More than 120,000 Japanese Americans were held captive inside 10 internment camps nationwide during World War II – including two in Arizona, built on Indian reservations by the U.S. War Relocation Authority without tribal consent.
On Arizona’s western border, the Colorado River Indian Tribes has made a point to preserve the remnants of one such war-time prison, Poston, while the Grand Canyon State’s other camp sits hidden in the shadows of Phoenix.
It’s slowly fading away.
‘Most people on the street don’t know about the camps’
The Gila River Indian Community has strict rules about accessing the abandoned 16,500-acre site, originally known as the Rivers Relocation Center. It was named after Jim Rivers, an Akimel O’odham killed in World War One. Now, it’s more commonly called Gila River, and the camp’s location is mainly off-limits.
Would-be visitors must apply for a handful of tribe-issued permits.
The Gila River Indian Community grants only roughly 10 in any given year, mostly to internee families, descendants and the few living camp survivors. Otherwise, anybody who visits without written permission is considered a trespasser and could face punishment.
Even high-ranking diplomats have had trouble getting in, according to Kelly Moeur, who serves as honorary consul of Japan in Phoenix. Without a consulate of his own, he still helps promote trade and culture on behalf of the Land of the Rising Sun. Moeur also tries to offer a better understanding of Japanese American internment history.
“I imagine most people on the street don’t know about the camps,” he said. “They might passively, but no. People really don’t ask about it at all.”
Growing up, the fourth-generation Arizonan admittedly didn’t learn much about this camp – until he started taking trips there as part of his official duties. And despite Moeur’s best efforts, a former Japanese consul general from Los Angeles, still couldn’t get inside.
“You can see where the barracks were, but it’s now just foundations, and there’s a hill with a monument on it,” added Moeur. “A lot of the camps are stuck out in the middle of nowhere, basically.”
‘This is not a tourist camp’
I was able to visit this restricted site twice this year along with Wally Jones, who works for the tribe’s Department of Land Use Planning and Zoning. He also helped process my months-long application. The tribe’s Natural Resources Standing Committee approved my request for a trip.
I first met Jones in April at the Chevron gas station in Bapchule, about 30 miles south of downtown Phoenix. Per the permit conditions, the Gila River Indian Community did not allow KJZZ to photograph or record once inside the camp itself. But Jones agreed to let me document our short ride there while driving his pickup truck.
No matter who is coming out, Jones stresses they’re not tours.
“I can’t give, really the location. I wanted to, but people do search it. This is not a tourist camp,” Jones reiterated. “This is a regulated entry that the department processes for the council’s consideration for your visit. Not just anyone can come out here. These are one of the few sites that the community allows non-members to come in and kind of experience what was here.”
What was here in 1942 would’ve equated to Arizona’s fourth-largest city – once home to 13,348 internees stuck in the Sonoran Desert at the peak of the camp’s population. Only Phoenix, Tucson and another internment camp, Poston in western Arizona, had more inhabitants.
Without the San Carlos Irrigation Project pumping water into the arid desert lands spanning almost 600 square miles, the Rivers Relocation Center wouldn’t have been a viable option for internees – let alone for growing crops and raising cattle. In spite of that harsh climate, Gila River became the biggest agricultural producer among the county’s war relocation centers.
A leasing agreement between the Valley tribe and the U.S. War Relocation Authority sought to “subjugate” some 8,000 acres of farmland while also feeding 25,000 chickens, 2,500 hogs, 2,000 head of cattle and 110 dairy cows.
Agriculture wasn’t this internment camp’s sole wartime industry.
Prisoners also made camouflage nets inside a factory and had another plant just for building model naval ships used to train Allied pilots for bombing missions. They even had a vegetable dehydration plant and tofu factory, much like Poston.
Internees were also incentivized to help pick the tribe’s namesake Pima cotton from surrounding fields, but UCLA assistant anthropology professor Koji Lau-Ozawa shared that “expedition proved to be a more or less complete failure.”
Their wages were solely based on how much cotton they’d collect by weight.
“But it turns out that picking cotton is miserable and hard,” added Lau-Ozawa, who is a descendant of Gila River camp survivors. “A lot of people tried and were like, ‘This sucks, this is terrible,’ so they really struggled in recruiting.”
Canal and Butte were the names of the two camps that made up the Rivers Relocation Center, housing nearly 900 barracks in all. Now, no structures remain from either — all of it has since fallen to ruins.
“The camp is not maintained. The community has decided to let nature recapture its natural state, but there are remnants of various barracks, facilities,” added Jones. “I think the biggest item that the camp has are the ponds that the Japanese Americans put in while the first lady came to visit.”
