other provincial governments 20 to accept some of the Japanese being moved put of British Columbia." Another Winnipeg 21 article claimed that "other provinces should share the burden of caring for Japanese" and the Calgary Herald applauded the Manitoba government when a minister in the government said that "it felt that if the Dominion government believed that placing of Japanese in Manitoba was 22 an aid to the war effort of Canada, then his government was quite willing to 'fit in ' . " Despite many provinces' continual resistance to the program, Manitoba and Alberta did in fact reach agreements with the British Columbia Security Commission. Once the governments were on board with the Sugar Beet Programme, 'white' farmers needed to be convinced that they had a patriotic duty to employ Japanese labour. As citizens of the nation, farmers were called upon to assist both in national security and to aid in the production of an important war staple. Thus, the patriotism of 'white' farmers was applauded through their dual patriotic roles. First, 'white' farmers could do their patriotic duty by producing sugar, an important war staple, often framed as a crucial part of the war effort. An April 17, 1942 article stated, for instance that "Canada's sugar controller has issued a statement urging Manitoba farmers to grow and to extend the growing of sugar beets in order that the war problems of transport in the importation of sugar be rendered as light as possible." Additionally, in the Calgary Herald, growers were applauded for accepting "the responsibility of this contract to produce the additional 4,000 acres of beets as called for by the Dominion sugar administration as a war effort" (March 20, 1942)24 and in the Winnipeg Free Press, similar encouragement was given to Manitoban farmers, explaining that "production of the maximum quantity of beets possible in Canada, the statement 9 c says, will be a vital factor in the war effort" (April 6, 1942). Importantly, despite the depiction of beet farming as a patriotic duty, the rewards were not simply discursive recognition, but also financial compensation. An April 18, 1942 article in the Winnipeg Free Press explained that in "order to encourage planning of the maximum possible acreage of sugar beets this year, The 136 Manitoba Sugar company has announced that under the price schedule the farmers will receive Oft substantially increased prices for 1942 beets." It is important to understand these discourses of patriotism, as this would not be the last 'duty' that was required of these farmers. The incentive was not simply monetary. In fact, the commitment to plant the maximum possible acreage of sugar beets meant that farmers would feel the labour shortage to an even greater degree, thus making the decision to import Japanese labour far less problematic. With the impending crisis of labour, fulfilling this duty of producing more sugar was a difficult one. However, using the labour of Japanese Canadians fulfilled not only the farmers' initial duty to produce this war staple, but also fulfilled a secondary duty, in helping to deal with the perceived Japanese threat to national security. Thus, the encouragement to accept Japanese Canadian labour was framed as a dual patriotic duty. These types of discourses were common in both provinces and occurred mostly in early 1942. Oftentimes, this duty was further framed as a great sacrifice and only rarely was there any mention of how this sacrifice could indeed benefit the 'white' farmer and the nation. According to Taylor (2004), Pay was on a piece work basis, per ton at harvest time and per row when the beets were planted. This often came to as little as 250 per hour or even less if the land was particularly heavy. White workers might well be paid twice as much and generally speaking the wages were higher in Alberta than in Manitoba (67). Thus, the economic benefit to 'white' farmers was, in fact, substantial. It is important to note that the types of discourses that were called upon to encourage 'white' farmers to use Japanese Canadian labour differed significantly between provinces. This is evidence that discourse "can never be totally free from the sociocultural influences, and economic interests in which it was produced and disseminated" (Henry and Tator, 2002, 25). The differences we see between provinces are significant in that each reflects a unique set of political, sociocultural influences and economic interests. These differences are highlighted in Mutual Hostages: Canadians and Japanese during the Second World War, as the authors explain 137 that although several Alberta cities refused to accept evacuees, "Winnipeg was very cooperative in accepting families" (Roy et al, 1990, 141). They attribute this, at least in part, to the difference in numbers of evacuees sent to each area. In fact, B.C.S.C. officials "attributed the problem in southern Alberta to the independence of the Japanese and their relatively large numbers in a small area" (141). In Manitoba, however, the number of Japanese who were sent to the province was fairly small and consequently "their work opportunities more diverse, they met less hostility" (141). Therefore, the potential threat to 'white' economic interests in Manitoba was much less significant. Additionally, as previously alluded to, Manitoba governments' strong stand against racism certainly may have contributed to their increased level of cooperation. It is no surprise, then, that despite similarities in the actual programs, the framing discourses are quite different. In Alberta, the response to a potential influx of Japanese Canadian labour was very negative. As mentioned in the previous chapter, "Albertans did not desire an uncontrolled influx of Japanese, sensitized as they had been to the problem of colonies of 'inassimilable' people, such as the Hutterites, already in their midst, and against whom they 'seethed with resentment'" (Adachi, 1991, 280). This negative response was met with negative discourses. In the newspapers, Alberta's response to Japanese Canadian labour was largely being criticized. For instance, in February of 1942, beet growers' president, Phillip Baker criticized "boards of trade, city councils and other organizations in Alberta for passing resolutions opposing the transfer of British Columbia Japanese to Alberta's sugar beet fields. The action was considered ' i l l advised 97 and a detriment to the government in solving a serious war problem.'" The interests of 'white' farmers were disguised behind a veneer of patriotism. This was also seen in an article, published a month later, claiming that "[pjrejudice is natural under the circumstances, but it should not be allowed to stand in the way of efficiency in production when production is all important... .When 138 labor is needed, in this time of great emergency, there is no good reason, in our judgment, why 9 o Japanese should not be employed." On the other hand, Manitobans were encouraged and praised for their response to Japanese labour. While it certainly cannot be said that Manitoba was free of resistance to Japanese Canadians settling in their province, there was certainly less resistance noted in this province. In fact, according to Adachi (1991), "Unlike Alberta newspapers such as the Calgary Herald which still persisted in circulating false stories of sabotage at Pearl Harbour and demanded deportation of all Japanese, the Winnipeg Free Press took a vigorous stand against racism" (283). Therefore, national or patriotic duty was largely positively reinforced and encouraged by the newspaper. For instance, on May 15, 1942, the newspaper printed the following: No community in Canada, apparently, wants to see any Japanese sent in upon it as the Government works out its policy of removing them from the restricted areas of the Pacific Coast. ... Everyone will, we hope, remember that the problem of the Japanese residents of Canada is a national and not a local one, involving a basic aspect of the problem of national security. Further, this same article went on to explain that not only was it a patriotic duty to accept Japanese in the area, but that it was vital for the safety of 'white' Canadians overseas. "Everyone too, we hope will remember that Japan has many Canadian hostages in her hands whose treatment may be a measure affected by whatever treatment Japanese nationals get here. Hence some degree of moderation and of compromise is needed in Canada." 3 0 In contrast to the positive attitude of the 'white' farmers of Manitoba, a month later, the Winnipeg paper discussed the Ontario citizens as lacking patriotism in their response. "Due to the unfortunate publicity and intolerant attitude of those whose chief concern seemed to be a demonstration of false patriotism, the [Ontario] government's efforts have been thwarted and a mere trickle of Japanese laborers -many of who were university graduates and respected citizens - have moved to the areas in question, he said." 3 1 It is apparent that when resistance by farmers or communities was met or 139 anticipated by either province, these discourses of patriotism and duty were used to discourage such resistance. Volunteer Markets Urgently Needed : To Save Manitoba s • Sugar Beet Crop Sufficient sugar tOicover, Manitoba'ssugar, rations . for sthfinext year..« 15 lying, inthc: ground withinSO miles of Winnipeg. Sugar beets must be lifted from the ground withm the,next fortnight.: : If the ground f r e e z e s the crop 15 lost; Every hour from n o w until freete-iip counts.: * •• • :.• , : • Sugar beet,farmers have, found-it impossibleto secure sufficient labor • • to harvest.the bceta. The crop,can.and must be saved. .Able bodied men "of Winnipeg: and surrounding.towns^are urgently sbked to volunteer to work in the beet fields Saturday, Sunday and Mon-day, and longer »f they can. Their doing so will prove a patriotic gesture and an act of city folks lending a helping hand to the farmera. :; A number of firms in Winnipeg who operate trucks have already made a canvass of their staffs for volunteers to go out to the beet fields o*er the holiday week-end. ~ Any firm orgroupof-individuals who haveascar available areurged to gosout to save the beet crop f^These' groups should-firstitelephone.The • Manitoba Sugar Company, Limited; telephone 42 816,ifor^directiort8-a8 to s where to go. This s h o u l d be done by ifoon on Friday, if;possible.