The mass internment of Japanese Americans amid World War II is among the dark chapters of U.S. history that the Trump administration is actively working to erase — being swept up in a campaign to remove so-called “disparaging” signs and markers about the country’s past, while focusing only on “American greatness.”
The Grand Canyon State was once home to more than a fourth of all internees – more than 31,000 Japanese Americans — between the pair of camps sitting on tribal lands in Arizona. And despite the efforts of the current administration, one group is working to make sure the 120,000-plus victims of U.S. internment camps are highlighted in — not erased from — the history books.
‘We cannot honor people if their names are misspelled’
Inside a strip mall owned by the Colorado River Indian Tribes, hundreds flock to its museum in Parker during an annual pilgrimage to the former Poston camp. Museum director Valerie Welsh-Tahbo explained that her space used to be an old swimwear shop — tailored to tourists coming to see their tribe’s namesake waterway.
“This was already up here, this structure in this store” said Welsh-Tahbo, pointing to a teal-hued corner dedicated to an exhibit on Poston. “And I said, ‘Let’s hang on to this.’ Just because of where it was situated, and that design, it just spawned that idea.”
An idea to honor Poston’s past and its 17,814-plus internees. Another way the museum is paying respect is by welcoming Soto Zen Buddhist priest Duncan Ryūken Williams and his Ireichō.
“Chō means like a book or a registry,” he explained, “and so we created a book with everybody’s names in it, and said, ‘How do we honor everyone?’ And we came up with this idea of stamping or placing this mark under people’s names.”
Ireichō — or the “Book of Names” — is inspired by Ireitō, a monument built by Japanese Americans in 1943 at the first internment camp, Manzanar, which is located east of Fresno, California.
Ireitō translates to the “Soul Consoling Tower.”
Following several years of research, the book arrived at the Japanese American National Museum in Los Angeles and has remained on display since 2022. For the first time, it’s taking a road trip, including two stops in Arizona.
The tour kicked off this February in Washington, D.C., with visits to the National Archives and Smithsonian Institution’s National Museum of American History. The Ireichō is also making stops in Arkansas, California, Colorado, Hawaii, Idaho, Illinois, North Dakota, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Texas, Utah and Wyoming en route to its final destination.
When that 20-month national tour is slated to end next July, the nonprofit Irei Project behind the Book of Names will once again return to Los Angeles — only this time for the Ireichō to be gifted to the Japanese American National Museum.
![Ireichō project specialist Karen Kano [left], Soto Zen Buddhist priest Duncan Ryūken Williams and CRIT museum director Valerie Welsh-Tahbo.](https://npr.brightspotcdn.com/dims4/default/069e018/2147483647/strip/true/crop/3499x2624+0+0/resize/840x630!/format/webp/quality/90/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fnpr-brightspot.s3.amazonaws.com%2F65%2Fa7%2F0f66881144cebae4c82b0afffadc%2Fcrit-ireicho-gp-20251025.jpg)
Until then, hundreds show up each day. Those who wish to see the names of family, friends and loved ones must schedule online in advance. Typically, those limited time slots get all booked out.
There’s even a waitlist.
The Japanese word “irei” essentially means “to console the spirits,” and that’s what Williams hopes his book does by bringing forth personhood and dignity — one name at a time.
“A lot of government camp rosters mangle Japanese names, and so we can’t honor people if their names are misspelled,” added Williams. “Our goal is to make sure all 125,284 people whose names are printed in this book get at least one mark of acknowledgement.”
There’s still 30,000 names unmarked, but Williams has a plan: “We’ll just systematically, from the beginning of the book, invite the general public to come and place a mark under the next name in the sequence of names that doesn’t yet have a mark.”
I was among those Williams enlisted to help. So, too, were tribal members from the Colorado River Indian Tribes and Gila River Indian Community — where the U.S. War Relocation Authority erected Arizona’s two internment camps in spite of their opposition.
‘Place this stamp under the letter H’
Inside the CRIT museum, the Book of Names was stored within a tiny walled-off room that offered a semblance of privacy for those who came from near and far to see and stamp the Ireichō — an intimate setting for families and survivors.
“And when we open the front cover of the book, the first thing you see is a ceramic tile piece,” said Williams. “It contains the soil of 75 different Department of Justice, U.S. Army, War Relocation Authority camps around the country.”
Survivors went back, scooping up handfuls of soil samples from each of those sites for the ceramicists to infuse into the speckled greyish-white tile of clay. In accordance with Japanese tradition, the names in the book are ordered from oldest to youngest — elders to babies.
“So I’m going to find the next person — or you help me find it.”
It took us a few moments. With the brittle page being so large and the fine print so small, it was really hard to read while Williams turns through a couple of pages, scanning them in search of the next unmarked name.
“So I think this person — Hisayo Kotsubo — does not yet have a stamp,” said Williams. “She’s born in the year 1897, so if I could ask you to just place this stamp right under the letter H — the first letter of her first name.”
Their blue-tipped stamp is no bigger than your thumb.
‘I try to put myself in their shoes’
Some even practiced that art of dotting while waiting their turn with Susan H. Kamei.
She’s spent her whole life championing this “personal story,” while urging descendants like herself “to speak up and stand in solidarity with other communities that are going through this.”
Her parents, grandparents and one set of great-grandparents were all internees. Her dad’s side was brought to Poston in western Arizona, while her mom’s ended up at Heart Mountain in Wyoming.
Kamei had a chance to look over President Ronald Reagan’s right shoulder as he signed the Civil Liberties Act of 1988, a measure of contrition in which the federal government formally apologized for the camps and provided reparations to the victims.
“I try to put myself in their shoes of being on a train and they’re ordered to keep the blinds down. They don’t know where they’re being taken. They don't know how long it's going to take to get there,” said Kamei. “They don’t know how long they’re going to be there, and if they’d ever be able to return home. And just to try to imagine their fear.”
Janet Brothers, 84, doesn’t have to imagine, because she lived it.
![Poston camp survivor Janet Brothers, 84, [left] along with her family after stamping the Ireichō inside the CRIT museum.](https://npr.brightspotcdn.com/dims4/default/cd2478c/2147483647/strip/true/crop/5610x4007+0+0/resize/840x600!/format/webp/quality/90/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fnpr-brightspot.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fbc%2Fa2%2Fb6e7def14354aea60f98d8ce0ab7%2Fjanet-brothers-poston-family-gp-20251024.jpg)
She first returned to Poston in 2001 — many decades after being brought to the camp as a 6-month-old baby. This time, it’s a family reunion. She and her husband flew in from Indianapolis, while other relatives came from Ohio, Pennsylvania, Washington and Colorado.
“Feeling the heat, looking around and seeing the desert and the mountains, knowing that’s what my parents saw every day, was very emotional for me,” said Brothers. “And so to come back here to see that more has been done, and to share that with my children, who have never been here before, it’s a great experience.”