That barren landscape in the shadow of the Sacaton Mountains is still dotted with at least 230 ornate garden ponds – now dried up – that prisoners built while living there, all catalogued by Lau-Ozawa. He conducted a non-intrusive archaeological field survey in partnership with the Gila River Indian Community’s Tribal Historic Preservation Office and Cultural Resource Management Program.
Each pond was “an act of personalization,” according to Lau-Ozawa, all encouraged by camp administrators to help “beautify” that space and make it seem less hostile, especially in preparation for first lady Eleanor Roosevelt’s arrival in 1943.
“But people also did it of their own volition and initiative because they didn’t want to live in these featureless communities that were just rows upon rows of the same barrack construction,” added Lau-Ozawa. “They really helped to create a sense of ownership and home in a context in which people were removed from their homes.”
To this day, after seemingly countless trips, Jones continues to uncover new and astonishing things at the old camp site. “It always amazes me that we find these ponds out here, that it was a signal of their tradition and their hope that they would not let their culture fade away.”
‘This really happened, it isn’t just a fantasy’
Seven months after my initial visit in April, I returned there as a guest of the JACL-AZ – or Japanese American Citizens League’s Arizona Chapter. The group organizes annual site clean-ups. But this time, on a Monday morning in November, they were here for a different reason.
It’s was ceremony, among the largest gatherings in recent memory at the Rivers Relocation Center’s Butte camp. Once again, visitors rendezvoused at the Chevron in Bapchule before forming a caravan of at least 20 vehicles.
Once all there, Tony Enos offered a blessing and sang traditional O’odham songs while holding a gourd rattle and feather fan. The Gila River Indian Community elder greeted camp survivors and descendants, proclaiming this land is “a mixture of our people” and that being here “we’re planting that seed.”
Then, Ira H. Hayes Post 84 fired a 21-gun salute followed by “Taps.”
Post commander Bill Dixon shared that it’s “quite amazing they put them out here” in this “desolate place.” Also there was fellow post member Doug Juan, a nephew of the famed Ira Hamilton Hayes, who helped raise the American flag atop Iwo Jima in the Pacific.
It’s the very war that led to the confinement of Japanese Americans.
He called it “humbling” to be part of this special occasion, with Juan emphasizing “Nobody knows who I am, this isn’t about me – it’s for them.” An internee family gifted him and other members of the Gila River Indian Community colored-paper leis made from folded origami cranes – resembling rainbows around their necks.
Atop a knoll overlooking where the ceremony was held lies a memorial, where sun-bleached origami cranes have been left behind. On them are inscriptions inked in Japanese – messages and names of those who were once held there.
“We had so many people that they couldn’t fit on top of the historic monument,” said Bill Staples Jr., president of JACL-AZ. “We had to do it at the base, and for many it was the first time they’ve been here in over 80 years.”
A reception was held at the tribe’s Huhugam Heritage Center afterward.
“And I was really touched by how emotionally connected the Gila River Indian Community was in welcoming the Japanese Americans, the Ira Hayes Post [84] – their 21-gun salute – playing ‘Taps’ was maybe the most moving part for me.”
Also there, making the trip from Seattle, was 85-year-old camp survivor Sylvia Domoto.
“I do remember playing in the dirt with my girlfriends and I thought making mud pies, that’s just universal,” she said. “I think kids from any culture do that.”
Accompanying Sylvia was her daughter, Jenny.
“The camps, she said it was fun for them, but I knew historywise, that isn’t fun to be taken away from your home for the color of your skin. We weren’t the only ones, and I think they found a lot of comfort living together with people with the same language and values. So the Japanese were lucky in that they were together.”
An only child, Sylvia remembers camp life fondly with her parents and the sandstorms: “We used to go out into the mountains and have picnics. The zabuton, which are these flat cushions that Japanese like to sit on, were flying in the air.” Using watercolor techniques, she’s painted half a dozen of those childhood memories.
Life wasn’t all bad, in her eyes. Like Poston, their camp had its own newspaper, the Gila News-Courier, which kept them current on community events, from harvest festivals to baseball games and sumo wrestling matches. But Sylvia has been blunt about how the U.S. treated tribes, especially the Gila River Indian Community.
They, too, were victims, insists Sylvia, but still survived.
“This country was begun in a very selfish, land-grabbing way,” she said. “You know, many of the Native Americans were hoodwinked. They’ve been so welcoming and continue to respect and to keep the land there, so that we can say, ‘Yes, this really happened. It isn’t just a fantasy.’”