-:* ; Owing to the shortage o f busses it ha* been found impossible to obtain sufficient to transport all persons to the beet fields who may be willing to volunteer. Available busses have been requisitioned-for trans-porting 500 high school children to the f i e l d s . ' " " V ; " Volunteers are asked to bring their own lunch. *Tbe work wil^ be entirely voluntary and as such farmers will not,be asked to'make any p'ay-* ment to the volunteers. 1 ' ' 1 * / V T„' ~ ; , '' \ , GBT OCT • "m% THE SVNSmftd^^ \ ' ~ Plch Yoar Sugar OverJhe.Thanhsgl^ ^ Figure 5.1 - Patriotic duty (WinnipegFree Press, October 7, 1942, p. 6) This same type of discourse was also used to encourage the necessary additional labour, only this time it was aimed at 'white' male city workers and students. These types of articles appeared more frequently, though not exclusively, closer to harvest times. Although most of these articles were framed in terms of national best interests, it is important to note that some, especially one large ad, were in fact sponsored or written in the form of a news release by sugar companies, suggesting that while these appeals were couched in discourses of patriotism, the interests of these companies should not be underestimated. In Calgary it was suggested by Herald writer C.I. Ritchie that "city dwellers might help along the general war effort and do 140 themselves some good in a physical way by putting in a 'holiday' of hard work down on the farm.... For Canada needs her farm plants running at a greater productive capacity this year than at any previous period in history" (March 20, 1942) and in Winnipeg, as part of an ad placed by the Manitoba Sugar Company, Limited, was the following, "Able bodied men of Winnipeg and surrounding towns are urgently asked to volunteer to work in the beet fields Saturday, Sunday and Monday, and longer if they can. Their doing so will prove a patriotic gesture and an act of city folks lending a helping hand to the farmers."33 (See Figure 5.1 above). This type of discourse was also seen in the affirmation of 'white' workers, as will be seen in the next section. These narratives of patriotism, citizenship, and duty were not applied to encourage Japanese Canadian labourers because to do so would have both affirmed Japanese Canadians as citizens and additionally contradicted the notion of Japanese Canadians as enemy aliens. Japanese Canadian motivation was seen not as patriotic, but as partly imposed and partly voluntary. These conflicting discourses were both effective, although for very different reasons. First, the idea of an un-free labour force worked to soothe 'white' citizens, as this labour force could be strictly controlled, utilized when convenient, and then disposed of when no longer needed. Second, the idea that labour was voluntary was in line with imperatives regarding the treatment of Japanese Canadian 'prisoners' and the corresponding treatment of Canadians prisoners in Japan.34 That the government held the right to use or coerce the labour of Japanese Canadians was seen throughout the discussion of Japanese Canadian labour. In the discussion of placement of Japanese Canadian workers, for instance, there was rarely any discussion of Japanese Canadian rights. There were also more blatant examples of the acceptance of imposed labour, such as the March 7 t h reporting on road crew work as a "class of enforced labor."3 5 Additionally, Charles McMillan, president of the Lethbridge Board of Trade suggested on March 17, 1942, "that the Lethbridge exhibition grounds be turned into a concentration camp, and that the Japs be kept 141 there under military supervision, and when needed in the beet fields be obtained from the camp and returned there afterwards."36 This type of discussion became an attractive one, as it enabled the removal of a threat to 'white' labour. The treatment of Japanese Canadians as enemy aliens was useful in many regards. Firstly, viewing Japanese Canadians as enemy aliens meant that the government had the right to exploit their labour, with little fear of resistance. Secondly, this control also meant that 'white' labour was protected, both in terms of the economic advantages to the 'white' farmers who remained at home during the war, and in terms of protecting the jobs of 'white' soldiers who were at war. One of the roles of the state is the protection of its citizens. In this case, citizenship was equated with 'whiteness'. Additionally, framing Japanese Canadians as enemy aliens situated them even further outside of the nation and therefore outside of citizenship. Presenting Japanese Canadians as 'prisoners' of the state had the added benefit of providing reassurance to 'white' citizens of the temporary nature of this labour source. Citizens were constantly reassured that after the war, this population would be once again relocated, and in many cases repatriated. According to a March 25, 1942, Calgary newspaper article, for instance one British Columbia Security Commission commissioner was quoted as stating that the "movement is in the sole interests of the state and there is no desire to interfere with local labour" and then further stressed that "none of the Japanese placed here would be permitted to IT stay after the war is won but will be removed [by the B.C.S.C.]." Only one day later in Winnipeg, Premier Bracken assured the people of Manitoba that his agreement to accept Japanese Canadian laborers was dependent on the commitment that "the dominion government assumes full financial and other responsibilities including protection against possible sabotage and providing also that it is agreed that such Japanese as are brought here shall be removed when the emergency is over."3 8 Despite the fact that no formal agreement was put in place in regards to the relocation of Japanese Canadians in Manitoba, the population was reassured that such a 142 document was, in fact, a condition of the relocation and in the process of being drawn up. Additionally, when it appeared that once rid of its Japanese Canadian population, British Columbian officials were unwilling to have them back, there was a marked increase in calls for repatriation, not only of Japanese nationals, but also Canadian born Japanese as well. 4 1 Although there were many examples of the ways in which Japanese Canadian labour was framed as enforced labour, there were also contradictory discourses that framed this labour as voluntary and self-serving. This was especially the case in Manitoba, where, according to Adachi (1991), the Winnipeg Free Press "took a vigorous stand against racism, sought to establish the principles of Canadian citizenship in law and to protect against the federal government's 'repatriation' scheme'" (283). Early February articles explained that "movement of Japanese out of the defense areas of British Columbia has already begun on a voluntary basis" 4 2 and in mid-February that "enemy aliens can start leaving the protected area anytime and go anywhere east of the boundary of the area."4 3 Descriptions of this voluntary migration go even further when one paper recounted the following late February scene: Smiling and chattering gaily in their native tongue, 100 Japanese nationals left here last night in the first evacuation of Japanese from British Columbia's vital defense area and more than 500 of their countrymen turned out to give them a roaring sendoff. The men were described as 'volunteers' by their police escort. They volunteered to go to Lucerne, B.C. and Rainbow, Alta. and Jasper Alta. 4 4 Three weeks later, any voluntary migration was halted.45 However, discussions of labour continued to be framed as free of coercion. In an article entitled "Japan Agrees On Treatment Of Civilians", the department of external affairs announced on February 24, 1942, that "the Japanese government will apply provisions of the 1929 prisoners of war convention to interned civilians on a reciprocal basis and provided that Japanese nationals interned in belligerent countries are not forced to do physical labour against their wil l ." Further on in the same article it was noted that a "large number of those to be moved from British Columbia have expressed complete willingness to do road 143 work." This notion of voluntary labour was not only aimed at protecting Canadian soldiers, it also removed notions of coercion. However, despite the official stance that labour was voluntary, one June 1942 article stood as a warning to those who decided not to cooperate with labour schemes. Almost 200 second-generation Japanese men who refused to accept employment in areas east of the coastal defense zone in protest against separation from their families were entrained under military guard for interment camps Tuesday night and more will follow, a spokesman for the British Columbia security commission said yesterday.47 It is also important to note that despite the labour and relocation being framed as voluntary on the part of Japanese Canadians, absent from these discussions is any allusion to motivation of Japanese Canadians in making these decisions. Thus, there continues to be no discussion of the contributions or patriotism of Japanese Canadian workers. THE INVISIBLE AND SILENT THREAT Many of the newspaper articles and editorials depicted Japanese Canadians not only as security threats, but also as economic threats. Prior to the agreements between the B.C.S.C. and the provinces of Alberta and Manitoba, there was much discussion about the economic threat posed by Japanese Canadians. These accounts were often framed as evidence of why Japanese Canadians should not be allowed to relocate outside of BC. The many opinions that were voiced were those of official government sources, those representing labour groups, farmers and concerned citizens. Early discussions of Japanese Canadians as economic threats often took the form of labour groups protesting the possible relocation of Japanese Canadians to Alberta and Manitoba. For instance, in March, the one delegate from the Calgary Trades and Labor Council requested assurance from the federal government "that the Japanese won't be allowed to stay in the province after the war and lower the wage standard. He declared that in 1931 the Japanese residents of the coast worked in sawmills for as little as 15 cents an hour, and white men were 48 forced out of employment." Only two weeks later, the same Council took an even more drastic 144 stand, giving "unanimous approval to a recommendation by its executives that all Japanese be interned until the cessation of hostilities and there after until all returned men are employed or until such time as there is a definite labor shortage when they shall be put to work in supervised employment."49 This concern over Japanese Canadians as an economic threat was echoed in April, in the Winnipeg paper when city council expressed fears that "scales of labor wages might be threatened if these people were allowed to converge on the city in large numbers."50 Here, as in the case of the labour shortage, discourses of crises were utilized. The difference, however, lies in the fact that the response demanded was not dependent on the actual construction of a crisis, but only the potential for crisis. Rather than focusing on labour policies that served to both exploit and exclude racialized groups, these discourses focused on the potential threat held by the relocation of Japanese Canadians to these farming areas. The focus here was not on the labour practices that ensured the 'lowered wage standard', but instead on the potential for Japanese Canadians to, themselves, lower that standard. In fact, all discussions regarding the lowered wage standard made the Japanese into the antagonists, referring to "Jap Cheap Labour" (April 6, 1942)51 or lower standards of living, as evident in the following article by C.L. Shaw (September 10, 1942): "Wherever they went they succeeded in driving out their white competitors because of their low standard of living and long working hours."5 2 This type of discourse was similar to that described by Bourgeois (2004) in regards to Chinese farmers, who were accused of threatening 'white' labour because of their low standard of living (70). Additionally, Japanese Canadians were framed as forcing 'white' men out of their livelihoods, directing the blame away from employers who chose to pay Japanese Canadians artificially low wages. On the farms, however, Japanese Canadians were "unable to earn enough money to support themselves even with the combined labour of their children" (Omatsu, 1992, 77). Clearly, the threat was not to 'white' labour but to Japanese Canadians instead. However, official labour boards and local governments were not the only ones to voice their concerns. 145 In fact, two other groups joined in and vigorously opposed Japanese Canadian settlement as well. These two groups were the International Order of the Daughters of the Empire (I.O.D.E.) and the Royal Canadian Legion, the first a women's service group and the second a service group comprised largely of war veterans. Although both groups had a strong citizenship focus, neither group centered their protests around issues of citizenship or community service but instead protested Japanese settlement because of the perceived threat to other Canadian citizens' economic well-being, especially the well-being of soldiers returning home from war. While the Legion's reasons for opposing Japanese settlement often remained unspoken, the I.O.D.E. was quite vocal about their concerns. In April, 1942, for instance, they lobbied to ban Japanese in Manitoba from business declaring that although "it may be necessary to have large numbers of Japanese in Manitoba, having in mind our own men, who will be returning from overseas service, no Japanese be permitted to enter or open any business or fill any position in the province."53 Two months later, a Montreal chapter of the same group was reported to request similar restrictions.54 Framing Japanese Canadians as an economic threat served to call into question their citizenship. The prevailing thought was not only that Japanese Canadians should not be allowed to have the same rights of opportunity that 'white' men did, but also that they did not. That 'white' women felt they had the right to impose restrictions on this population is certainly testimony to the fact that Japanese Canadians did not have full citizenship rights, especially in regards to opportunity and autonomy. Again we see how 'white' women were once more "at the center of the effort to enforce normative standards of whiteness and masculinity" (Perry, 1997, 525). Their roles as enforcers of'white' dominance and protectors of the nation were certainly evident here. Interestingly, when protests about the relocation of Japanese Canadians were not successful and Japanese Canadians were moved to Alberta and Manitoba, the discussion of economic threat did not waver, but instead took on another form. Rather than focusing on the 146 potential threat to Albertans and Manitobans, the newspapers instead drew their warnings from history. A July 10, 1942, Calgary Herald article calling for the repatriation of all Japanese in Canada claimed that the threat posed by Japanese Canadians was not simply a threat to national security. The article drew on British Columbian history as a case in point: For years the people of British Columbia, through no consent of their own, have had to tolerate the spectacle of Japanese controlling the coast fisheries and a large part of the fish cannery trade, the small fruits industry - strawberries, raspberries, etc. - and large and self-centred business sections in Vancouver and Victoria entirely dominated by the wily Oriental.55 Another article in the same paper, only two weeks later explained that British Columbians had watched Japanese crowd white men and women from industrial and mercantile occupations because of their lower living standards: .. .There was little that could be done to check the increasing monopoly of Japanese in the production of small fruits and hothouse vegetables, nor their stranglehold on the wholesale and retail distributions of some of the commodities of their fertile acreage along the Fraser Valley and elsewhere (C.L.Shaw). 5 6 Other articles, published in September, 1942, also spoke of how the Japanese drove out their white competitors and "stole the sockeye fisheries from the white people. This type of discourse was further evidence of the limited citizenship of Japanese Canadians. Referral to the theft of sockeye fisheries, for instance, is a clear indication that Japanese Canadians did not have the same rights to employment or economic success as 'white' men did. By framing Japanese Canadians as the 'wily Oriental' or as somehow too industrious, these accounts served to reinforce already deeply embedded stereotypes about them, including ones which continued to frame Japanese Canadians as willing to accept "low pay, long work days, and low standards of living" (Ward, 1990, 103). This process of racialization, which used both 'positive' and 'negative' attributes to frame Japanese Canadians as 'other', served two purposes here. Firstly, by attributing these stereotypical traits to Japanese Canadians, racialization served to justify the treatment of Japanese Canadians. By framing this population as different, and in many ways inferior to the 'white' norm, racialization became a mechanism of 147 paternalism and oppression, thus justifying the removal of rights of opportunity and autonomy. Secondly, this control also served to legitimize the exploitation of Japanese Canadians by a society committed to Christian ideals. As Fleras and Elliot (2003) explain, beginning with colonization, the contradiction between "Christian ideals and exploitative practices was mediated by the racist conviction that lower-ranked races would benefit from servitude and close supervision" (Fleras and Elliot, 2003, 42). Thus, even 'positive' stereotypes such as 'too industrious', can be used as mechanisms of racialization that justify not only paternalistic attitudes, but also exploitive ones.59 Racialization, thus, was not simply a mechanism of framing a population as inferior, but also served the purpose of making clear and distinct delineations between populations. In fact, although many more overt and 'negative' forms of racialization have disappeared from the Canadian landscape, this process of'positive' racialization is one that continues into the present. Consider the stereotype of the ruthless Japanese Businessman, for instance. Moeller (1996) explains that this type of stereotype arose out of American hostility at the successes of Japan in the mid to late-sixties. "The American press began to speak of the Japanese in terms reminiscent of thirty years previously. The Japanese were not the 'apes' of World War II days, but they had become 'economic animals [who] performed brilliantly" (34-35). More contemporary discourses continued on the same themes, likening business conquests with wartime conquests. Japan's success bred enmity; the American press's characterization of Japan perpetuated a post-World War II order built on treating Japan as an enemy. 'Our imagery,' wrote Robert Samuelson in Newsweek, 'is increasingly savage. The vision of relighting World War II is mindless jingoism' (36). These types of discourses continue to serve to depict certain populations as economic and sometimes social threats to the nation. Despite the fear of economic sabotage by Japanese Canadians, the reality was that Japanese Canadian labour was used to advantage 'white' farmers while disadvantaging Japanese 148 workers themselves. Not only were they overworked and underpaid they were expected to remain an invisible part of the landscape at the same time. The invisibility of Japanese Canadian labour in these newspaper accounts served multiple purposes. Firstly, acknowledgement of Japanese Canadian contributions to the labour crisis would have meant an acknowledgement of their contributions to the war effort. This type of patriotism, as mentioned above, was reserved for 'white' Canadians. Secondly, acknowledging the labour of Japanese men, women, and children in the sugar beet fields would have diminished the value of the 'white' volunteer workforce. Lastly, given that Japanese Canadian labour consisted of men, women, and even very young children, their visibility would have challenged discourses that minimized the contributions of women laborers and opposed child labour. It is interesting to note, however, that while many 'white' children were returning to school in early September of 1942, Japanese children in Alberta were actually denied an education until well into the sugar beet harvesting season,61 although this was often chalked up to lack of space62 or problems in reaching an agreement with the Dominion government regarding payment for educating Japanese Canadian children. It was not until September 24, 1942 that it was announced that Japanese Canadian children would "shortly be able to resume their schooling."6 4 In the rare cases where Japanese labour was recognized, such as in one July 1942 article, the labourers were referred to only as Japanese workmen, erasing the contributions of the women and children in the sugar beet fields.65 These sites were, the only sites where Japanese women and men worked side by side in the paid labour force. However, it was in the best interests of the existing hierarchy of labour that Japanese Canadians generally and Japanese Canadian women in particular, be erased from view. Making visible the contributions of both Japanese Canadian women and men meant disrupting notions of'white' male dominance in the labour market. Thus, it was even more crucial that women and children be concealed from the public eye. In many cases, however, even the contributions of Japanese men were minimized. 