The next time you’re traveling down the eastern side of California on US Highway 395, arguably one of this country’s premiere motor trips, stop off at Mazanar. It’s near Lone Pine and practically next door to the Alabama Hills, where the likes of Hoppy, Gene, and Roy chased the bad guys. But Manzanar’s saga was not the invention of Hollywood; it was the invention of World War II hysteria. Shortly after Pearl Harbor, a little over 100,000 Japanese American citizens and Japanese aliens living on the West Coast were summarily rounded up and sent off to ten interment camps. Manzanar was such a place. These Japanese were thought to be possible threats to national security. After the war when the internees had been released, all of Manzanar’s buildings, except for the sentry post and the gymnasium, were torn down, leaving very little testimony as to what took place there. Fifty-nine years later, the National Park Service has opened an interpretive center on the site and work has begun to restore certain portions of the camp. I had a memorable experience there twenty years ago, long before the NPS had arrived. I drove around Manzanar looking for what might want to be a photograph and wound up at the western boundary of the property. There sat the cemetery, with a beautiful pristine white obelisk guarding the graves and the majestic Sierra Nevada Mountains in the background. I parked my Vanagon, stepped out and immediately had the feeling I was being watched. There were no other cars, no other people, only open ground, but yet I definitely felt a presence. Perhaps it was only my imagination working overtime; then again, who knows maybe I wasn't alone. I pulled out my lawn chair, sat in the peace and quiet and enjoyed my lunch. I counted six gravesites scattered in amongst sweet smelling sage. I learned later that the rest were relocated closer to family members. On top of the sage people had placed handmade origami cranes of all colors and sprinkled coins, and broken pieces of pottery. Painted on the obelisk were three symbols, which later proved to be kanji. During this time I had in-laws living in Japan. When I got home, I sent them a picture of the obelisk and they had the kanji translated. Years later on one of my return visits I asked the ranger at the interpretive center for a translation. He said it meant “soul consoling tower.” The translation I had received from Japan said the symbols meant "spirit comfort station.” I prefer the latter; somehow it seems more appropriate.
The picture of the obelisk is a recent one. The NPS cleared away the sage, placed the origami and the pottery chips on the obelisk's ledges and the coins on a nearby rock. By cleaning up the cemetery, the NPS has paid homage to those Japanese-American citizens who rest there. And that was a good thing to do, but I do miss the sweet smelling sage and who knows perhaps the spirits do too.
Q