149 Manitoba, for instance, claimed a shortage of approximately 700 laborers. With between 700 and 800 Japanese workers in sugar beet fields by September 29, 1942, this meant that even if this need was met, Japanese workers accounted for at least half of the labour force.6 6 However, their labour was left unacknowledged in favour of recognizing the work of male volunteers, especially high school boys. Numerous articles, including the following, praised the dedication of this volunteer labour force. Responding to a call to work in the sugar beet fields and save the crop from a possible early freezing, more than 400 high school boys and many men rose early Saturday morning and taking with them their packages of lunch, they were transported by 15 buses to various points in the province where they were spread out over the fields to work (October 3, 1942).67 Interestingly, one article, published six days later, described Winnipeg's school students as "determined that Manitoba's sugar beet crop will be harvested this year even if they have to harvest it all themselves." The notion that these high school students believed that their labour was this central to the harvesting of sugar beets is telling of how minimal the contributions of Japanese Canadians were believed to be. In Alberta, much the same story is told, with September articles praising the assistance of "townspeople, high school students, and many businessmen."69 While in Manitoba, the volunteer population consisted of only men, Alberta also praised the initiative of both high school boys and girls, reporting that these "youthful 70 workers are keeping up their end of the work very satisfactorily." However, not a single article praised Japanese Canadian men, women, or children for their long hours of service to their country. This erasure of Japanese Canadian workers from the labour scene not only dismissed their contributions, but further marginalized the work of the women and children in the fields. In October of 1942, several articles were published which praised high school boys for volunteering their labour, explaining that due to the overabundance of volunteers, many had been left behind while others were taken to the sugar beet fields. What is interesting in this article, 150 however, is the focus on the need for physical strength in their volunteers: "Officials of the sugar 71 company stated that those who were selected were picked on account of physical strength." While many high school boys were turned away because of their lack of physical strength, Japanese women and children continued to comprise a portion of the labour force and continued to remain unacknowledged. Additionally, numerous articles in the same month are devoted to telling the stories of Canadian university students who came from the east to aid in the harvest. Reports varied between praise for these students and complaints offered by them: "we were a pretty green bunch of boys. The farmers were fine, but they expected too much of us" 7 2 and "Some of the boys had been unable to last more than four or five hours ... The work was tough, they grinned. ... Another McGil l student, who also asked his name be withheld, said he found conditions plenty tough. 'It can't possibly be expected that fellows taken out of college can do 73 the same work as seasoned harvesters.'" Interesting, many of the 'seasoned harvesters' during this period were Japanese Canadian men, women, and children who came to the fields with no comparable farming experience. The erasure of Japanese Canadian men, women and children was necessary, not only because they challenged white supremacy in general, but because they also challenged existing discourses of masculinity. That high school boys were turned away due to their lack of physical strength was a clear indication of the value placed on strength in perceptions of masculinity. Additionally, endurance also played a role in the definitions of masculinity and the boys who persevered were applauded for their determination. Further, the press often seemed to praise the students for their efforts, while at the same time juxtaposing these 'green bunch of boys' against the strength and experience of 'seasoned harvesters'. These discourses of masculinity placed the strong, determined, 'white' rural farmer as central to the category of 'men', while displacing the 'white' city dwellers to the margins by framing them as weaker, underdeveloped 'boys'. Within these explanations of masculinity there was no room for Japanese men who through their labour 151 challenged these stereotypes. There was, therefore, certainly no room for women and children either. Thus, the erasure of these workers served to ensure that these definitions of masculinity went unchallenged. The invisibility of this workforce was also compounded by their silence. The discourses of economic threat went largely unanswered by Japanese Canadians in the mainstream press. In fact, although there was much discussion about whether Japanese Canadians should be used in the sugar beet fields, their own voices were rarely heard in newspaper accounts. Japanese Canadian voices were only allowed when they seemed to be in agreement with dominant 'white' voices. There were very few interviews with Japanese Canadians and only one photograph in both papers combined over the one-year period. It is increasingly clear that the only voices that were printed in these newspapers were ones that did not criticize the actions of the government. One of the two interviews in May, 1942 reported only that "[t]he treatment of Japanese sent from British Columbia to inland Canada has been considered very fair by them, according to Y . Matsumiya, a lumberman of Vancouver."7 4 The only other interview was printed alongside the following picture (Figure 5.2). It is interesting to note that the Japanese Canadian men in the photograph were pictured either in or immediately behind the train. This photograph, thus, hints at the fact that the men were not allowed to venture very far from the train itself, or at least that it was determined that the public should not see them as wandering free. 152 132 Japs From B.C. Go through Winnipeg Figure 5.2 - No grievance with the government (Winnipeg Free Press, April 1, 1942, p. 3) The group was described as on a one hour stopover in Winnipeg on their way from Vancouver to Schreiber, Ontario. The spokesman for the group offered no complaints about their treatment, or at least none that were reported. 'We are sorry to be parted from our families,' said T. Nishijima, of New Westminster, spokesman for the group, 'but we realize that circumstances over which neither the government nor we had any control forced the move and we are glad to abide by it. We are Canadians. We are all born in Canada, and we feel that our loyalties belong to this country. Many of us sought to enlist in Canada's armed forces at the outbreak of war in the Pacific, and we would still enlist as Canadians i f granted the opportunity'.75 While the media continued to frame Japanese Canadians as enemy aliens, the voices of Japanese Canadians provide evidence of their resistance to this representation. Rather than framing their separation from their families as oppressive or abusive, these men chose instead to frame it as a 153 service to their countries. Many of their word choices imply choice, loyalty, duty and patriotism. While in the mainstream press, these notions were reserved for 'white' men, and women, in this rare quote from Japanese Canadians, we can see reclamation of these concepts by Japanese Canadians. Despite their treatment by the Canadian government, and in fact by many other Canadian citizens, these Japanese Canadian men named themselves 'Canadian'. This certainly could be understood as simply a statement of fact. Many of these men were, indeed, Canadian. In fact, for many of these men, Canada was the only nation they had known. However, these claims of citizenship can also be seen as a form of resistance to their treatment. By claiming citizenship, these men not only showed patriotism to their country, but also sent an important, though subtle message: Canada was mistreating her citizens. These were the only voices of Japanese Canadians from February, 1942 to January, 1943. Given the subtlety of the resistance voiced in this article, it is no surprise that many considered Japanese to be submissive and non-resistant. The passivity of Japanese Canadians during this time has also been attributed to traditional values of the Issei, or first generation Japanese Canadians. Adachi (1991), for instance claims that "Enryo (reserve, restraint), gaman (patience, perseverance) and, perhaps most significantly, the shikata-ga-nai syndrome (it can't be helped), along with an innate respect for authority, helped to shape their acquiesce to evacuation" (355). However, as Oikawa (2002) asserts, this attitude of shikata ga nai may also be "in fact revelatory of the extent of the violence" (98) that they endured. It is also my contention that this perception of an attitude of submissiveness may also be due, at least in part, to the silencing of their voices. Resistance was often necessarily subtle, or was met with immediate and violent consequences. Charges were laid, for instance, when in March, 1942, one man entered a forbidden zone while riding horseback near the University of British Columbia.7 7 That same month, another was 78 reported to be in possession of "hand-drawn sketches showing industrial activities," and in August, 1942 another was jailed when he was "seen fishing from a rowboat in False Creek." 154 Al l of these and other arrests and incarceration were the result of resistance that was practiced by Japanese Canadians. In relation to the Sugar Beet Programme, Japanese Canadians practiced resistance by smuggling unqualified families into the program. "In order to have the required ratio of four workers to every dependent, young couples with small children formed family units with their parents and unmarried siblings, while the youngest children of widows traveled with other families to give the impression that no one had too many dependents" (Sunahara, 1981, 80). This type of more subtle resistance was not reported in these newspapers. Despite the fact that Japanese Canadians were not given many chances to have their voices heard in the media, it remains clear that they did indeed resist. These instances of resistance, however, were often reported only in brief and served only to criminalize or demonize them or stand as a warning to others who might have been considering similar avenues of resistance. One example of resistance was reported on June 26, 1942 in the Calgary Herald. The author explained that: Japanese workers at Keikie and Decoigne, two road camps near Jasper, have refused to work since Tuesday night; a spokesman from the British Columbia Security Commission said today, and 13 of the ringleaders have been arrested and are en route to internment at the Canadian Immigration detention sheds here under guards. ... The work strikes are in protest against the separation of Japanese men from their families and delays in receiving pay cheques.80 This front-page article sent clear messages to both 'white' citizens and to Japanese Canadians. This newspaper text operated to develop what Dorothy Smith (1990) calls "the ideological currency of society" (214) which works to "transpose local actualities into standardized conceptual and categorical forms" (215). Using terms such as 'ringleaders' conceptualized, for 'white' readers, Japanese Canadians as troublemakers or menaces to society, creating or sustaining a moral panic. The description of the subsequent arrest and removal of these 'ringleaders' then signaled for the reader not only that the 'authorities' had the situation under control, but additionally reinforced the notion of Japanese Canadians as dangerous or deviant. 155 Thus, for 'white' readers, this text acted to justify and reinforce existing social hierarchies. For Japanese Canadians, it stood as a warning. This article was clearly intended to send a chilling message to all Japanese Canadians who may have read it. Those who complained or refused to work were in jeopardy of losing not only what limited freedom they had, but also their homelands as well. On May 14, 1942 another report explained that other men who refused to go to work camps without their families were kept locked up and were not even allowed contact with friends or families through the windows 81 of the building where they were housed. These threats could not be taken lightly, especially given that judges were handing out stiff penalties, including jail time for infractions such as breaking curfew (May 7, 1942)82 or fishing in the restricted areas (August 18, 1942).83 In fact, in June 1942, one man, Shinnojyo Hamazsai, a 49 year old Japanese fisherman, was sentenced to six months of hard labour for obstructing a police officer at Hastings Park, where he was housed.84 The consequences of voicing discontent or resistance, thus, were extremely costly indeed. Throughout this chapter, I have demonstrated how labour worked as both a marker of citizenship, as well as a disavowal of it. The discourses that I have examined here clearly indicated the privilege of 'white' men within labour. However, what was also evident was the privilege of men outside of the labour market as well. In the articles relating directly or indirectly to the 'relocation' of Japanese Canadians, it was Japanese men who were the overt focus of media reportage. This certainly seems to suggest that there was a greater importance placed on men over women as the focus of reporting and may also be indicative that the reporting was intended for a 'white' male audience. Thus, the erasure of Japanese Canadian women and children may tell us something not only about the marginality of visible minority women, but of the devaluing of 'white' women as potential consumers as well. Thus, the privileging of the 'white' male is evident both as the consumers of labour discourses, as well as in labour itself. 156 'White' workers had access to the best jobs and the power to exploit the labour of others. With many 'white' men at war, a crisis occurred whereby the usual hierarchy could no longer be upheld. However, the potential threat of minority workers taking the jobs of 'white' soldiers at war could not be tolerated. Therefore, discourses of patriotism, duty, and sacrifice were used to encourage women to take on many of these jobs, temporarily. Other jobs that could not be filled, and thus protected, by 'white' women, were filled by using the volunteer labour of 'white' men and students who remained at home during this time. However, the Japanese Canadian labour force provided an ideal alternative solution. This group provided cheap and vulnerable labour that was considered to be easily discarded after the war. Many articles highlighted the perceived economic threat of Japanese Canadian workers. However, these articles were not concerned with the immediate threat to labour, as there was none, but instead concerned themselves with the potential threat that Japanese Canadians could pose after the war. In fact, it was clear that there was no immediate threat, but instead, only a silent, pliable, and invisible workforce. Labour, as a marker of citizenship, was used to marginalize Japanese Canadians through their exclusion from discourses of patriotism and duty. Additionally, labour was used as a way to silence Japanese Canadians, and ultimately erase their contributions to a vital war effort. Further, it is important to note that the effects of this labour project on Japanese Canadians did not end with the war. Although many of those transferred had been involved with farming before their incarceration, others would most likely have lost pre-internment skills such as fishing or other non-farming related skills. Further, their contributions to sugar beet farming would not have provided them with transferable skills, as their labour was not only de-valued by virtue of its enforced nature, but the work itself was also considered to be menial unskilled labour. This devaluing and deskilling would have meant even greater difficulties in obtaining employment after the war if the internees chose to relocate. In fact, many stayed in Alberta and 157 Manitoba after the war, although it is unknown how many continued working in the farming industry. 158 NOTES TO CHAPTER FIVE For a complete breakdown of the articles, see Chapter Four of this project. 2 The Japanese populations by province were as follows: "B.C. , 22,084; Alberta, 521; Saskatchewan, 100; Manitoba 29; Ontario 116; Quebec, 18, and Nova Scotia, 2" as reported in "Curfew Order to Curb Jap Movements", Winnipeg Free Press, February 26, 2942, p. 15. 3 See for instance, Avery (1995), Ward (1990), Adachi (1991) and Miki (2004). 4 In fact, the term Japanese was often replaced with the racist epithet 'Jap'. Both terms were used to simultaneously frame Canadian citizens, naturalized citizens and Japanese nationals both in Canada and in Japan. 5 See Avery (1995) and Ward (1990). 6 See Avery (1995) and Ward (1990) for detailed descriptions of the exploitation of Asian labour during this and earlier periods of Canadian history. 7 See for instance, Mahtani (2001). 8 See Anderson's (1991) discussion of patriotism for a more detailed discussion of the relationship between duty and nationalism. 9 See for instance Ward (1990), Abu-Laban, (1998) for more on the ways in which labour, race and citizenship intersect. 1 0 "Lack 240,000 For Farm Work." Calgary Herald, July 30, 1942, p. 3. 1 1 My use of 'white men' here is not to imply that many men and women of colour did not serve overseas, but is instead a reflection of how white men were privileged in newspaper discourses in this way. 1 2 For many Japanese Canadian men, this was also a marker of citizenship and many tried to enlist, despite and in some cases perhaps because of their treatment. They were, for the most part, turned away. Officially, only "three Nisei, Shigeo Kato, Fujio Aida and Hiromi Tanaka, were accepted by recruiting officers in British Columbia just before Pearl Harbour (Adachi, 1991,193). Further, the few enlistments that were allowed were often hidden from the public. In response to complaints from second generation Japanese Canadians or Nisei that "a censorship directive had been issued to the press of Canada ordering that no information be released concerning the enlistment and activities of Canadians of Japanese ancestry in the Canadian Army" (Adachi, 1991, 292) Inl945, "Defense Minister Ralston explained that no subsequent publicity was given to the service and training of Nisei 'for reasons of military security and protection of personnel'" (Adachi, 1991, 292). 1 3 Women's participation and duty was often overshadowed by that of men. In fact, as Winslow and Dunn (2002), explain, by the end of World War II "approximately 50,000 women had served in the women's divisions, 5000 nurses had served in the medical corps of the navy, army and air force and 53 nurses had died while on duty (641). However, as the authors further contend, "at no time in their military history have Canadian women 'officially' participated as combat personnel in military assault units - ground, sea or air (641-2). 1 4 Japanese Canadian men, for instance, served in World War I, 159 1 5 This exclusion was often based on the idea that women did not require the same wage as men did, due to their dependence on men. This exclusion was often enforced through strategies such as exclusion of women from unions (Creese, 1992, 371). 1 6 As Bourgeois (2004) points out in Whitewashing History: Social Constructions of Whiteness in Armstrong, B.C., 1890-1930, even in cases where visible minority labour, in this case Chinese labour, was utilized for white industrialist benefit, steps were taken to prevent these workers from becoming a threat to white labour and to white industrialists (70-71). 1 7 See Anderson (1991) for more on this point. 18 "Jap Cheap Labor Influx Possible Mayor Reveals", Winnipeg Free Press, April 6, 1942, p. 7. 1 9 See, for instance, "May Place 400 Jap Families in South Alberta", Calgary Herald, March 25, 1942, p. 11 and "South Resents Foreign-Born Land Expansion", Calgary Herald, March 12, 1942, p. 17. 2 0 "House Told B.C. Japs Defiant." Winnipeg Free Press, July 30, 1942, p. 7. 2 1 "House Told B.C. Japs Defiant." Winnipeg Free Press, July 30, 1942, p. 7. 2 2 "Manitoba Farms Could Use Japs, Says Minister." Calgary Herald, April 22, 1942, p. 9. 2 3 "Grow Sugar Beets" Winnipeg Free Press, April 17, 1942, p. 9. 2 4"South Planning To Use Japanese in Beet Fields." Calgary Herald, March 20, 1942, p. 18. 9 S "Sugar Beet Crop Increase Urged" Winnipeg Free Press, April 6, 1942, p. 12. 26 "Growers to Receive Substantially Increased Prices for 1942 Beets" Winnipeg Free Press, April 18, 1942, p. 14. 97 "Phillip Baker Again President of Beet Growers: Convention Supports Suggestion of Jap Workers." Calgary Herald, February 27, 1942, p. 22. 2 8 "Would Use Coast Japs in Seeding, Harvesting." Calgary Herald, March 19, 1942, p. 9. 2 9 "About the Japanese." Winnipeg Free Press, May 15, 1942, p. 15. "About the Japanese." Winnipeg Free Press, May 15, 1942, p. 15. 3 1 "Sugar Beet Labor Sought By Hepburn." Winnipeg Free Press, June 8, 1942, p. 10 3 2 "Farm Labor Shortage Looms." Calgary Herald, March 20, 1942, p. 18. "Volunteer Workers Urgently Needed to Save Manitoba's Sugar Beet Crop." Winnipeg Free Press, October 7, 1942, p. 6. 3 4 See Mutual Hostages: Canadians and Japanese during the Second World War, by Roy, Granatstein, lino and Takamura(1990) for a detailed comparison of the treatment of Canadians in Japan and the treatment of Japanese in Canada. 3 5 "Would Set Japs to Work on Rocky Highway." Calgary Herald, March 7, 1942, p. 17. 3 6 "Meetings Protest Influx of Japs Into South." Calgary Herald, March 17, 1942, p. 11. 3 7 "May Place 400 Jap Families In South Alberta." Calgary Herald, March 25, 1942, p. 11 3 8 "Japs to Help Manitoba with Sugar Beets." Winnipeg Free Press, March 26, 1942, p. 5. "Hepburn Says Jap Move Temporary." Winnipeg Free Press, April 11, 1942, p. 24. 160 "Japs Removed From Lockport After Protests." Winnipeg Free Press, May 8, 1942, p. 4. 4 0 "Japs Wil l Remain Till Emergency Over" Winnipeg Free Press, April 15, 1942. p. 10. 4 1 "House Told B.C. Japs Defiant." Winnipeg Free Press, July 30, 1942, p. 7. 4 2 "Some B.C. Japs Move Voluntarily." Winnipeg Free Press, February 4, 1942, p. 15. 4 3 "Order Aliens Out of B.C. Area." Winnipeg Free Press, February 14, 1942, p. 3. 4 4 "100 Japs Given Gay Send-off At Vancouver." Winnipeg Free Press, February 24, 1942, p. 4 4 5 "Voluntary Migration Of Japanese Stopped." Winnipeg Free Press, March 7, 1942, p. 28. 4 6 "Japan Agrees On Treatment Of Civilians." Winnipeg Free Press, February 24, 1942, p. 4. 4 7 "Being Interned." Winnipeg Free Press, June 18, 1942, p. 5. "Labour Council Protests Moving Japanese Here." Calgary Herald, March 14, 1942, p. 20. 4 9 "Labor Council Would Intern A l l Japanese" Calgary Herald, March 28, 1942, p. 11. 5 0 "Might Threaten Wages" Winnipeg Free Press, April 14, 1942, p. 13. 5 1 "Jap Cheap Labour Influx Possible Mayor Reveals, Winnipeg Free Press, April 6, 1942, p. 7. 5 2 "No Japanese Wanted when War Ends", Calgary Herald, September 10, 1942, p. 4. This type of discourse is also evident in an article entitled "Coast People Always Opposed Jap Influx", Calgary Herald, July 24, 1942, p. 4. 5 3 "LO.D.E. Would Ban Japs from Business." Winnipeg Free Press, April 10, 1942, p. 10. 5 4 "Urge Stricter Control Over Japanese Racials." Calgary Herald, June 5, 1942, p. 8. 5 5 "Must Be Sent Home After the War." Calgary Herald, July 10, 1942, p. 4. 5 6 "Coast People Always Opposed Jap Influx." Calgary Herald, July 24, 1942, p. 4. 5 7 "No Japanese Wanted When War Ends." Calgary Herald, September 10, 1942, p. 4. 5 8 "Coast Fisheries Manage Without Japanese Aid. " Calgary Herald, September 21, 1942, p. 4. 5 9 See for instance Bourgeois (2004, 70-79), for a description of how this type of'positive racism' was used in regards to Chinese industriousness in the interior of British Columbia. 6 0 According to Adachi (1991), "most of the farmers looked upon the evacuees as a ready source of slave or prisoner-of-war labour, ripe for exploitation, which under the terms of the agreement with the province, quickly became an accurate description" (281). 6 1 "Jap Children Wil l Start to School." Calgary Herald, September 24, 1942, p. 15 6 2 "Jap Schooling Still Problem." Calgary Herald, September 5, 1942, p. 18. 6 3 "Schools Bar Jap Children." Calgary Herald, August 27, 1942, p. 21. 6 4 "Jap Children Wil l Start School" Calgary Herald, September, 24, 1942, p. 15. 6 5 "May Get Japs To Help Harvest Alberta Crops." Calgary Herald, July 24, 1942, p. 11. 6 6 "700 Sugar Beet Workers Needed." Winnipeg Free Press, September 29, 1942, p. 8. 6 7 "Sugar Beet Harvesters On the Job." Winnipeg Free Press, October 3, 1942, p. 2. 6 8 "447 Students Harvest Beets." Winnipeg Free Press, October 9, 1942, p. 6. 161 6 9 "No More Japs To Be Brought For Work Here." Calgary Herald, September 14, 1942, p. 9. 7 0 "May Have to Cut Beet Acreage." Calgary Herald, September 16, 1942, p. 15. 7 1 "Boys Turn Out In Droves For Beet Harvest." Winnipeg Free Press, October 12, 1942, p. 3. 72 "Student Harvesters Blame Inexperience." Winnipeg Free Press, October 29, 1942, p. 17 "Students From East Say Harvesting Tough." Winnipeg Free Press, October 23, 1942, p. 6. 7 4 "Treatment of Japs In Canada Is Fair, Lumber Worker Says." Winnipeg Free Press, May 4, 1942, p. 4. 7 5 "132 Japs From B.C. Go Through Winnipeg." Winnipeg Free Press, April 1, 1942, p.3. This article contained the only photograph and one of the few interviews of Japanese Canadians that I was able to uncover in my search. However, the resistance seen here suggests that other sources such as first person testimonies, diaries, letters, and photographs would supply considerably more evidence of resistance than could be found in newspaper accounts. 7 7 "Forbidden Zone." Calgary Herald, March 20, 1942, p. 3. 7 8 "22-year-old Jap Arrested in B.C.", Winnipeg Free Press, March 23, 1942, p. 3 Japanese Jailed." Calgary Herald, August 18, 1942, p. 2. 80 <. 'Jap Workers On Strike At Jasper Road Camps." Calgary Herald, June 26, 1942, p. 1. Wil l Intern Japanese For Vancouver Fracas." Calgary Herald, May 14, 1942, p. 1. "Jap Goes to Jail For Breaking Curfew." Calgary Herald, May 7, 1942, p. 2. 8 3 "Japanese Jailed." Calgary Herald, August 18, 1942, p. 2. "Across Canada." Calgary Herald, June 12, 1942, p. 9. D C According to Adachi (1991), 1,084 Japanese were dispersed to Manitoba by 1943, and by 1951, 1,161 resided there. The numbers increased slightly to 1,296 in 1961 and 1,335 in 1971. In Alberta, the initial 1943 dispersal amount was 3,231 and 3,336 resided in the province in 1951, 3,721 in 1961 and 4,460 in 1971 (423-426). These numbers certainly suggest that while the Japanese Canadian population certainly did not grow significantly, many Japanese Canadians remained in these provinces after the war. 162 Chapter Six: Conclusion Writing this thesis was both an academically enriching and a deeply personal experience. When I began, I could not have imagined how deeply affected I would be by both the process and the subject matter. The many journeys that I took to the newspaper archives often became painful navigations between the past and the present. Reading these daily newspapers was both familiar and disconcerting. It pulled me into a past, not only through the deep emotions I felt when I was faced with the tremendous racism on the pages, but also through my engagement with the mundane, the everyday. Sometimes I found myself following an unrelated newspaper story in much the same way that I follow stories in current newspapers, wondering what the outcome would be, not what it had been. The past became jumbled with the present. Indeed, I was often transported between the past and the present, sometimes taking with me a recipe or 'clipping' an article of personal interest or a comic strip that made me laugh. Other times, it was more difficult to leave the past, as I wrote and rewrote angry letters to the editor in my head. I wanted to be able to make a difference, not just by engaging with the past, but by changing it. The process changed me. I came into this project with a commitment to engaging in historical work, driven by an academic knowledge of the importance of history in shaping the present. I wanted roots and I found them. I dug into the soil, my fingers joining roots and rootlets in an effort to be vital. Sometimes there were traces of life in the newspapers that I could follow deeper into the soil and I would find my roots there. Other times I traced deep fissures in the landscape, in hopes of finding something beneath the surface. I dug through the soil, tracing through dense and complex root systems, trying to find my own. Often, I followed the roots to the surface, watched them sprout, but could move no further. Making the connections between these roots and my own life was often difficult and painful. Other times it was impossible to escape the connections, though this was at times equally painful. 163 I was especially struck by how people continued to function in spite of, and perhaps because of, the catastrophic events that were playing themselves out on the national and international stage. It is at the level of the everyday that life is lived and experienced. Although seemingly benign, the everyday is a site of power; for it is there that the effects of national as well as local discourses are seen. Newspapers often engage in painting the 'big picture', but they also provide connections between that larger picture and the everyday lives of both the ordinary and the extraordinary. It was these connections that I sought out. It was at the level of the local and the everyday that I was able to uncover an 'effective history' As Terry (1991) contends, "Effective history exposes not the events and actors elided by traditional history, but instead lays bare the processes and operations by which these elisions occurred (emphasis in the original, Terry, 1991, 56). It was at the juncture between national constructions of citizenship and the everyday events that the processes and operations that marginalized Japanese Canadians became visible. In fact, as this thesis has shown, it was at the level of the everyday that the incarceration of Japanese Canadians was acted out both discursively and materially. It was at the level of the everyday that supervision and surveillance were engaged in, rooted though they were in the state and state agencies. Foucault (2003) makes the claim that power is not acted out only by the powerful; that we must, therefore, look beyond models of power that deal only with the repressive domain of the state. He contends that, relations of power, and hence the analysis that must be made of them, necessarily extend beyond the limits of the state - in two senses. First of all, because the state, for all the omnipotence of its apparatuses, is far from being able to occupy the whole field of actual power relations; and, further, because the state can only operate on the basis of other, already-existing power relations (309). Therefore, we must understand power as dictated from both above and below. Indeed, I found evidence that power was acted out by state, civil, and individual actors. I also theorize that power was also internalized by Japanese Canadians. Examining the discourses of supervision 164 and surveillance made clear the ways in which power is acted out through a variety of agents both at the state and at the level of civil society. In fact, the state and civil society functioned in a symbiotic manner, where the needs of both the state and 'white' civil society dictated the terms of incarceration for Japanese Canadians who inhabited the sugar beet farms. The state's need to 'relocate' Japanese Canadians from coastal areas of British Columbia and 'white' farmers' need for labour resulted in negotiations regarding the movement of Japanese Canadians to Alberta and Manitoba. This meant that responsibility for the both the economic survival of Japanese Canadians and for protection of 'white' citizens was to be shouldered by the British Columbian Security Commission or by other state agencies such as the police. Thus, supervision was acted out at the state or extra-local level. While it was certainly in the economic interests of Alberta and Manitoba farmers that they have such a vulnerable and thus docile labour force, the financial burden of supervision was taken up by the state. Additionally, security through police surveillance was also demanded by civil society, although more disciplinary forms of surveillance became the domain of civil society. Civil society took on the job of surveillance, acting as a diffused panopticon, in order to protect both the state's interests as well as their own. This was evidenced through media tracking of Japanese Canadians, as well as through public protests. For instance, many Alberta communities protested the relocation of Japanese Canadians into their midst, as did two Manitoba communities. Additionally, communities also called for increased restrictions to be placed on Japanese Canadians, such as forbidding them from entering drinking establishments or hiring or driving taxis. This panopticon served not only to act as additional security for the state, but also as a reinforcement of existing hierarchies of race, class, gender, ability and sexuality, with respect to citizenship. Surveillance, thus, acted to mark the boundaries between self and 'other', a reinforcement of beliefs that the "Oriental is irrational, depraved (fallen), childlike, 'different" thus the European is rational, virtuous, mature, 'normal'" (Said, 1979, 40). The 165 constant surveillance was repressive, in that Japanese Canadians were never out of view, even if out of sight. Surveillance never ceased, as it was generated from both above, at the state level, below, at the civic level and arguably within. Indeed, although Japanese Canadians on sugar beet farms in Alberta and Manitoba were not imprisoned formally, they were treated by state and extra-state institutions as if they had been charged and sentenced and imprisoned. The result was such that even Japanese Canadians appeared to participate in their own disciplining and regulating as seen through their obedience and compliance. The constant surveillance was also productive, given that surveillance acted also to delineate between ordinary 'white' citizens and the 'other'. However, it must be understood that even the categories of both 'white' and 'other' were internally fractured. For instance, Hutterites, although 'white', were grouped together with Japanese Canadians in calls for increased restrictions of both movement and land ownership. The Hutterites' self-imposed isolation, as well as their refusal to participate in the war marked them as non-citizens in the eyes of many. Additionally, the productive qualities of surveillance also acted to destroy any possibility of alliances between other racialized and oppressed groups, such as between Chinese and Japanese Canadians. This was shown, for example, through the example of Chinese who strove to distance and distinguish themselves from Japanese Canadians through the wearing of identifying buttons. In terms of constraint, I found evidence that state and civil society worked in tandem to utilize both repressive and productive power. For instance, the state imposed repressive spatial constraints by mandating that Japanese Canadian families be tied to specific farms. However, even these more repressive expressions of power were productive in that the implementation of state policies also guaranteed a docile workforce. Given that these families were solely dependent on these farmers for their livelihoods, Japanese Canadian resistance was arguably futile. Additionally, these constraints made contact with other Japanese Canadian families 166 difficult and in some cases impossible. Civi l society also acted to regulate where Japanese Canadian families could and could not go. This took the form of group protests at the local level, which resulted in the barring of Japanese Canadians from several farming communities and larger cities. Additionally, public discourses which proposed physical constraints such as the barring of Japanese Canadians from drinking establishments, often did so in a way that hinted at the moral regulation of the 'other'. Attempts to control the activities of not only Japanese Canadians but also Hutterites, a population that was deemed unpatriotic because of their refusal to serve in the military, was further evidence of the ways in which 'white' Anglo, civil society took on the role of disciplining these populations. For Japanese Canadians, racialization became an integral component of their surveillance. However, Hutterites, who might otherwise have been considered to be 'white' citizens, found that their unwillingness to do their 'patriotic duty' also marked them as non-citizens. Thus, 'whiteness' became a fragmented or contested category through the racializing of Hutterites. Additionally, civil society was complicit with the state in regard to the coercive nature of Japanese internment. In fact, it was in the economic interests of not only local farmers, but also of a national war effort that coerced labour of Japanese was used. Indeed, the British Columbia Security Commission was dependent on the agreement of local governments as well as local farmers in order to implement the Sugar Beet Programme. As was seen in Chapter Five, labour was coerced, and indeed, the public called for increased levels of coercion such as implementation of concentration camps where workers would be housed when not being transported to the fields for work. Examining the relationship between this coerced labour and discourses of citizenship also provided evidence of the way the everyday became the site of disfranchisement. Labour became part of a discursive campaign to legitimize the temporary utilization of Japanese Canadian workers. 'White' farmers and other 'patriotic' citizens were called upon to put aside their 167 reservations and fears in the name of their patriotic duty. Indeed, the benefits provided to 'white' farmers by a vulnerable and compliant workforce were often disregarded, although with 44 percent of farm labour lost to war industries and the armed forces (Sunahara, 1981, 78) the benefit certainly existed. Additionally, it should be noted that this would not be the first time that 'white' farmers had benefited through the exploitation of a racialized population. For instance, many Alberta and Manitoba farmers would have likely benefited from free homesteading grants from the state when they arrived in Canada, which were a direct result of the displacement and disenfranchisement of First Nations people. Whether it was this discursive crusade or the economic advantages of Japanese Canadian labour that eventually swayed the Alberta and Manitoba populations is impossible to tell. However, that these discursive campaigns were implemented at all was evidence of the ways in which citizenship discourses of patriotism and duty were reserved for 'white' citizens. Further, these citizenship discourses were also used to discipline the 'unpatriotic' such as the Hutterites. Through discourses of patriotism and duty, 'white' laborers were privileged recipients of discursive badges of citizenship, while Japanese Canadians and Hutterites were absented from any such claim to citizenship. Additionally, Japanese Canadian workers were further marginalized through discourses which represented them as threats to 'white' labour. Although Japanese Canadian labour was eventually utilized, it was done so hesitantly. Contradictions were evident in that, on the one hand, public discourses depicted Japanese Canadians as economic threats, while on the other hand, Japanese Canadians were necessary for the successful production of a vital war staple. Thus, it was necessary that once this labour scheme was implemented, that Japanese Canadians quickly be erased from view. Erasing Japanese Canadian workers, thus, erased these contradictions. However, the invisibility of Japanese Canadian workers also served to privilege the labour of 'white', male workers. This further reinforced existing hierarchies of privilege, especially in regard to race, gender and age. 168 'White' male labour was highly praised, especially the volunteer labour of city workers, high school, and university students, emphasizing not only the patriotism of these groups, but their strength and determination. This further devalued the labour of women and children whose work went unacknowledged despite the fact that greater efforts were demanded of them, given their size disadvantage. Additionally, the invisibility of Japanese Canadian labour and the inaudibility of their voices also meant an erasing from view of any resistance by Japanese Canadians. In fact, other sources have demonstrated that organized resistance did, in fact, take place. One example of resistance was the formation of the Manitoba Japanese Joint Committee, which fought for the rights of Japanese Canadian farm workers in Alberta and Manitoba. Other more subtle forms of resistance may have included the formation of local baseball leagues. Many of those interned in other sites played baseball as a way to maintain a sense of normalcy during the war. The book Asahi, A Legend in Baseball suggests that this may have been the case in Alberta as well, although the only mention of baseball in this area refers to a 1945 league (Adachi, 1992, 205). Despite such resistance, there was rarely any mentioning of resistance in the newspapers during this one-year period that I studied. In the rare cases where instances of resistance were reported, reports always included references to the harsh punitive consequences and therefore stood as a warning to those who might have considered defying authorities. In this way, newspapers, as civil institutions, attempted to regulate or control the actions of Japanese Canadians. Newspapers, as well as other civic groups and individuals became part of what Foucault (2003) called the "new 'economy' of power" (307). It was an economy that was both more efficient and much less wasteful (less costly economically, less risky in their results, less open to loopholes and resistances) than the techniques previously employed, which were based on a mixture of more or less forced tolerances (from recognized privileges to endemic criminality) and costly ostentation (spectacularly and discontinuous interventions of power, the most violent form of which was the 'exemplary,' because exceptional, punishment) (307-309). 169 This economy of power became evident through an attention to the everyday. It is at this level that we can see the ways in which power was manifest not only as repressive, but as productive as well. Analyzing discourses found in local newspapers helped to ground this project in the everyday. By focusing on the everyday, it was possible to see the connections between regulations, such as surveillance, imposed by state institutions and those imposed by extra-state institutions. Additionally, it allowed for an understanding of the ways in which these regulations could then become internalized by Japanese Canadians. However, this method also produced several limitations which should be noted. By limiting my examination to newspapers, I was unable to address many of the specificities of the Sugar Beet Program. While newspaper articles provided fertile ground for analyzing state and extra-state regulation, an additional focus on official records and reports kept by the B.C.S.C. could have strengthened my understanding of the state's role. Further, other archival records, such as local government records of communities in and around the farming areas might also have provided depth of analysis in regards to proposed and implemented policies relating to employment, settlement and land use by Japanese Canadians. Although many of these policies and proposals were reported on in the newspapers, arguably many did not make headlines. What gets reported in newspapers should not be assumed to represent the totality of local or national events. In fact, my commitment to feminist research was often hindered by a lack of female representation in these newspapers. While I have attempted to interrogate not only the visible, but also the invisible, my understanding of the effects of newspaper discourse on women is speculative at best. However, as a feminist researcher, my commitment to gender does not rely solely on an analysis of women, but attends to discussions of the ways in which masculinity is constructed as well. I show, for instance, how masculinity was constructed in numerous ways. Japanese Canadian masculinity was fractured, for instance, by the portrayal of them as both 170 national security threats and as submissive to disciplines imposed upon them. Additionally, 'white' masculinity was constructed based on discourses of strength and endurance. However, these constructions were only possible through the erasure of Japanese Canadian men, women and children from any discussion of labour. By interrogating only English language sources, it was also difficult at times to provide evidence of resistance, although certainly other sources have made note of it. However, despite these shortcomings, this study was able to uncover some of the ways in which these invisibilities were imposed. Unfortunately, this study was limited by both financial and time constraints. Thus, the time period that I studied was fairly limited. A study of newpaper reportage pre-dating 1942 would be beneficial for providing more of an understanding of the ways in which Japanese Canadians were portrayed prior to the Sugar Beet Programme. This would provide more of a basis for comparison of discourses that predated the program and those in place after the implementation of the program. It would also allow for a deeper understanding of the ways that discourses differed in respect to constructions of Japanese Canadians already in the province, and the British Columbian Japanese Canadians. Additionally, extending the examination beyond 1943 would allow for more of a discussion of how labour was constructed once Japanese Canadians were free to leave the farms to which they had been assigned. Furthermore, although the B.C.S.C. had promised to remove Japanese Canadians from Alberta after the war, this promise was never carried out. Extending the temporal scope of the research may have provided answers in regards to why Japanese Canadians were allowed to stay in the province after the war and what negotiations were necessary for this to have occurred. The limited geographical focus of this study was both a strength and weakness. By interrogating these specific sites, I was able to supplement the very minute amount that has been written about the experiences of Japanese Canadians who were incarcerated in Alberta and Manitoba. However, the internment of Japanese Canadians during World War II was marked by 171 multiple sites of incarceration. This study is only one chapter in this story. Numerous sites continue to be overlooked and numerous stories remain untold. Each of the sites has within it, the power to bring to light more stories of Canadians who have previously been excluded from Canadian history. In this thesis, my own history took root. I was able to come to a greater understanding of the ways in which my own family both contributed to and were excluded from this nation. Although redress signaled a time of closure for many Japanese Canadians, for me, it prompted numerous questions that remained answered by current sources. For me, nothing was 'settled' by redress. Instead, redress became an un-settling. It opened up a window into the past, but did not provide an unobstructed view. My goal, thus, was to take a look inside, and provide a not only a description of what had previously been elided, but a critical analysis of it as well. My commitment to providing a critical, historical and sociological analysis allowed me to move beyond the descriptive, to lay "bare the processes and operations by which these elisions occurred" (emphasis in the original, Terry, 1991, 56). My view was limited, however, and if other third, fourth or fifth generation Japanese Canadians cannot find their answers here, then perhaps their answers lie in other sites that have not yet been interrogated. Miki 's (2004) recent book, Redress, is evidence that history cannot simply be written and then abandoned in the past. Reflecting on past events and processes keeps the door between the past and the present open, allows us to move between and through times and understand the ways in which they inform our everyday. History can be written and rewritten in a myriad of ways, each offering new perspectives on a past, providing connections that aid in our understanding of the ways that the past informs the present. Although I have tried to provide connections between the past and the present, these connections between race, citizenship and nationalism in the past need to be connected more concretely to the present. What is necessary is for us to develop a greater understanding of how the disfranchisement of Japanese Canadians during World War II impacted not only them, but future generations as well. The doors to the 172 past have been opened and many memories have been spilled into the present. The impact of redress on first and second generation (Issei and Nisei) Japanese Canadians has only just begun to be understood. As a third generation (Sansei) Japanese Canadian, I too feel the impact. The redress, for me, meant a desire for answers to questions that have only now begun to surface. It has also meant an increased sense of awareness and pride. I am proud to call myself Sansei, an identity that for me affirms a deep history in this nation as well as a resistance to erasure. In regards to the fourth, fifth and future generations, I find myself contemplating if a Yonsei or a Gosei will ever truly exist or if, like our history, they too will become victims of cultural genocide. I wonder if they will find enough of their roots in history that they will be able to call themselves not only Canadian, but Yonsei or Gosei as well. More research needs to be done so that they may find these roots. Thus, my hopes are that my own children will be the true beneficiaries of this work and that they will proudly call themselves not only Canadians, but Yonsei as well. 173 NOTES FOR CHAPTER SIX See for instance Taylor (2004, 66) for her discussion of the isolation experienced by many farm families. 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